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M.(Q)B1SSIRT §®I[JT,IBT.ET Mnm lUJLM. 



F®IET3©AIL W®RiKi 

Collected hj Himself. 




. Anplpten Si- CVBroaciwav. Now York. 184C 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



ROBERT SOUTHEY, 



COLLECTED BY HIMSELF. 



TEN VOLUMES IN ONE 



NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY D. APPLETON h CO. 

BROAD 

1842 



p 







CONTENTS. 



A Page. 

I Preface 7 

y JOAN OF ARC 9 

Preface 9 

Original Preface 10 

Dedication 13 

Book 1 13 

II 17 

III 20 

rCP IV 25 

/ 29 

VI U 

VII 38 

J VIII 44 

3 LX 49 

ci X 53 

i> Notes 59 

: THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 86 

-^ Book 1 86 

i II 89 

III 92 

Notes 94 

JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS, Vol. I. . 96 

Preface 96 

Dedication 98 

The Triumph of Woman 98 

Dedication 98 

Wat Tyler 101 

Poems concerning the Slave Trade 110 

Six Sonnets 110 

To the Genius of Africa Ill 

The Sailor who had served in the Slave 

Trade Ill 

Verses spoken in the Theatre at Oxford, upon 
the Installation of Lord Grenville 112 

Botany Bay Eclogues 113 

Elinor 113 

Humphrey and William 114 

John, Samuel, and Richard 116 

Frederick 117 

Sonnets 118 

Monodramas 121 

Sappho 121 

Zimalpoca 121 

The Wife of Fergus 122 

Lucretia 123 

LaCaba 123 

The Amatory Poems of Abel Shufflebot- 

tom 124 

Love Elegies 125 



Page. 

Lyric Poems 127 

To Horror 127 

To Contemplation 127 

To a Friend 128 

Remembrance 129 

The Soldier's Wife 129 

The Widow 129 

The Chapel Bell 130 

To Hymen 130 

Written on the First of December 131 

Written on the First of January 131 

Written on Sunday Morning 132 

The Race of Banquo 132 

Written in Alentcjo 1.32 

To Recovery 133 

Youth and Age 133 

The Oak of our Fathers 131 

The Battle of Pultowa 134 

The Traveller's Return 134 

The Old Man's Comforts 135 

Translation of a Greek Ode on Astronomy. . . 135 

Gooseberry Pic 136 

To a Bee 137 

To a Spider 137 

The Destruction of Jerusalem 137 

The Death of Wallace 138 

The Spanish Armada 138 

St. Bartholomew's Day 139 

The Holly-Tree 139 

The Ebb Tide 140 

The Complaints of the Poor 140 

To Mary 141 

To a Friend, inquiring if I would live over my 

Youth again 141 

The Dead Friend 141 

Songs of the American Indians 142 

The Huron's Address to the Dead 142 

The Peruvian's Dirge over the Body of his 

Father 143 

Song of the Araucans during a Thunder-Storm 143 

Song of the Chikkasah Widow 144 

The Old Chikkasah to his Grandson 144 

Occasional Pieces 145 

The Pauper's Funeral 145 

The Soldier's Funeral 145 

On a Landscape of Caspar Poussin 146 

AVritten on Christmas Day, 1795 146 

Written after visiting the Convent of Arrabida. 147 

On my own Miniature Picture 147 

On the Death of a favorite old Spaniel 147 

Recollections of a Day's Journey in Spain. . . 148 

To Margaret Hill 149 

Autumn 149 

The Victory 150 



CONTENTS. 



History 150 

Written immediately after reading the Speech 

of Robert Emmet 150 

Thanksgiving for Victory 151 

Stanzas written in Lady Lonsdale's Album. . . 151 
Stanzas addressed to W. R. Turner, Esq., R. A. 152 

On a Picture by J. M. Wright, Esq 152 

Stanzas 153 

Lnilated from the Persian 153 

The Retrospect 154 

Hymn to the Penates 155 



JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS, Vol. H. . 158 
Preface 158 

English Eclogues. 159 

The Old Mansion House 160 

The Grandmother's Tale 161 

Hannah 162 

The Sailor's Mother 163 

The Witch 165 

The Ruined Cottage 166 

The Last of the Family 167 

The Wedding 169 

The Alderman's Funeral 170 

Nondescripts. 172 

Written the Winter after the Installation at 

Oxford, 1793 172 

Snuff. 172 

Cool Reflections during a Midsummer Walk. . 173 

The Pig 173 

The Dancing Bear 174 

The Filbert 174 

The Cataract of Lodore 175 

Robert the Rhymer's true and particular Ac- 
count of Himself. 176 

The Devil's Walk 176 

Inscriptions 180 

For a Column at Newbury. 180 

For a Cavern that overlooks the River Avon. . 180 

For a Tablet at Silbury Hill 180 

For a Monument in the New Forest 181 

For a Tablet on the Banks of a Stream 181 

For the Cenotaph at Ermenonville 181 

For a Monument at Oxford 181 

For a Monument in the Vale of Ewias 181 

Epitaph on Algernon Sydney 182 

Epitaph on King John 1 82 

In a Forest 182 

For a Monument at Tordesillas 182 

For a Column at Truxillo 182 

For the Cell of Honorius, at the Cork Convent, 

near Cintra 182 

For a Monument at Taunton 183 

For a Tablet at Penshurst 183 

Two Epitaphs 183 

For a Monument at Rolissa 184 

For a Monument at Vimeiro 184 

At Coruna 184 

Epitaph 184 

To the Memory of Paul Burrard 185 

For the Banks of the Douro 185 

Talavera. For the Field of Battle 186 

For the Deserto de Busaco 186 

For the Lines of Torres Vedras 186 

At Santarem 187 

At Fuentes d'Onoro 187 

At Barossa 187 

For a Monument at Albuhera 188 



To the Memory of Sir William Myers 188 

Epitaph 188 

For the Walls of Ciudad Rodrigo 189 

To the Memory of Major-General Mackinnon. 189 

For the Affair at Arroyo Molinos 190 

Written in an unpublished Volume of Letters, 

&LC. by Barre Charles Roberts 190 

Two Epitaphs 190 

Inscriptions for the Caledonian 

Canal 191 

1. At Clachnacharry 191 

2. At Fort Augustus 191 

3. AtBanavie 192 

Epitaph in Butleigh Church 192 

Epitaph 192 

Dedication of the Author's Colloquies on the 

Progress and Prospects of Society 193 

Carmen Triumphale, for the Commence- 
ment of the Year 1814 194 

Notes 197 



Odes. 



201 

Written during the Negotiations with Bona- 
parte, in January, 1814 201 

Written during the War with America 202 

Carmina Aulica : written in 1814, on 
the Arrival of the Allied Sove- 
reigns IN England 204 

Ode to His Royal Highness the Prince 

Regent of the United Kingdom 204 

Ode to His Imperial Majesty, Alexander 

the First, Emperor of all the Russias. . 206 
Ode to His Majesty, Frederick William the 

Fourth, King of Prussia 207 

On the Battle of Algiers 209 

On the Death of Queen Charlotte 209 

Ode for St. George's Day 210 

Ode written after the King's Visit to Ireland. . 211 
Ode written after the King's Visit to Scotland. 213 

The Warning Voice 214 

Ode 1 214 

Ode II 215 

On the Portrait of Bishop Heber 217 

Epistle to Allan Cunningham 219 

Op eene Verzameling tan mijne Afbeel- 

DINGEN 223 

THALABA THE DESTROYER 224 

Preface 224 

Book I 225 

Notes 231 

Book II 236 

Notes 240 

Book III 243 

Notes 248 

Book IV 255 

Notes 261 

Book V 265 

Notes 270 

Book VI 274 

Notes 278 

Book VII 281 

Notes 285 

Book VIII 287 

Notes 291 

Book IX 295 

Notes 300 

Book X 304 

Notes 308 



CONTENTS. 



Pag-e. 

Book XI 3i3 

Notes 318 

Book XII 319 

Notes 324 

3IAD0C 325 

Preface 325 

Part I. — Mapoc in Wales 327 

I. The Return to Wales 327 

II. Tlie Marriage Feast 329 

III. Cadwallon 331 

IV. The Voyage 333 

V. Liucoya 335 

VI. Erillyab 337 

VII. The Battle 339 

VIII. The Peace ^1 

IX. Emma 343 

X. Mathraval 3U 

XL The Gorsedd 34^ 

XII. Dhievawr 347 

XIII. Llewelyn 349 

XIV. Llaian 351 

XV. The Excommunication 353 

XVI. David 355 

XVII. The Departure 35G 

XVIII. Rodri 358 

Notes to Part 1 359 

.^*ART II. — Madoc in Aztlan 374 

I. The Return to Aztlan 374 

II. The Tidings 375 

III. Neolin 378 

IV. Amalahla 379 

V. War denounced 380 

VI. The Festival of the Dead 381 

VII. The Snake-God 384 

VIII. The Conversion of the Hoamen 38o 

IX. Tlalala 387 

X. The Arrival of the Gods 389 

XL The Capture 391 

XII. Hoel 392 

XIII. Coatcl 394 

XIV. The Stone of Sacrifice 395 

XV. The Battle 398 

XVL The AVomen 399 

XVII. The Deliverance 402 

XVIII. The Victory 404 

XIX. The Funeral 4-OG 

XX. The Death of Coatel 407 

XXL The Sports 403 

XXII. The Death of Lincoya 409 

XXIII. Caradoc and Senena 410 

XXIV. The Embassy 411 

XXV. The Lake Fight 412 

XXVI. The Close of the Century 413 

XXVII. The Migration of the Aztec as 416 

Notes to Part II 420 

BALLADS AND METRICAL TALES, Vol. I. 434 

Preface 434 

]\Iary, the Biaid of the Inn 435 

Donica 456 

Rudigcr 438 

Jaspar 440 

Lord William 442 

Si. Patrick's Purgatory 443 

The Cross Roads 444 

God's Judgment on a wicked Bishop 447 



Pa^e. 

The Pious Painter : Part 1 448 

Part II 449 

St. Michael's Chair 450 

King Henry V. and the Hermit of Dreux. . . . 45 1 

Old Christoval's Advice 451 

Cornelius Agrippa 452 

King Charlemain , 453 

St. Romuald 4.55 

The King of the Crocodiles : Part 1 456 

Part II 457 

The Rose 457 

The Lover's Rock 458 

Garci Ferrandez : Part 1 459 

Part II 460 

King Ramiro 461 

The Inchcape Rock 464 

The Well of St. Keyne 465 

Bishop Bruno 466 

The Battle of Blenheim 467 

A true Ballad of St. Anlidius, the Pope, and 

the Devil 468 

Gonzalo Hermiguez 470 

Queen Orraca, and the Five Martyrs of Mo- 
rocco 470 

The Old Woman of Berkeley 472 

The Surgeon's Warning 475 

Henry the Hermit 476 

St. Gualberto 477 

Notes 480 

The March to Moscow 483 

Brough Bells 484 

Queen Mary's Christening 486 

Roprecht the Ro!)ber : Part 1 488 

Part II 489 

Part III 489 

Part IV 490 

The Young Dragon : Part 1 492 

Part II 493 

Part III 494 

Part IV 495 

Epilogue to the Young Dragon 497 

BALLADS AND METRICAL TALES, Vol. II. 498 
Advertisement 498 

A Tale of Paraguay 498 

Preface 493 

Dedication 500 

Proem 501 

Canto I .502 

Canto II 506 

Canto III 511 

Canto IV 516 

Notes • 522 

All for Love 533 

Dedication 533 

Notes 5^47 

The Pilgrim to Cobipostella 554 

Prelude 554 

Introduction 554 

The Legend : Part J 555 

Part II 556 

Part III 557 

Part IV 557 

Notes 559 

THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 565 

Preface 565 

Orig^inal Preface 567 



CONTENTS 



Page. 

I. The Funeral 567 

II. The Curse 569 

III. The Recovery 571 

IV. The Departure 572 

V. The Separation 574 

VI. Casyapa 576 

VII. The Swerga 578 

VIII. The Sacrifice 581 

IX. The Home Scene 582 

X. Mount Meru 584 

XI. The Enchantress 587 

XII. The Sacrifice completed 590 

XIII. The Retreat 591 

XIV. Jaga-Naut 593 

XV. The City of Baly 595 

XVI. The Ancient Sepulchres 598 

XVII. Baly 601 

XVIII. Kehama's Descent 602 

XIX. Mount Calasay 604 

XX. The Embarkation 606 

XXI. The World's End 607 

XXII. The Gate ofPadalon 608 

XXIII. Padalon 610 

XXIV. The Amreeta 613 

Notes 616 

RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 646 

Preface 646 

Original Preface 649 

I. Roderick and Romano 649 

II. Roderick in Solitude 652 

III. Adosinda 654 

IV. The Monastery of St. Felix 657 

V. Roderick and Siverian 660 

VI. Roderick in Times past 663 

VII. Roderick and Pelayo 665 

VIII. Alphonso .' • 666 

IX. Florinda 668 

X. Roderick and Florinda 669 

XI. Count Pedro's Castle 673 

XII. The Vow 674 

XIII. Count Eudon 676 

XIV. The Rescue 678 

XV. Roderick at Cangas 680 

XVI. Covadonga 682 

XVII. Roderick and Siverian 685 

XVIII. The Acclamation 687 

XIX. Roderick and Rusilla 690 

XX. The Moorish Camp. . 691 

XXI. The Fountain in the Forest 694 

XXII. The Moorish Council 698 

XXIII. The Vale of Covadonga 700 



Page. 

XXIV. Roderick and Count Julian 702 

XXV. Roderick in Battle 704 

Notes 709 

THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE TO WATER- 
LOO 747 

Argument 747 

Proem 747 

Part I. — The Journey 749 

I. Flanders 749 

II. Brussels 752 

III. The Field of Battle 753 

IV. The Scene of W^ar 757 

Part II. — The Vision 759 

I. The Tower 759 

II. The Evil Prophet 762 

III. The Sacred Mountain 764 

IV. The Hopes of Man 767 

Notes 771 

CARBIEN NUPTIALE. — The Lay of the 

Laureate 777 

Proem 777 

The Dream 779 

Epilogue 784 

L'Envoy 785 

Notes 785 

FUNERAL SONG, for the Princess Char- 
lotte OF Wales 786 

A VISION OF JUDGMENT 788 

Dedication 788 

New Preface 788 

Original Preface 791 

I. The Trance 795 

II. The Vault 796 

III. The Awakening 797 

IV. The Gate of Heaven 798 

V. The Accusers 799 

VI. The Absolvers 800 

VII. The Beatification 801 

VIII. The Sovereigns 802 

IX. The Elder Worthies 803 

X. The Worthies of the Georgian Age. . . 803 

XI. The Young Spirits 804 

XII. The Meeting 805 

Notes 806 

Specimens, &c 809 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OP 



ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



PREFACE 



At the age of sixty-three I have undertaken 
to collect and edite my Poetical Works, with 
the last corrections that I can expect to bestow 
upon them. They have obtained a reputation 
equal to my wishes; and I have this ground for 
hoping it may not be deemed hereafter more than 
commensurate with their deserts, that it has been 
gained without ever accommodating myself to 
the taste or fashion of the times. Thus to collect 
and revise them is a duty which I owe to that 
part of the Public by whom they have been 
auspiciously received, and to those who will take 
a lively concern in my good name when I shall 
have departed. 

The arrangement was the first thing to be con- 
sidered. In this the order wherein the respective 
poems were written has been observed, so far as 
was compatible with a convenient classification. 
Such order is useful to those who read critically, 
and desire to trace the progress of an author's 
mind in his writings ; and by affixmg dates to 
the minor pieces, under whatever head they are 
disposed, the object is sufficiently attained. 

Next came the question of correction. There 
was no difficulty with those poems which were 
composed after the author had acquired his art, (so 
far as he has acquired it,) and after his opinions 
were matured. It was only necessary to bear in 
mind tiie risk there must ever be of injuring a 
poem by verbal alterations made long after it was 
written ; inasmuch as it must be impossible to 
recall the precise train of thought in which any 
passage was conceived, and the considerations 
upon which not the single verse alone, but the 
whole sentence, or paragraph, had been con- 
structed : but with regard to more important 
changes, there could be no danger of introducing 
any discrepance in style. With juvenile pieces 
the case is diffi^rent. From these the faults of 
diction have been weeded, wherever it could be 
done without more trouble than the composition 
originally cost, and than the piece itself was 



worth. But inherent faults of conception and 
structure are incurable ; and it would have been 
mere waste of time to recompose what it was im- 
possible otherwise to amend. 

If these poems had been now for the first time 
to be made public, there are some among them 
which, instead of being committed to the press, 
would have been consigned to the flames ; not for 
any disgrace which could be reflected upon me 
by the crude compositions of my youth, nor for 
any harm which they could possibly do the reader, 
but merely that they might not cumber the col- 
lection. But '■'■ nesclt vox viissa rcverti." Pirated 
editions would hold out as a recommendation, 
that they contained what I had chosen to sup- 
press, and thus it becomes prudent, and therefore 
proper, that such pieces should be retained. 

It has ever been a rule with me when 1 have 
imitated a passage, or borrowed an expression, to 
acknowledge the specific obligation. Upon the 
present occasion it behoves me to state the more 
general and therefore more important obligations 
which I am conscious of owing either to m}'^ pred- 
ecessors or my contemporaries. 

My first attempts in verse were much too early 
to be imitative ; but I was fortunate enough to find 
my way, when very young, into the right path. 
I read the "Jerusalem Delivered" and the "Or- 
lando Furioso, " again and again, in Hoole's trans- 
lations ; it was for the sake of their stories that I 
perused and re-perused these poems with ever- 
new delight; and by bringing them thus within 
my reach in boyhood, the translator rendered me 
a service which, when I look back upon my in- 
tellectual life, I cannot estimate too highly. I 
owe him much also for his notes, not only for the 
information concerning other Italian romances 
which they imparted, but also for introducing me 
to Spenser; — how early, an incident which I 
well remember may show. Going with a relation 
into Bull's circulating library at Bath, (an excel- 
lent one for those days,) and asking whether they 



8 



PREFACE. 



had the " Faery Queen," the person who managed 
the shop said, "Yes, they had it, but it was in 
obsolete language, and the young gentleman 
would not understand it." But I, who had 
learned all I then knew of the history of England 
from Shakespear, and who had moreover read 
Beaumont and Fletcher, found no difficulty in 
Spenser's English, and felt in the beauty of his 
versification a charm in poetry of which I had 
never been fully sensible before. From that time 
1 took Spenser for my master. I drank also be- 
times of Chaucer's well. The taste which had 
been acquired in that school was confirmed by 
Percy's "Reliques" and Warton's "History of 
English Poetry;" and a little later by Homer 
and the Bible. It was not likely to be corrupted 
afterwards. 

My school-boy verses savored of Gray, Mason, 
and my predecessor Warton ; and in the best of 
my juvenile pieces it may be seen how much the 
writer's mind had been imbued by Akenside. I 
am conscious also of having derived much benefit 
at one time from Cowper, and more from Bowles ; 
for which, and for the delight which his poems 
gave me at an age when we are most susceptible 
of such delight, my good friend at Bremhill, to 
whom I was then and long afterwards personally 
unknown, will allow me to make this grateful and 
cordial acknowledgment. 

My obligation to Dr. Sayers is of a different 
kind. Every one who has an ear for metre and a 
heart for poetry, must have felt how perfectly the 
metre of Collins's " Ode to Evening " is in accord- 
ance with the imagery and the feeling. None 
of the experiments which were made of other 
unrhymed stanzas proved successful. They were 
either in strongly-marked and well-known 
measures, which unavoidably led the reader to 
expect rhyme, and consequently balked him 
when he looked for it ; or they were in stanzas 
as cumbrous as they were ill constructed. Dr. 
Sayers went upon a different principle, and suc- 
ceeded admirably. I read his " Dramatic Sketches 
of Northern Mythology " when they were first 
published, and convinced myself, when 1 had 
acquired some skill in versification, that the kind 
of verse in which his choruses v/ere composed was 
not less applicable to narration than to lyrical 
poetry. Soon after I had begun the Arabian 
romance, for which this measure seemed the most 
appropriate vehicle, " Gebir " fell into my hands ; 
and my verse was greatly improved by it, both 
in vividness and strength. Several years elapsed 
before I knew that Walter Landor was the author, 
and more before I had the good fortune to meet 
the person to whom I felt myself thus beholden. 
The days which I have passed with him in the 
Vale of Ewias, at Como, and lastly in the neigh- 



borhood of Bristol, are some of those which have, 
left with me " a joy for memory." 

1 have thus acknowledged all the specific obli- 
gations to my elders or contemporaries in the art, 
of which 1 am distinctly conscious. The advan- 
tages arising from intimate intercourse with those 
who were engaged in similar pursuits cannot be in 
like manner specified, because in their nature they 
are imperceptible ; but of such advantages no man 
has ever possessed more or greater, than at diflfer- 
ent times it has been my lot to enjoy. Personal 
attachment first, and family circumstances after- 
wards, connected me long and closely with Mr. 
Coleridge ; and three-and-thirty years have rati- 
fied a friendship with Mr. Wordsworth, which we 
believe will not terminate with this life, and 
which it is a pleasure for us to know will be con- 
tinued and cherished as an heir-loom by those who 
are dearest to us both. 

When I add, what has been the greatest of all 
advantages, that I have passed more than half my 
life in retirement, conversing with books rather 
than men, constantly and unweariably engaged in 
literary pursuits, communing with my own heart, 
and taking that course which, upon mature con- 
sideration, seemed best to myself, I have said every 
thing necessary to account for the characteristics 
of my poetry, whatever they may be. 

It v/as in a mood resembling in no slight degree 
that wherewith a person in sound health, both of 
body and mind, raakes his will and sets his 
worldly affairs in order, that I entered upon the 
serious task of arranging and revising the whole 
of my poetical works. What, indeed, was it but 
to bring in review before me the dreams and as- 
pirations of my youth, and the feelings whereto 1 
had given that free utterance which by the usages 
of this world is permitted to us in poetry, and in 
poetry alone ? Of the smaller pieces in this col- 
lection there is scarcely one concerning which 1 
cannot vividly call to mind when and where it was 
composed. 1 have perfect recollection of the spots 
where many, not of the scenes only, but of the 
images v/hich 1 have described from nature, were 
observed and noted. And how would it be possi- 
ble for me to forget the interest taken in these 
poems, especially the longer and raore ambitious 
works, by those persons nearest and dearest to me 
then, who witnessed their growth and completion ? 
Well may it be called a serious task thus to resus- 
citate the past ! But, serious though it be, it is not 
painful to one who knows that the end of his 
journey cannot be far distant, and, by the blessing 
of God, looks on to its termination with sure and 
certain hope. 

Keswick, 10th May, 1837. 



JOAN OF ARC 



3^oan ot Mvt. 



EIS OlflNOS API2TOS AMYNESeAl HEPI HATPIIE Homer 



Perlege, cognosces animum sine viri'ous alas 
Ingenii explicuisse leves, nam vera fatehor ; 
Implumem tepido praeccps me gloria nido 
Expulit, et coelo jussit volitare remoto. 
Pcenitet incccpti, cursum revocare juventae 
Si liceat, mansisse domi cum tempore nervos 
Consolidasse velim Petrarca. 



PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. 

Early in July, 1793, I happened to fall in con- 
versation, at Oxford, with an old schoolfellow upon 
the story of Joan of Arc ; and it then struck me as 
being singularly well adapted for a poem. The 
long vacation commenced immediately afterwards. 
As soon as I reached home I formed tlie outline 
of a plan, and wrote about three hundred lines. 
The remainder of the month was passed in trav- 
elling ; and I was too much engaged in new scenes 
and circumstances to proceed, even in thought, 
with what had been broken off. In August I 
went to visit my old schoolfellow, Mr. Grosvenor 
Bedford, who, at that time, resided with his pa- 
rents at Brixton Causeway, about four miles on 
the Surrey side of the metropolis. There, the day 
after completing my nineteenth year, I resumed 
the undertaking, and there, in six weeks from that 
day, finished what I called an Epic Poem in twelve 
books. 

My progress would not have been so rapid had 
it not been for the opportunity of retirement which 
I enjoyed there, and the encouragement that I 
received. In those days London had not extended 
in that direction farther than Kennington, beyond 
which place the scene changed suddenly, and 
there was an air and appearance of country which 
might now be sought in vain at a far greater dis- 
tance from town. There was nothing indeed to 
remind one that London was so near, except the 
smoke which overhung it. Mr. Bedford's res- 
idence was situated upon the edge of a common. 
on which shady lanes opened leading to the neigh- 
boring villages (for such they were then) of Cam- 
berwell, Dulwich, and Clapham, and to Norwood. 
The view in front was bounded by the Surrey 
hills. Its size and structure showed it to be one 
of those good houses built in the early part of the 
last century by persons who, having realized a 
respectable fortune in trade, were wise enough to 
be contented with it, and retire to pass the evening 
of their lives in the enjoyment of leisure and tran- 
quillity. Tranquil indeed the place was ; for the 
neighborhood did not extend beyond half a dozen 
families, and the London style and habits of vis- 
2 



iting had not obtained among them. Uncle Toby 
himself might have enjoyed his rood and a half of 
ground there, and not have had it known. A fore- 
court separated tlie house from the foot-path and 
the road in front ; behind, there was a large and 
well-stocked garden, with other spacious premises, 
in which utility and ornament were in some degree 
combined. At the extremity of the garden, and 
under the shade of four lofty linden trees, was a 
summer-house looking on an ornamented grass- 
plot, and fitted up as a conveniently habitable 
room. That summer-house was allotted to me, 
and tliere my mornings were passed at the desk. 
Whether it exists now or not, I am ignorant. The 
property has long since passed into other hands. 
The common is enclosed and divided by rectangu- 
lar hedges and palings ; rows of brick houses have 
supplanted the shade of oaks and elms ; the brows 
of the Surrey hills bear a parapet of modern villas, 
and tlie face of the whole district is clianged. 

I was not a little proud of my performance. 
Young poets are, or at least used to be, as am- 
bitious of producing an epic poem, as stage-stricken 
youths of figuring in Roineo or Hamlet. It liad 
been the earliest of my day-dreams. I had begun 
many such ; but this was the first which had been 
completed, and I was too young and too ardent to 
perceive or suspect that the execution was as 
crude as the design. In the course of the autumn 
I transcribed it fairly from the first draught, making 
no other alterations or corrections of any kind than 
such as suggested themselves in the act of tran- 
scription. Upon showing it to the friend in con- 
versation with whom the design had originated, 
he said, " I am glad you have written this ; it will 
serve as a store where you will find good passages 
for better poems." His opinion of it was more 
judicious than mine ; but what there was good in 
it or promising, would not have been transplantable. 

Toward the close of 1794, it was announced as 
to be published by subscription in a quarto volume, 
price one guinea. Shortly afterwards I became 
acquainted with my fellow-townsman, Mr. Joseph 
Cottle, who had recently commenced business as 
a bookseller in our native city of Bristol. One 
evening I read to him part of the poem, without 



10 



PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. 



any thought of making a proposal concerning it, 
or expectation of receiving one. He, liov/ever, 
offered me fifty guineas for tlie copyright, and fifty 
copies for my subscribers, which was more than 
the list amounted to ; and the offer was accepted 
as promptly as it was made. It can rarely happen 
that a young author should meet with a bookseller 
as inexperienced and as ardent as himself, and it 
would be still more extraordinary if such mutual 
indiscretion did not bring with it cause for regret 
to both. But this transaction was the commence- 
ment of an intimacy which has continued, without 
the slightest shade of displeasure at any time, on 
either side, to the present day. 

At that time, few books were printed in the 
country, and it was seldom indeed that a quarto 
volume issued from a provincial press. A font of 
new types was ordered for what was intended to 
be the handsomest book that Bristol had ever yet 
sent forth ; and when the paper arrived, and the 
printer was ready to commence his operations, 
nothing had been done toward preparing the poem 
for the press, except that a few verbal alterations 
had been made. I was not, however, without 
misgivings, and when the first proof-sheet was 
brought me, the more glaring faults of the com- 
position stared me in the face. But the sight of a 
well-printed page, which was to be set off with all 
the advantages that fine wove paper and hot-press- 
ing could impart, put me in spirits, and I went to 
work with good- will. About half the first book 
was left in its original state ; the rest of the poem 
was re-cast and re-composed while the printing 
went on. This occupied six months. I corrected 
the concluding sheet of the poem, left the Preface 
in the publisher's hands, and departed for Lisbon 
by way of Coruiia and Madrid, 

The Preface was written with as little discretion 
as had been shown in publishing the work itself. 
It stated how rapidly the poem had been produced, 
and that it had been almost re-composed during 
its progress through the press. This was not said 
as taking merit for haste and temerity, nor to 
excuse its faults, — only to account for them. But 
here I was liable to be misapprehended, and 
likely to be misrepresented. The public indeed 
care neither for explanations nor excuses; and 
such particulars might not unfitly be deemed un- 
becoming in a young man, though they may be 
excused, and even expected, from an old author, 
who, at the close of a long career, looks upon him- 
self as belonging to the past. Omitting these pas- 
sages, and the specification of what Mr. Coleridge 
had written in the second book, (which was with- 
drawn in the next edition,) the remainder of the 
Preface is here subjoined. It states the little 
which I had been able to collect concernino- the 
subject of the poem, gives what was then my own 
view of Joan of Arc's character and history, and 
expresses with overweening confidence the opin- 
ions which the writer entertained concerning those 
poets whom it was his ambition not to imitate, but 
to follow. — It cannot be necessary to s^lj, that 
gome of those opinions have been modified, and 
others completely changed, as he grew older. 



ORIGINAL PREFACE, 

The history of Joan of Arc is as mysterious as 
it is remarkable. That she believed herself inspired, 
few will deny ; that she was inspired, no one will 
venture to assert ; and it is difficult to believe that 
she was herself imposed upon by Charles and Du- 
nois. That she discovered the King when he dis- 
guised himself among the courtiers to deceive her, 
and that, as a proof of her mission, she demanded 
a sword from a tomb in the church of St. Catha- 
rine, are facts in which all historians agree. If 
this had been done by collusion, the Maid must 
have known herself an impostor, and with that 
knowledge could not have performed the enter- 
prise she undertook. Enthusiasm, and that of no 
common kind, was necessary, to enable a young 
maiden at once to assume the profession of arms, 
to lead her troops to battle, to fight among the 
foremost, and to subdue with an inferior force an 
enemy then believed invincible. It is not possible 
that one who felt herself the puppet of a party, 
could have performed these things. The artifices 
of a court could not have persuaded her that she 
discovered Charles in disguise ; nor could they 
have prompted her to demand the sword which 
they might have hidden, without discovering the 
deceit. The Maid then was not knowingly an 
impostor ; nor could she have been the instrument 
of the court ; and to say that she believed herself 
inspired, will neither account for her singling out 
the King, or prophetically claiming the sword. 
After crowning Charles, she declared that her 
mission was accomplished, and demanded leave 
to retire. Enthusiasm would not have ceased 
here ; and if they who imposed on her could per- 
suade her still to go with their armies, they could 
still have continued her delusion. 

This mysteriousness renders the story of Joan 
of Arc peculiarly fit for poetry. The aid of angels 
and devils is not necessary to raise her above man- 
kind ; she has no gods to lackey her, and inspire 
her with courage, and heal her wounds : the Maid 
of Orleans acts wholly from the workings of her 
own mind, from the deep feeling of inspiration. 
The palpable agency of sujierior powers would de- 
stroy the obscurity of her character, and sink her 
to the mere heroine of a fairy tale. 

The alterations which I have made in the his- 
tory are few and trifling. The death of Salisbury 
is placed later, and of the Talbots earlier than tliey 
occurred. As the battle of Patay is the concluding 
action of the Poem, I have given it all the previous 
solemnity of a settled engagement. Whatever 
appears miraculous is asserted in history, and my 
authorities will be found in the notes. 

It is the common fault of Epic Poems, that we 
feel little interest for the heroes they celebrate. 
The national vanity of a Greek or a Roman might 
have been gratified by the renown of Achilles or 
^neas; but to engage the unprejudiced, there 
must be more of human feelings than is generally 
to be found in the character of a warrior. From 
this objection, the Odyssey alone may be excepted. 



PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. 



11 



Ulysses appears as the father and the husband, 
and the affections are enlisted on his side. The 
judgment must applaud the well-digested plan 
and splendid execution of the Iliad, but the heart 
always bears testimony to the merit of the 
Odyssey : it is the poem of nature, and its per- 
sonages inspire love rather than command admira- 
tion. The good herdsman Eumaeus is worth a 
thousand heroes. Homer is, indeed, the best of 
poets, for he is at once dignified and simple ; but 
Pope has disguised him in fop-finery, and Cowper 
has stripped him naked. 

There are few readers who do not prefer Turnus 
to iEneas — a fugitive, suspected of treason, who 
negligently left his wife, seduced Dido, deserted 
her, and then forcibly took Lavinia from her be- 
trothed husband. What avails a man's piety to 
the gods, if in all his dealings with men he prove 
himself a villain .'' If we represent Deity as com- 
manding a bad action, this is not exculpating the 
man, but criminating the God. 

The ill-chosen subjects of Lucan and Statins 
have prevented them from acquiring the popularity 
they would otherwise have merited ; yet in de- 
tached parts, the former of these is perhaps un- 
equalled, certainly unexcelled. I do not scruple 
to prefer Statins to Virgil ; with inferior taste, 
he appears to me to possess a richer and more 
powerful imagination ; his images are strongly 
conceived, and clearly painted, and the force of 
his language, while it makes the reader feel, 
proves that the author felt himself. 

The power of story is strikingly exemplified in 
the Italian heroic poets. They please universally, 
even in translations, when little but the story re- 
mains. In proportioning his characters, Tasso 
has erred ; Godfrey is the hero of the poem, Ri- 
naldo of the poet, and Tancred of the reader. Sec- 
ondary characters should not be introduced, like 
Gyas and Cloanthus, merely to fill a procession ; 
neither should they be so prominent as to throw 
the principal into shade. 

The lawless magic of Ariosto, and the singular 
theme as well as the singular excellence of Milton, 
render it impossible to deduce any rules of epic 
poetry from these authors. So likewise witJi 
Spenser, the favorite of my childhood, from whose 
frequent perusal I have always found increased 
delight. 

Against the machinery of Camoens, a heavier 
charge must be brought than that of profaneness 
or incongruity. His floating island is but a float- 
ing brothel, and no beauty can make atonement 
for licentiousness. From this accusation, none 
but a translator would attempt to justify him ; but 
Camoens had the most able of translators. The 
Lusiad, though excellent in parts, is uninteresting 
as a whole : it is read with little emotion, and 
remembered with little pleasure. But it was com- 
posed in the anguish of disappointed hopes, in 
the fatigues of war, and in a country far from all 
he loved ; and we should not forget, that as the 
Poet of Portugal was among the most unfortunate 
of men, so he should be ranked among the most 
respectable. Neither his own country or Spain 



has yet produced his equal : his heart was broken 
by calamity, but the spirit of integrity and inde- 
pendence never forsook Camoens. 

I have endeavored to avoid what appears to me 
the common fault of epic poems, and to render the 
Maid of Orleans interesting. With this intent I 
have given her, not the passion of love, but the 
remembrance of subdued affection, a lingering of 
human feelings not inconsistent with the enthu- 
siasm and holiness of her character. 

The multitude of obscure epic writers copy with 
the most gross servility their ancient models. If 
a tempest occurs, some envious spirit procures it 
from the God of the winds or the God of the sea. 
Is there a town besieged ? the eyes of the hero 
are opened, and he beholds the powers of Heaven 
assisting in the attack ; an angel is at hand to 
heal his wounds, and the leader of the enemy in 
his last combat is seized with the sudden cowardice 
of Hector. Even Tasso is too often an imitator. 
But notwithstanding the censure of a satirist, the 
name of Tasso will still be ranked among the best 
heroic poets. Perhaps Boileau only condemned 
him for the sake of an antithesis ; it is with such 
writers, as with those who affect point in their 
conversation — they will always sacrifice truth to 
the gratification of their vanity. 

1 have avoided what seems useless and wearying 
in other poems, and my readers will find no de- 
scriptions of armor, no muster-rolls, no geographi- 
cal catalogues, lion, tiger, bull, bear, and boar 
similes, Phoebuses or Auroras. And where in 
battle I have particularized the death of an indi- 
vidual, it is not, I hope, like the common lists of 
killed and wounded. 

It has been established as a necessary rule for 
the epic, that the subject should be national. To 
this rule I have acted in direct opposition, and 
chosen for the subject of my poem the defeat of 
the English. If there be any readers who can 
wish success to an unjust cause, because their 
country was engaged in it, I desire not their ap- 
probation. 

In Millin's National Antiquities of France, 1 
find that M. Laverdy was, in 1791, occupied in 
collecting whatever has been written concerning 
the Maid of Orleans. I have anxiously looked for 
his work, but it is probable, considering the tumults 
of the intervening period, that it has not been 
accomplished. Of the various productions to the 
memory of Joan of Arc, 1 have only collected a 
few titles, and, if report may be trusted, need not 
fear a heavier condemnation than to be deemed 
equally bad. A regular canon of St. Euverte has 
written what is said to be a very bad poem, en- 
titled the Modern Amazon. There is a prose 
tragedy called La Pucelle d' Orleans, variously 
attributed to Benserade, to Boyer, and to Me- 
nardiere. The abbe Daubignac published a prose 
tragedy with the same title in 1642. There is 
one under the name of Jean Baruel of 1581, and 
another printed anonymously at Rouen, 1606. 
Among the manuscripts of the queen of Sweden 
in the Vatican, is a dramatic piece in verse called 
Le Mystere du Siege d' Orleans, in these modern 



12 



PREFACE TO JOAN OF ARC. 



times, says Millin, all Paris has run to the theatre 
of Nicolet t3 see a pantomime entitled Le Fameux 
Siege dc la Pucdle d' Orleans. I may add, that, 
after the publication of this poem, a pantomime 
upon the same subject was brought forward at 
Co vent- Garden Theatre, in which the heroine, 
like Don Juan, was carried off by devils and pre- 
cipitated alive into hell. I mention it, because the 
feelings of the audience revolted at such a catas- 
trophe, and, after a few nights, an angel was in- 
troduced to rescue her. 

But among the number of worthless poems 
upon this subject, there are two which are un- 
fortunately notorious, — the Pucelles of Chapelain 
and Voltaire. I have had patience to peruse the 
first, and never have been guilty of looking into 
the second ; it is well said by George Herbert, 

Blake not thy sport abuses, for the fly 
That feeds on dung, is colored thereby. 

On the eighth of May, the anniversary of its 
deliverance, an annual fete is held at Orleans ; 
and monuments have been erected there and at 
Rouen to the memory of the Maid. Her family 
was ennobled by Charles ; but it should not be 
forgotten in the history of this monarch, that in 
the hour of misfortune he abandoned to her fate 
the woman who had saved his kingdom. 

BRISTOL; November, 1795. 



The poem, thus crudely conceived, rashly 
prefaced, and prematurely hurried into the Avorld, 
was nevertheless favorably received, owing chiefly 
to adventitious circumstances. A work of the 
same class, with as much power and fewer faults, 
if it were published now, would attract little or no 
attention. One thing which contributed to bring 
it into immediate notice was, that no poem of 
equal pretension had appeared for many years, 
except Glover's Athenaid, which, notwithstanding 
the reputation of his Lecnidas, had been utterly 
neglected. But the chief cause of its favorable 
reception was, that it was written in a republican 
spirit, such as may easily be accounted for in a 
youth whose notions of liberty were taken from 
the Greek and Roman writers, and who was ig- 
norant enough of history and of human nature to 
believe, that a happier order of things had com- 
menced with the independence of the United 
States, and would be accelerated by the French 
Revolution. Such opinions were then as unpopu- 
lar in England as they deserved to be ; but they 
were cherished by most of the critical journals, 
and conciliated for me the good- will of some of the 
most influential writers who were at that time 
engaged in periodical literature, though 1 was 
personally unknown to them. They bestowed 
upon the poem abundant praise, passed over most 
of its manifold faults, and noticed others with in- 
dulgence. Miss Seward wrote some verses upon 
it in a strain of the highest eulogy and the bitter- 
est invective ; they were sent to the Morning 



Chronicle, and the editor (Mr. Perry) accom- 
panied their insertion with a vindication of the 
opinions which she had so vehemently denounced. 
Miss Seward was then in high reputation ; the 
sincerity of her praise was proved by the sever- 
ity of her censure ; and nothing could have been 
more serviceable to a young author than her no- 
tice, thus indignantly, but also thus generously, 
bestowed. The approbation of the reviewers 
served as a passport for the poem to America, and 
it was reprinted there while I was revising it for a 
second edition. 

A work, in which the author and the book- 
seller had engaged with equal imprudence, thus 
proved beneficial to both. It made me so advan- 
tageously known as a poet, that no subsequent 
hostility on the part of the reviews could pull 
down the reputation w^hich had been raised by 
their good oflices. Before that hostility took its 
determined character, the charge of being a hasty 
and careless writer was frequently brought against 
me. Yet to have been six months correcting what 
was written in six weeks, was some indication of 
patient industry ; and of this the second edition 
gave further evidence. Taking for a second motto 
the words of Erasmus, Ut homines ita libros, in- 
dies seipsis meliores fieri oportet, I spared no pains 
to render the poem less faulty both in its con- 
struction and composition ; 1 wrote a new begin- 
ning, threw out much of what had remained of 
the original draught, altered more, and endeavored, 
from all the materials which 1 had means of con- 
sulting, to make myself better acquainted with 
the manners and circumstances of the fifteenth 
century. Thus the second edition differed almost 
as much from the first, as that from the copy 
which was originally intended for publication. 
Less extensive alterations were made in two sub- 
sequent editions ; the fifth v^^as only a reprint of 
the fourth ; by that time I had become fully sen- 
sible of its great and numerous faults, and request- 
ed the reader to remember, as the only apology 
which could be offered for them, that the poem 
was written at the age of nineteen, and published 
at one-and-twenty. My intention then was, to 
take no further pains in correcting a work of 
which the inherent defects were incorrigible ; and 
1 did not look into it again for many years. 

But now, when about to perform what at my 
ao-e may almost be called the testamentary task of 
revising, in all likelihood for the last time, those 
works by which it was my youthful ambition " to 
be forever knov/n," and part whereof I dare be- 
lieve has been " so written to after times as they 
should not willingly let it die," it appeared proper 
that this poem, through which the author had been 
first made known to the public, two-and-forty 
years ago, should lead the way ; and the thought 
that it was once more to pass through the press 
under my own inspection, induced a feeling in 
some respects resembling that with which it had 
been first delivered to the printer — and yet how 
different! for not in hope and ardor, nor with 
the im.possible intention of rendering it what it 
might have been had it been planned and execu- 



JOAN OF ARC. 



]3 



ted in middle life, did I resolve to correct it once 
more throughout; but for the purpose of making 
it more consistent with itself in diction, and less 
inconsistent in other things with the well-weighed 
opinions of my maturer years. The faults of 
elfort, which may generally be regarded as hope- 
ful indications in a juvenile writer, have been 
mostly left as they were. The faults of language 
which remained from the first edition have been 
removed, so that in this respect the whole is 
sufficiently in keeping. And for those which 
expressed the political prejudices of a young man 
who had too little knowledge to suspect his own 
jonorance, they have either been expunged, or 
altered, or such substitutions have been made for 
them as harmonize with the pervading spirit of 
the poem, and are nevertheless in accord with 
tliose opinions which the author has maintained 
for thirty years, through good and evil report, in 
the maturity of his judgment as well as in the 
sincerity of his heart. 

Keswick, August 30, 1837. 



TO EDITH SOUTHEY 

Edith ! I brought thee late a humble gift. 

The songs of earlier youth ; it was a wreath 

With many an unripe blossom garlanded 

And many a weed, yet mingled with some flowers 

Which will not wither. Dearest ! now I bring 

A worthier offering ; thou wilt prize it well. 

For well thou know'st amid what painful cares 

My solace was in this : and though to me 

There is no music in the hollowness 

Of common praise, yet well content am I 

Now to look back upon my youth's green prime, 

Nor idly, nor unprofitably past, 

Imping in such adventurous essay 

The wing, and strengthening it for steadier flight. 

Burton, near Christ Church, 1797. 



THE FIRST BOOK. 

There was high feasting held at Vaucouleur, 
For old Sir Robert had a famous guest. 
The Bastard Orleans ; and the festive hours, 
Cheer'd with the Trobador's sweet minstrelsy, 
Pass'd gayly at his hospitable board. 
But not to share the hospitable board 
And hear sweet minstrelsy, Dunois had souo-ht 
Sir Robert's hall ; he came to rouse Lorraine, 
And glean what force the wasting war had left 
For one last effort. Little had the war 
Lefl in Lorraine, but age, and youth unripe 
For slaughter yet, and widows, and young maids 
Of widow'd loves. And now with his great guest 
The Lord of Vaucouleur sat communing 
On what might profit France, and found no hope. 
Despairing of their country, when he heard 



An old man and a maid awaited him 
In the castle-hall. He knew the old man well, 
His vassal Claude ; and at his bidding Claude 
Approach'd, and after meet obeisance made, 
Bespake Sir Robert. 

" Good my Lord, I come 
With a strange tale ; I pray you pardon me 
If it should seem impertinent, and like 
An old man's weakness. But, in truth, this Maid 
Hath with such boding thoughts impress'd my heart, 
I think I could not longer sleep in peace 
Gainsaying what she sought. She saith that God 
Bids her go drive the Englishmen from France ! 
Pier parents mock at her and call her crazed. 
And father Regnier says she is possess'd ; — 
But I, who know that never thought of ill 
Found entrance in her heart, — for, good my Lord, 
From her first birth-day she hath been to me 
As mine own child, — and I am an old man. 
Who have seen many moon-struck in my time, 
And some who were by evil Spirits vex'd, — 
I, Sirs, do think that there is more in this. 
And who can tell but, in these perilous times. 
It may please God, — but hear the Maid yourselves, 
For if, as 1 believe, this is of Heaven, 
My silly speech doth wrong it." 

While he spake, 
Curious they mark'd the Damsel. She appear'd 
Of eighteen years; there was no bloom of youth 
Upon her cheek, yet had the loveliest hues 
Of health with lesser fascination fix'd 
The gazer's eye ; for wan the Maiden was. 
Of saintly paleness, and there seem'd to dwell 
In the strong beauties of her countenance 
Something that was not earthly. 

" 1 have heard 
Of this your niece's malady," replied 
The Lord of Vaucouleur, " that she frequents 
The loneliest haunts and deepest solitude, 
Estranged from human kind and human cares 
With loathing like to madness. It were best 
To place her with some pious sisterhood. 
Who duly, morn and eve, for her soul's health 
Soliciting Heaven, may likeliest remedy 
The stricken mind, or frenzied or possess'd." 

So as Sir Robert ceased, the Maiden cried, 

" I am not mad. Possess'd indeed I am ! 

The hand of God is strong upon my soul, 

And I have wrestled vainly with the Lord, 

And stubbornly, I fear me. I can save 

This country. Sir ! I can deliver France ! 

Yea — I must save the country ! — God is in me ; 

I speak not, think not, feel not of myself. 

He knew and sanctified me ere my birth ; 

He to the nations hath ordained me ; 

And whither he shall send me, I must go ; 

And whatso he commands, that I must speak ; 

And whatso is his will, that I must do ; 

And I must put away all fear of man, 

Lest he in wrath confound me." 

At the first 
With pity or with scorn Dunois had heard 
The Maid inspired ; but now he in his heart 
Felt that misgiving which precedes belief 



14 



JOAN OF ARC. 



In what was disbelieved and scoff 'd at late 
For folly. " Damsel ! " said the Chief, " methinks 
It would be wisely done to doubt this call, 
Haply of some ill Spirit prompting thee 
To self-destruction." 

" Doubt ! " the Maid exclaim'd : 
It were as easy when I gaze around 
On all this fair variety of things, 
Green fields and tufted woods, and the blue depth 
Of heaven, and yonder glorious sun, to doubt 
Creating wisdom ! — When in the evening gale 
I breathe the mingled odors of the spring, 
And hear the wild wood melody, and hear 
The populous air vocal with insect life, 
To doubt God's goodness ! There are feelings, Chief, 
Which cannot lie ; and 1 have oftentimes 
Felt in the midnight silence of my soul 
The call of God." 

They listen' d to the Maid, 
And they almost believed. Then spake Dunois, 
" Wilt thou go with me, Maiden, to the King, 
And there announce thy mission ? " Thus he said. 
For thoughts of politic craftiness arose 
Within him, and his faith, yet unconfirm'd, 
Determin'd to prompt action. She replied, 
" Therefore I sought the Lord of Vaucouleur, 
That with such credence as prevents delay. 
He to the King might send me. Now beseech you 
Speed our departure ! " 

Then Dunois address 'd 
Sir Robert, " Fare thee well, my friend and host ! 
It were ill done to linger here when Heaven 
Vouchsafes such strange assistance. Let what force 
Lorraine can raise to Chinon follow us ; 
And with the tidings of this holy Maid, 
Sent by the Lord, fill thou the country; soon 
Therewith shall France awake as from the sleep 
Of death. Now, Maid ! depart we at tliy will." 

" God's blessing go with ye ! "exclaim'd old Claude, 
" Good Angels guard my girl ! " and as he spake 
The tears stream'd fast adown his aged cheeks. 
"And if I do not live to see thee more. 
As sure I think I shall not, — yet sometimes 
Remember thine old Uncle. I have loved thee 
Even from thy childhood, Joan ! and I shall lose 
The comfort of mine age in losing thee. 
But God be with thee. Child ! " 

Nor was the Maid, 
Though all subdued of soul, untroubled now 
In that sad parting; — but she calm'd herself, 
Painfully keeping down her heart, and said, 
" Comfort thyself, my Uncle, with the thought 
Of what I am, and for what enterprise 
Chosen from among the people. Oh ! be sure 
I shall remember thee, in whom I found 
A parent's love, when parents were unkind ! 
And when the ominous broodings of my soul 
Were scoff 'd and made a mock of by all else, 
Thou for thy love didst hear me and believe. 
Shall I forget these things .? " — By this Dunois 
Had arm'd, the steeds stood ready at the gate. 
But then she fell upon the old man's neck 
And cried, " Pray for me ! — I shall need thy 
prayers ' 



Pray for me, that I fail not in my hour ! " 
Thereat awhile, as if some awful thought 
Had overpower'd her, on his neck she hung ; 
Then rising with flush'd cheek and kindling eye, 
" Farewell ! " quoth she, " and live in hope ! Anon 
Thou shalt hear tidings to rejoice thy heart. 
Tidings of joy for all, but most for thee ! 
Be this thy comfort ! " The old man received 
Her last embrace, and weeping like a child. 
Scarcely through tears could see them on their steeds 
Spring up, and go their way. 

So on they went, 
And now along the mountain's winding path 
Upward they journey 'd slow, and now they paused 
And gazed where o'er the plain the stately towers 
Of Vaucouleur arose, in distance seen. 
Dark and distinct ; below its castled height. 
Through fair and fertile pastures, the deep Meuse 
Roll'd glittering on. Domremi's cottages 
Gleam'd in the sun hard by, white cottages. 
That in the evening traveller's weary mind 
Had waken'd thoughts of comfort and of home, 
Making him yearn for rest. But on one spot, 
One little spot, the Virgin's eye was fix'd, 
Her native Arc ; embower'd the hamlet lay 
Upon the forest edge, whose ancient woods, 
With all their infinite varieties. 
Now form'd a mass of shade. The distant plain 
Rose on the horizon rich with pleasant groves. 
And vineyards in the greenest hue of spring. 
And streams now hidden on their winding way, 
Now issuing forth in light. 

The Maiden gazed 
Till all grew dim upon her dizzy eye. 
" Oh what a blessed world were this ! " she cried, 
" But that the great and honorable men 
Have seized the earth, and of the heritage 
Which God, the Sire of all, to all had given. 
Disherited their brethren ! Happy those 
Who in the after days shall live, when Time 
Hath spoken, and the multitude of years 
Taught wisdom to mankind ! — Unhappy France ! 
Fiercer than evening wolves thy bitter foes j 

Rush o'er the land, and desolate, and kill ; 
Long has the widow's and the orphan's groan 
Accused Heaven's justice ; — but the hour is come ! 
God hath inclined his ear, hath heard the voice 
Of mourning, and his anger is gone forth." 

Then said the Son of Orleans, " Holy Maid ! 

Fain would I know, if blameless I may seek 

Such knowledge, how the heavenly call was heard 

First in thy waken'd soul ; nor deem in me 

Aught idly curious, if of thy past life 

I ask the story. In the hour of age, 

If haply I survive to see this realm 

Deliver' d, precious then will be the thought 

That I have known the delegated Maid, 

And heard from her the wondrous ways of Heaven. 

" A simple tale," the mission'd Maid replied ; 
" Yet may it well employ the journeying hour, 
And pleasant is the memory of the past. 

" Seest thou, Sir Chief, where yonder forest skirts 



JOAN OF ARC 



15 



The Meuse, that in its winding mazes shows, 

As on the farther bank, the distant towers 

Of Vaucouleur ? there in the hamlet Arc 

My father's dweUing stands j^ a lowly hut. 

Yet nought of needful comfort did it lack, 

For in Lorraine there lived no kinder Lord 

Than old Sir Robert, and my father Jaques 

In flocks and herds was rich ; a toiling man. 

Intent on worldly gains, one in whose heart 

Affection had no root. I never knew 

A parent's love } for harsh my mother was, 

And deem'd the care which infancy demands 

Irksome, and ill-repaid. Severe they were. 

And would have made me fear them ; but my sotd 

Possess'd the germ of inborn fortitude. 

And stubbornly I bore unkind rebuke 

And angry chastisement. Yet was the voice 

That spake in tones of tenderness most sweet 

To my young heart ; how have 1 felt it leap 

With transport, when my Uncle Claude ap- 

proach'd ! 
For he would take me on his knee, and tell 
Such wondrous tales as childhood loves to hear, 
Listening with eager eyes and open lips 
Devoutly in attention. Good old man ! 
Oh, if I ever pour'd a prayer to Heaven 
Unhallow'd by the grateful thought of him, 
Methinks the righteous winds would scatter it ! 
He was a parent to me, and his home 
Was mine, when in advancing years I found 
No peace, no comfort in my father's house. 
With him I pass'd the pleasant evening hours. 
By day I drove my father's flock afield,^ 
And this was happiness. 

" Amid these wilds 
Often to summer pasture have I driven 
The flock ; and well I know these woodland wilds. 
And every bosom'd vale, and valley stream 
Is dear to memory. 1 have laid me down 
Beside yon valley stream, that up the ascent 
Scarce sends the sound of waters now, and watch'd 
The beck roll glittering to the noon-tide sun, 
And listen'd to its ceaseless murmuring. 
Till all was hush'd and tranquil in my soul, 
Fill'd with a strange and undefined delight 
That pass'd across the mind like summer clouds 
Over the vale at eve ; their fleeting hues 
The traveller cannot trace with memory's eye. 
Yet he remembers well how fair they were. 
How beautiful. 

" In solitude and peace 
Here I grew up, amid the loveliest scenes 
Of unpolluted nature. Sweet it was. 
As the white mists of morning roll'd away. 
To see the upland's wooded heights appear 
Dark in the early dawn, and mark the slope 
With gorse-flowers glowing, as the sun illumed 
Their golden glory ^° with his deepening light ; 
Pleasant at noon beside the vocal brook 
To lay me down, and watch the floating clouds. 
And shape to fancy's wild similitudes 
Their ever- varying forms ; and oh how sweet ! 
To drive my flock at evening to the fold, 
And hasten to our little hut, and hear 
The voice of kindness bid me welcome home. 



" Amid the village playmates of my youth 

Was one whom riper years approved a friend. 

A gentle maid was my poor Madelon ; 

I loved her as a sister, and long time 

Her undivided tenderness possess'd. 

Until a better and a holier tie 

Gave her one nearer friend ; and then my heart 

Partook her happiness, for never lived 

A happier pair than Arnaud and his wife. 

" Lorraine was call'd to arms, and with her youth 
Went Arnaud to the war. The morn was fair. 
Bright shone the sun, the birds sung cheerfully. 
And all the fields seem'd joyous in the spring ; 
But to Domremi wretched was that day. 
For there was lamentation, and the voice 
Of anguish, and the deeper agony 
That spake not. Never can my heart forget 
The feelings that shot through me, when the horn 
Gave its last call, and through the castle-gate 
The banner moved, and from the clinging arms 
Which hung on them, as for a last embrace. 
Sons, brethren, husbands, went. 

" JVIore frequent now 
Sought I the converse of poor Madelon, 
For now she needed friendship's soothing voice. 
All the long summer did she live in hope 
Of tidings from the war ; and as at eve 
She with her mother by the cottage door 
Sat in the sunshine, if a traveller 
Appear'd at distance coming o'er the brow. 
Her eye was on him, and it might be seen 
By the flush'd cheek what thoughts were in her 

heart. 
And by the deadly paleness which ensued. 
How her heart died within her. So the days 
And weeks and months pass'd on ; and when the 

leaves 
Fell in the autumn, a most painful hope 
That reason OAvn'd not, that with expectation 
Did never cheer her as she rose at morn. 
Still linger'd in her heart, and still at night 
Made disappointment dreadful. Winter came. 
But Arnaud never from the war return' d ; 
He far away had perish'd ; and when late 
The tidings of his certain death arrived, 
Sore with long anguish underneath that blow 
She sunk. Then would she sit and think all day 
Upon the past, and talk of happiness 
That never could return, as though she found 
Best solace in the thoughts which minister'd 
To sorrow : and she loved to see the sun 
Go down, because another day was gone. 
And then she might retire to solitude 
And wakeful recollections, or perchance 
To sleep more wearying far than wakefulness. 
Dreams of his safety and retiirn, and starts 
Of agony ; so neither night nor day 
Could she find rest, but pined and pined away. 

" Death ! to the happy thou art terrible ; 
But how the wretched love to think of thee. 
Oh thou true comforter, the friend of all 
Who have no friend beside ! ^^ By the sick bed 
Of Madelon I sat, when sure ^^:^ leit 



16 



JOAN OF ARC 






The hour of her deliverance drawing near ; 
I saw her eye kindle with heavenly hope, 
I had her latest look of earthly love, 
I felt her hand's last pressure. — Son of Orleans ! 
I would not wish to live to know that hour, 
When 1 could think upon a dear friend dead. 
And weep not ; but they are not bitter tears, — 
Not painful now ; for Christ hath risen, first fruits 
Of them that slept ; and we shall meet again. 
Meet, not again to part : the grave hath lost 
Its victory. 

" I remember, as her bier 
Went to the grave, a lark sprung up aloft, 
And soar'd amid the sunshine, carolling 
So full of joy, that to the mourner's ear 
More mournfully than dirge or passing bell. 
The joyous carol came, and made us feel 
That of the multitude of beings, none 
But man was wretched. 

" Then my soul awoke. 
For it had slumber'd long in happiness, 
And never feeling misery, never thought 
What others suffer. I, as best I might, 
Solaced the keen regret of Elinor ; 
And much my cares avail'd, and much her son's. 
On whom, the only comfort of her age. 
She centred now her love. A younger birth, 
Aged nearly as myself was Theodore, 
An ardent youth, who with the kindest care 
Had sooth'd his sister's sorrow. We had knelt 
By her death-bed together, and no bond 
In closer union knits two human hearts 
Than fellowship in grief. 

" It chanced as once 
Beside the fire of Elinor I sat. 
The night was comfortless, the loud blast howl'd. 
And as we drew around the social hearth. 
We heard the rain beat hard. Driven by the storm 
A warrior mark'd our distant taper's light ; 
We heapt the fire, and spread the friendly board. 
''Tis a rude night,' the stranger cried: 'safe 

housed 
Pleasant it is to hear the pelting rain. 
I too could be content to dwell in peace. 
Resting my head upon the lap of love, 
But that my country calls. When the winds roar, 
Remember sometimes what a soldier suffers. 
And think on Conrade.' 

" Theodore replied, 
' Success go with thee ! Something we have known 
Of war, and tasted its calamity ; 
And I am well content to dwell in peace. 
Albeit inglorious, thanking the good God 
Who made me to be happy.' 

"'Did that God,' 
Cried Conrade, ' form thy heart for happiness. 
When Desolation royally careers 
Over thy wretched country ? Did that God 
Form thee for Peace when Slaughter is abroad. 
When her brooks run with blood, and Rape, and 

Murder, 
Stalk through her flaming towns ? Live thou in 

peace. 
Young man ! my heart is human : I must feel 
For what my brethren suffer.' While he spake 



Such mingled passions character'd his face 

Of fierce and terrible benevolence. 

That I did tremble as I listen'd to him ; 

And in my heart tumultuous thoughts arose 

Of high achievements, indistinct, and wild, '■ 

And vast, — yet such they were as made me pant 

As though by some divinity possess' d. 



" ' But is there not some duty due to those 
We love .-• ' said Theodore ; ' is there an employ 
More righteous than to cheer declining age. 
And thus with filial tenderness repay 
Parental care .? ' 

" ' Hard is it,' Conrade cried, 
' Ay, hard indeed, to part from those we love ; 
And I have suffer'd that severest pang. 
I have left an aged mother ; I have left 
One upon whom my heart has fasten 'd all 
Its dearest, best affections. Should I live 
Till France shall see the blessed hour of peace, 
I shall return ; my heart will be content. 
My duties then will have been well discharged, 
And I may then be happy. There are those 
Who deem such thoughts the fancies of a mind 
Strict beyond measure, and were well content, 
If I should soften down my rigid nature 
Even to inglorious ease, to honor me. 
But pure of heart and high in self-esteem 
I must be honor'd by myself: all else. 
The breath of Fame, is as the unsteady wind 
Worthless.' 

'■'- So saying from his belt he took 
The encumbering sword. I held it, listening to him, 
And wistless what I did, half from the sheath 
Drew forth its glittering blade. I gazed upon it, 
And shuddering, as I touch'd its edge, exclaim'd. 
How horrible it is with the keen sword 
To gore the finely-fibred human frame ! 
I could not strike a lamb. 

" He answer'd me, 
' Maiden, thou sayest well. I could not strike 
A lamb ! — But when the merciless invader 
Spares not gray age, and mocks the infant's shriek 
As it doth writhe upon his cursed lance, 
And forces to his foul embrace the wife 
Even where her slaughter'd husband bleeds to 

death. 
Almighty God ! I should not be a man 
If I did let one weak and pitiful feeling 
Make mine arm impotent to cleave him down. 
Think well of this, young man ! ' ^^ he cried, and took 
The hand of Theodore ; ' think well of this ; 
As you are human, as you hope to live 
In peace, amid the dearest joys of home. 
Think well of this ! You have a tender mother ; 
As you do wish that she may die in peace, 
As you would even to madness agonize 
To hear this maiden call on you in vain 
For help, and see her dragg'd, and hear her scream 
In the blood-reeking soldier's lustful grasp, 
Think that there are such horrors ! ^^ that even now, 
Some city flames, and haply, as in Roan, 
Some famish'd babe on his dead mother's breast 
Yet hangs and pulls for food ! ^^ — Woe be to those 
By whom the evil comes ! And woe to him, — 






BOOK II. 



JOAN OF ARC 



17 



For little less his guilt, — who dwells in peace, 
When every arm is needed for the strife ! ' 

" When we had all betaken us to rest. 
Sleepless I lay, and in my mind revolved 
The high-soul'd warrior's speech. Then JNIadclon 
Rose in remembrance ; over her t!ie grave 
Had closed ; her sorrows were not register'd 
In the rolls of fame ; but when the tears run down 
The widow's cheek, shall not her cry be heard 
In Heaven against the oppressor? Will not God 
In sunder smite the unmerciful, and break 
The sceptre of the wicked ? '^ — Thoughts like these 
Possess'd my soul, till at the break of day 
I slept ; nor did my heated ])rain repose 
Even then ; for visions, sent, as I believe, 
From the Most High, arose. A high-tower'd town 
Hemm'd in and girt with enemies, I saw, 
Where Famine on a heap of carcasses. 
Half envious of the unutterable feast, 
Mark'd the gorged raven clog his beak with gore. 
I turn'd me then to the besieger's camp. 
And there was revelry : a loud, lewd laugh 
Burst on mine ear, and I beheld the chiefs 
Sit at their feast, and plan the work of death. 
My soul grcAV sick within me ; I look'd up. 
Reproaching Heaven, — lo ! from the clouds an arm 
As of the avenging Angel was put forth, 
And from his hand a sword, like lightning, fell. 

" From that night I could feel my burden'd soul 
Heaving beneath incumbent Deity. 
I sate in silence, musing on the days 
To come, unheeding and unseeing all 
Around me, in that dreaminess of thought 
When every bodily sense is as it slept, 
And the mind alone is wakeful. I have heard 
Strange voices in the evening wind ; strange forms 
Dimly discover'd throng'd the twilight air. 
The neighbors wonder'd at the sudden change ; 
They call'd me crazed ; and my dear Uncle, too. 
Would sit and gaze upon me wistfully, 
A heaviness upon his aged brow. 
And in his eye such sorrow, that my heart 
Sometimes misgave me. I had told him all 
The mighty future laboring in my breast. 
But that the hour, methought, not yet was come. 

" At length I heard of Orleans, by the foe 
Waird in from human help : thither all thoughts. 
All hopes were turn'd ; that bulwark beaten down, 
All were the invaders. Then my troubled soul 
Grew more disturb'd, and shunning every eye, 
I loved to wander where the woodland shade 
Was deepest, there on mightiest deeds to brood 
Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart 
Throb loud : anon I paused, and in a state 
Of half expectance, listen'd to the wind. 

" There is a fountain in the forest call'd 
The Fountain of the Fairies : '^ when a child 
With a delightful wonder I have heard 
Tales of the Elfin tribe who on its banks 
Hold midnight revelry. An ancient oak, 
The goodliest of the forest, grows beside ; 
3 



Alone it stands, upon a green grass plat. 
By the woods bounded like some little isle. 
It ever hath been deem'd their favorite tree ; 
They love to lie and rock upon its leaves,^''' 
And bask in moonshine. Here the Woodman leads 
His boy, and showing him the green-sward mark'd 
With darker circlets, says their midnight dance 
Hath traced the rings, and bids him spai-e the tree. 
Fancy had cast a spell upon the place 
Which made it holy ; and the villagers 
Would say that never evil thing approach'd 
Unpunish'd there. The strange and tearful pleasure 
Which fill'd me by that solitary spring. 
Ceased not in riper years ; and now it woke 
Deeper delight, and more mysterious awe. 

" A blessed spot ! Oh, how my soul enjo3''d 
Its holy quietness, with what delight 
Escaping from mankind I hasten'd there 
To solitude and freedom ! Thitherward 
On a spring eve I had betaken me, 
And there I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds 
Gather before the wind — the rising wind, 
Whose sudden gusts, each wilder than the last, 
Appear'd to rock my senses. Soon the night 
Darken'd around, and the large rain-drops fell 
Heavy ; anon tempestuously the gale 
Swept o'er the wood. IMethought the thunder- 
shower 
Fell with refreshing coolness on my head. 
And the hoarse dash of waters, and the rush 
Of winds that mingled with the forest roar, 
Made a wild music. On a rock I sat ; 
The glory of the tempest fill'd my soul ; 
And when the thunders peal'd, and the long flash 
Hung durable in heaven, and on my sight 
Spread the gray forest, memory, thought, were 
All sense of self annihilate, I seem'd [gone,'** 

Diffused into the scene, 

" At length a light 
Approach'd the spring ; 1 saw my Uncle Claude ; 
His gray locks dripping with the midnight storm. 
He came, and caught me in his arms, and cried, 
' My God ! my child is safe ! ' 

" I felt his words 
Pierce in my heart ; my soul was overcharged ; 
I fell upon his neck and told him all ; 
God was within me; as I felt, I spake. 
And he believed. 

" Ay, Chieftain ! and the world 
Shall soon believe my mission ; for the Lord 
Will raise up indignation and pour on't 
His wrath, and they shall perish who oppress." '^ 



THE SECOND BOOK. 

And now beneath the horizon westering slow 
Had sunk the orb of day : o'er all the vale 
A purple softness spread, save where some tree 
Its lengthen'd shadow stretch'd, or winding stream 
Mirror'd the light of Heaven, still traced distinct 
When twilight dimly shrouded all beside. 



18 



JOAN OF ARC. 



A grateful coolness freshen' d the calm air, 
And the hoarse grasshoppers their evening song 
Sung shrill and ceaseless,^^ as the dews of night 
Descended. On their way the travellers wend, 
Cheering the road with converse, till at length 
They mark a cottage lamp, whose steady light 
Shone though the lattice ; thitherward they turn. 
There came an old man forth ; his thin gray locks 
Moved to the breeze, and on his wither'd face 
The cliaracters of age were written deep. 
Tliem, louting low with rustic courtesy. 
He welcomed in ; on the white-ember'd hearth 
Heapt up fresh fuel, then with friendly care 
Spread out his homely board, and fill'd the bowl 
With the red produce of the vine that arch'd 
His evening seat ; they of the plain repast 
Partook, and quaff 'd the pure and pleasant draught. 

" Strangers, your fare is homely," said their Host, 
" But such it is as we poor countrymen 
Earn with our toil : in faith ye are v/elcome to it ! 
I too have borne a lance in younger days ; 
And would that I were young again to meet 
These haughty English in the field of fight; 
Such as I was when on the fatal plain 
Of Agincourt I met them." 

" Wert thou then 
A sharer in that dreadful day's defeat.''" 
Exclaim'd the Bastard. " Didst thou know the Lord 
Ol Orleans .="' 

" Know him .? " cried the veteran, 
" I saw him ere the bloody fight began 
Riding from rank to rank, his beaver up. 
The long lance quivering in his mighty grasp. 
His eye was wrathful to an enemy. 
But for his countrymen it had a smile 
Would win all hearts. Looking at thee. Sir Knight, 
Me thinks I see him now ; such was his eye, 
Gentle in peace, and such his manly brow." 

" No tongue but speaketh honor of that name ! " 
Exclaim'd Dunois. " Strangers and countrymen 
Alike revered the good and gallant Chief. 
His vassals like a father loved their Lord ; 
His gates stood open to the traveller ; 
The pilgrim when he saw his towers rejoiced, 
For he had heard in other lands the fame 
Of Orleans. — And he lives a prisoner still ! 
Losing all hope because my arm so long 
Hath fail'd to win his liberty ! " 

He turn'd 
His head away, hiding the burning shame 
Which flush'd his face. " But he shall live, 

Dunois," 
The mission'd Maid replied ; " but he shall live 
To hear good tidings ; hear of liberty. 
Of his own liberty, by his brother's arm 
Achieved in well-won battle. He shall live 
Happy; the memory of his prison'd years ^^^ 
Shall heighten all his joys, and his gray hairs 
Go to the grave in peace." 

" I would fain live 
To see that day," replied their aged host : 
" How would my heart leap to behold again 
The gallant, generous chieftain ! I fought by him, 



When all our hopes of victory were lost. 

And down his batter'd arms the blood stream'd fast 

From many a wound. Like wolves they hemm'd 

us in. 
Fierce in unhoped for conquest : all around 
Our dead and dying countrymen lay heap'd ; 
Yet still he strove ; — I wonder'd at his valor ! 
There was not one who on that fatal day 
Fought bravelier." 

" Fatal was that day to France," 
Exclaim'd the Bastard ; " there Alencjon fell. 
Valiant in vain ; there D'Albert, whose mad pride 
Brought the whole ruin on. There fell Brabant, 
Vaudemont, and Marie, and Bar, and Faquenberg, 
Our noblest warriors ; the determin'd foe 
Fought for revenge, not hoping victory, 
Desperately brave ; ranks fell on ranks before 

them; 
The prisoners of that shameful day out-summ'd 5 
Their conquerors ! " 22 i 

" Yet believe not," Bertram cried, 
" That cowardice disgraced thy countrymen ! 
They, by their leader's arrogance led on 
With heedless fury, found all numbers vain, 
All effort fruitless there ; and hadst thou seen, 
Skilful as brave, how Henry's ready eye 
Lost not a thicket, not a hillock's aid ; 
From his hersed bowmen how the arrows flew ^ 
Thick as the snow-flakes and with lightning force ; 
Thou wouldst have known such soldiers, such a 

chief, 
Could never be subdued. 

" But when the field ^ 
Was won, and they who had escaped the fight I 
Had yielded up their arms, it was foul work 
To turn on the defenceless prisoners 
The cruel sword of conquest.^"* Girt around 
I to their mercy had surrender'd me, 
When lo ! I heard the dreadful cry of death. 
Not as amid the fray, when man met man 
And in fair combat gave the mortal blow ; 
Here the poor captives, weaponless and bound, 
Saw their stern victors draw again the sword, 
And groan'd and strove in vain to free their hands, 
And bade them think upon their plighted faith, 
And pray'd for mercy in the name of God, 
In vain : the King had bade them niassacre. 
And in their helpless prisoners' naked breasts 
They drove the weapon. Then 1 look'd for death. 
And at that moment death was terrible, — 
For the heat of fight was over ; of my home 
I thought, and of my wife and little ones 
In bitterness of heart. But the brave man. 
To whom the chance of war had made me thrall, 
Had pity, loosed my hands, and bade me fly. 
It was the will of Heaven that I should live 
Childless and old to think upon the past. 
And wish that I had perish'd ! " 

The old man 
Wept as he spake. " Ye may perhaps have heard 
Of the hard siege that Roan so long endur'd. 
I dwelt there, strangers ; I had then a wife, 
And I had children tenderly beloved. 
Who I did hope should clieer me in old age 
And close mine eyes. The tale of misery 



JOAN OF ARC. 



19 



Mayhap were tedious, or I could relate 
Much of that dreadful time." 

The Maid replied, 
Wishing of that devoted town to hear. 
Thus then the veteran : 

" So by Heaven preserved, 
From the disastrous plain of Agincourt^^ 
I speeded homewards, and abode in peace. 
; Henry, as wise as brave, had back to England-*' 
Led his victorious army ; well aware 
That France was mighty, that her warlike sons, 
Impatient of a foreigner's command, 
I Might rise impetuous, and with nmltitudes 
I Tread down the invaders. Wisely he return'd, 
For our proud barons in their private broils 
Wasted the strength of France. I dwelt at home. 
And with the little I possess'd content. 
Lived happily. A pleasant sight it was 
To see my children, as at eve I sat 
Beneath the vine, come clustering rovind my knee. 
That they might hear again the oft-told tale 
Of the dangers I had past : their little eyes 
Would with such anxious eagerness attend 
The tale of life preserved, as made me feel 
Life's value. My poor children ! a hard fate 
Had they ! But oft and bitterly I wish 
That God had to his mercy taken me 
In childhood, for it is a heavy lot 
To linger out old age in loneliness ! 

" Ah me ! when war the masters of mankind. 

Woe to the poor man ! if he sow his field, 

He shall not reap the harvest ; if he see 

His offspring rise around, his boding heart 

Aches at the thought that they are nuiltiplied 

To the sword ! Again from England the fierce foe 

Came on our ravaged coasts. In battle bold. 

Merciless in conquest, their victorious King 

Swept like the desolating tempest round. 

Dambieres submits ; on Caen's subjected wall 

The flag of England waved. Roan still remain'd, 

Embattled Roan, bulwark of Normandy ; 

Nor unresisted round her massy Avails 

Pitch'd they their camp. 1 need not tell, Sir Knight, 

How oft and boldly on the invading host 

We burst with fierce assault impetuous forth. 

For many were the warlike sons of Roan.^^ 

One gallant Citizen was famed o'er all 

For daring hardihood preeminent, 

Blanchard. He, gathering round his countrymen, 

With his own courage kindling every breast. 

Had made them vow before Almighty God ^s 

Never to yield them to the usurping foe. 

Before the God of Hosts we made the vow ; 

And we had bafiled the besieging power, 

Had not the patient enemy drawn round 

His wide intrenchments. From the watch-tower's 

top 
In vain with fearful hearts along the Seine 
We strain' d the eye, and every distant wave 
Which in the sunbeam glitter'd, fondly thought 
The white sail of supply. Alas ! no more 
The white sail rose upon our aching sight ; 
For guarded was the Seine, and our stern foe 
Had made a league with Famine .^9 How my heart 



Sunk in me when at night 1 carried home 
The scanty pittance of to-morrow's meal ! 
You know not, strangers, Avhat it is to see 
The asking eye of hunger ! 

" Still we strove, 
Expecting aid ; nor longer force to force, 
^'alor to valor, in the fight opposed, 
But to the exasperate patience of the foe. 
Desperate endurance .^'^ Tbough with Christian zeal 
Ursino would have pour'd the balm of peace 
Into our wounds. Ambition's ear, best pleased 
With the war's clamor and the groan of death. 
Was deaf to prayer. Day after day pass'd on; 
We heard no voice of comfort. From the walls 
Could we behold their savage Irish Kerns,''^ 
Ruflians half-clothed, half-human, half-baptized,^^ 
Come with their spoil, mingling their hideous 

shouts 
With moan of weary flocks, and piteous low 
Of kine sore-laden, in the mirthful camp 
Scattering abundance ; while the loathliest food 
We prized above all price ; while in our streets 
The dying groan of hunger, and the cries 
Of fiimishing infants echoed, — and we heard, 
With the strange selfishness of misery, 
We heard, and heeded not. 

" Thou wouldst have deem'd 
Roan must have fallen an easy sacrifice. 
Young warrior ! hadstthou seen our meagre limbs, 
And pale and shrunken cheeks, and hollow eyes , 
Yet still we struggled bravely ! Blanchard still 
Spake of the obdurate temper of the foe. 
Of Harfleur's wretched people driven out^^ 
Houseless and destitute, while that stern King 
Knelt at the altar, and with impious prayer^-* 
Gave God the glory, even while the blood 
That he had shed was reeking up to Heaven. 
He bade us think what mercy they had found 
Who yielded on the plain of Agincourt, 
And what the gallant sons of Caen, by him 
In cold blood slaughter'd : ^^ then his scanty food 
Sharing with the most wretched, he would bid us 
Bear with our miseries manfully. 

" Thus press 'd, 
Lest all should perish thus, our chiefs decreed 
Women and children, the infirm and old. 
All who were useless in the work of war, 
Should forth and take their fortune. Age, that 

makes 
The joys and sorrows of the distant years 
Like a half-remember' d dream, yet on my heart 
Leaves deep impress'd the horrors of that hour. 
Then as our widow-wives clung round our necks, 
And the deep sob of anguish interrupted 
The prayer of parting, even the pious priest 
As he implored his God to strengthen us, 
And told us we should meet again in Heaven, 
He groan'd and curs'd in bitterness of heart ^^ 
That merciless King. The wretched crowd pass'd 

on; 
My wife — my children — through the gates they 

pass'd. 
Then the gates closed — Would I were in my 

grave, 
That I might lose remembrance ! 



20 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK III. 



" What is man 
That he can hear the groan of wretcliedness 
And feel no fleshly pang ! Why did the All- Good 
Create these warrior scourges of mankind, 
These who delight in slaughter ? I did think 
There was not on this earth a heart so hard 
Could hear a famish'd woman ask for food, 
And feel no pity. As the outcast train 
Drew near, relentless Henry bade his troops 
Drive back the miserable multitude.^''' 
They drove them to the walls ; — it was the depth 
Of winter, — we had no relief to grant. 
The aged ones groan'd to our foe in vain. 
The mother pleaded for her dying child, 
And they felt no remorse 1 " 

The mission'd Maid 
Rose from her seat, — " The old and the infirm, 
The mother and her babes ! — and yet no lightning 
Blasted this man ! " 

" Aye, Lady," Bertram cried, 
" And when we sent the herald to implore 
His mercy ^^ on the helpless, his stern face 
Assum'd a sterner smile of callous scorn. 
And he replied in mockery. On the wall 
I stood and watch'd the miserable outcasts. 
And every moment thought that Henry's heart, 
Hard as it was, would melt. All night I stood, — 
Their deep groans came upon the midnight gale ; 
Fainter they grew, for the cold wintry wind 
Blew bleak ; fainter they grew, and at the last 
All was still, save that ever and anon 
Some mother raised o'er her expiring child 
A cry of frenzying anguish.^^ 

" From that hour 
On all the busy turmoil of the world 
I look'd with strange indifference ; bearing want 
With the sick patience of a mind worn out. 
Nor when the traitor yielded up our town^*^ 
Aught heeded I as through our ruin'd streets, 
Through putrid heaps of famish'd carcasses, 
The pomp of triumph pass'd. One pang alone 
I felt, when by that cruel King's command 
The gallant Blanchard died : ^i calmly he died. 
And as he bow'd beneath the axe, thank'd God 
That he had done his duty. 

" I survive, 
A solitary, friendless, wretched one. 
Knowing no joy save in the certain hope 
That I shall soon be gather'd to my sires. 
And soon repose, there where the wicked cease ^2 
From troubling, and the weary are at rest." 

"And happy," cried the delegated Maid, 
" And happy they who in that holy faith 
Bow meekly to the rod ! A little while 
Shall they endure the proud man's contumely, 
The injustice of the great: a little while 
Though shelterless they feel the wintry wind. 
The wind shall whistle o'er their turf-grown grave. 
And all be peace below. But woe to those, 
Woe to the Mighty Ones who send abroad 
Their ministers of death, and give to Fury 
The flaming firebrand ; these indeed shall live 
The heroes of the wandering minstrel's song; 
But they have their reward ; the innocent blood 



Steams up to Heaven against them : God shall hear 
The widow's groan." 

"I saw him," Bertram cried, 
" Henry of Agincourt, this mighty King, 
Go to his grave. The long procession pass'd 
Slowly from town to town, and when I heard 
The deep-toned dirge, and saw the banners wave 
A pompous shade,^^ and the tall torches cast 
In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy light,'*^ 
I thought Avhat he had been on earth who now 
Was gone to his account, and blest my God 
I was not such as he ! " 

So spake the old man, 
And then his guests betook them to repose. 



THE THIRD BOOK. 

Fair dawn'd the morning, and the early sun 
Pour'd on the latticed cot a cheerful gleam, 
And up the travellers rose, and on their way 
Hasten'd, their dangerous way ,4^ through fertile 

tracts 
Laid waste by war. They pass'd the Auxerrois ; 
The autumnal rains had beaten to the earth ^^ 
The unreap'd harvest ; from the village church 
No even-song bell was heard ; the shepherd's dog 
Prey'd on the scatter'd flock, for there was now 
No hand to feed him, and upon the hearth 
Where he ha,d slumber'd at his master's feet 
Weeds grew and reptiles crawl'd. Or if they found 
Sometimes a welcome, those who v/elcomed them 
Were old and helpless creatures, lingering there 
Where they were born, and where they wish'd to 

die. 
The place being all that they had left to love. 
They pass'd the Yonne, they pass'd the rapid Loire, 
Still urging on their way with cautious speed. 
Shunning Auxerre, and Bar's embattled wall, 
And Romorantin's towers. 

So journeying on, 
Fast by a spring, which welling at his feet 
With many a winding crept along the mead, 
A Knight they saw, who there at his repast 
Let the west wind play round his ungirt brow. 
Approaching near, the Bastard recognized 
That faithful friend of Orleans, the brave chief 
Du Chastel; and their mutual greeting pass'd, 
They on the streamlet's mossy bank reclined 
Beside him, and his frugal fare partook. 
And drank the running waters. 

" Art thou bound 
For the Court, Dunois.''" exclaim'd the aged 

Knight ; 
" I thought thou hadst been far away, shut up 
In Orleans, where her valiant sons the siege 
Right loyally endure ! " 

" I left the town," 
Dunois replied, " thinking that my prompt speed 
Might seize the enemy's stores, and with fresh force 
Reenter. FastolfFe's better fate pre vail 'd,^''' 
And from the field of shame my maddening horse 
Bore me, an arrow having pierced his flank. 



i 



BOOK III. 



JOAN OF ARC 



21 



Worn out and faint with that day's dangerous toil, 

My deep wounds bleeding, vainly with weak hand 

I check'd the powerless rein. Nor aught avail'd 

When heal'd at length, defeated and alone 

Again to enter Orleans. In Lorraine 

I sought to raise new powers, and now return"d 

With strangest and most unexpected aid. 

Sent by high Heaven, I seek the Court, and thence 

To that beleaguer'd town shall lead such force, 

That the proud English in their fields of blood 

Shall perish." 

"I too," Tanneguy reply'd, 
In the field of battle once again perchance 
May serve my royal Master ; in his cause 
My youth adventur'd much, nor can my age 
Find better close than in the clang of arms 
To die for him whom i have lived to serve."*^ 
Thou art for the Court. Son of the Chief I loved ! 
Be wise by my experience. He who seeks 
Court-favor, ventures like a boy who leans 
Over the brink of some high precipice 
To reach the o'erhanging fruit.'*^ Thou seest me 

here 
A banish'd man, Dunois ! ^"^ so to appease 
Richemont, who, jealous of the royal ear, 
With midnight murder leagues, and down the Loire 
Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe.^' 
Now confident of strength, at the King's feet 
He stabs the King's best friends, and then demands, 
As with a conqueror's imperious tone, 
The post of honor. Son of that good Duke 
Whose death my arm avengcd,^'^ may all thy days 
Be happy ; serve thy country in the field, 
But in the hour of peace amid thy friends 
Dwell thou without ambition." 

So he spake. 
But when the Bastard told his wondrous tale. 
How interposing Heaven had its high aid 
Vouchsafed to France, the old man's eyes flash'd 

fire. 
And rising from the bank, his ready steed 
That grazed beside he mounted. " Farewell, friend. 
And thou, the Delegate of Heaven ! " he cried. 
" I go to do my part, and we shall meet 
At Orleans." Saying thus, he spurr'daway. 
They journey on their way till Chinon's towers 
Rose on the distant view; the royal seat 
Of Charles, while Paris with her servile sons, 
A headstrong, mutable, ferocious race, 
Bow'd to the invader's yoke; City even then 
Above all Cities noted for dire deeds ! 
Yet doom'd to be the scene of blacker guilt, 
Opprobry more enduring, crimes that call'd 
For heavier vengeance, than in those dark days 
When the Burgundian faction fill'd thy streets 
With carnage .^^ Twice hast thou since then been 

made 
A horror and a warning to all lands ; 
When kingly power conspired with papal craft 
To plot and perpetrate that massacre, 
Which neither change of kalendar, nor lapse 
Of time, shall hide from memory, or efface; 
And when in more enlighten'd days, — so deem'd. 
So vaunted, — the astonish'd nations saw 
A people, to their own devices left, 



Therefore as by judicial frenzy stricken. 
Lawless and godless, fill the whole wide realm 
With terror, and with wickedness and woe, — 
A more astounding judgment than when Heaven 
Shower'd on the cities of the accursed plain 
Its fire and sulphur down. 

In Paris now 
The Invader triumph'd. On an infant's head 
Had Bedford placed the crown of Charlemagne, 
And factious nobles bow'd the subject knee. 
And own'd an English infant for their King, 
False to their own liege Lord. 

" Beloved of Heaven,' 
Then said the Son of Orleans to the Maid, 
" Lo these the walls of Chinon, this the abode 
Of Charles our monarch. Here in revelry 
He of his armies vanquish"d, his fair towns 
Subdued, hears careless and prolongs the dance. 
And little marvel I that to the cares 
Of empire still he turns the unwilling ear, 
For loss on loss, defeat upon defeat. 
His strong holds taken, and his bravest Chiefs 
Or slain or captured, and the hopes of youth 
All blasted, have subdued the royal mind 
Undisciplined in Fortitude's stern school. 
So may thy voice arouse his sleeping virtue ! " 

The mission'd Maid replied, " Do thou, Dunois, 
Announce my mission to the royal ear. 
I on the river's winding bank the while 
Will roam, collecting for the interview 
My thoughts, though firm, yet troubled. Who 

essays 
Achievements of great import Avill perforce 
Feel the heart heave ; and in my breast I own 
Such perturbation." 

On the banks of Vienne 
Devious the Damsel turn'd, while through the gate 
The Son of Orleans press'd with hasty step 
To seek the King. Him from the public view 
He found secluded with his blameless Queen, 
And his partaker of the unlawful bed. 
The lofty-minded Agnes. 

" Son of Orleans ! " 
So as he enter'd cried the haughty fair, 
" Thou art well come to witness the disgrace, 
The weak, unmanly, base despondency 
Of this thy Sovereign Liege. He will retreat 
To distant Dauphiny and fly the war ! 
Go then, unworthy of thy rank ! retreat 
To distant Dauphiny ,^^ and fly the war. 
Recreant from battle ! I will not partake 
A fugitive's fate ; when thou hast lost thy crown 
Thou losest Agnes. — Do'st not blush, Dunois ! 
To bleed in combat for a Prince like this, 
Fit only, like the Merovingian race 
On a May morning deck'd with flowers,^^ to mount 
His gay-bedizen'd car, and ride abroad 
And make the multitude a holiday. 
Go, Charles ! and hide thee in a woman's garb, 
And these long locks will not disgrace thee then ! " ^^ 

" Nay, Agnes ! " Charles replied, " reproach me 
not! 
I have enough of sorrow. Look around, 



22 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK III. 



See this fair country ravaged by the foe, 

My strong holds taken, and my bravest friends 

Fallen in the field, or captives far aw^ay. 

Dead is the Douglas 3 cold thy gallant heart, 

Illustrious Buchan ! ye from Scotland's hills, 

Not mindless of your old ally distress'd. 

Came to his succor; in this cause ye fought; 

For him ye perish'd. Rash, impetuous Narbonne ! 

Thy mangled corse waves to the winds of Heaven.^''' 

Cold, Graville, is thy sinewy arm in death ; 

Fallen is Ventadaur ; silent in the grave 

Rambouillet sleeps. Bretagne's unfaithful chief 

Leagues with my foes ; and Richemont,^^ or in arms 

Defies my weak control, or from my side, 

A friend more dreaded than the enemy. 

Scares my best servants with the assassin's sword. 

Soon must beleaguer'd Orleans fall. — But now 

A truce to these sad thoughts ! We are not yet 

So utterly despoil'd but we can spread 

The friendly board, and giving thee, Dunois, 

Such welcome as befits thy father's son. 

Win from our public cares a day for joy." 

Dunois replied, " So may thy future years 
Pass from misfortune free, as all these ills 
Shall vanish like a vision of the night ! 
I come to thee the joyful messenger 
Of aid from Heaven ; for Heaven hath delegated 
A humble Maiden to deliver France. 
That holy Maiden asks an audience now ; 
And when she promises miraculous things, 
I feel it is not possible to hear 
And disbelieve." 

Astonish' d by his speech 
Stood Charles. " At one of meaner estimation 
I should have smiled, Dunois," the King replied ; 
" But thy known worth, and the tried loyalty 
Of thy father's house, compel me even to this 
To lend a serious ear. A woman sent 
To rescue us, when all our strength hath fail'd ! 
A humble Maiden to deliver France ! 
One whom it were not possible to hear. 
And disbelieve ! — Dunois, ill now beseems 
Aught wild and hazardous. And yet our state 
Being what it is, by miracle alone 
Deliverance can be hoped for. Is my person 
Known to this Avoman ? " 

" That it cannot be, 
Unless it be by miracle made known," 
Dunois replied ; " for she hath never left 
Her native hamlet in Lorraine till now." 

" Here then," rejoin'd the King, " we have a test 
Easy, and safe withal. Abide thou here ; 
And hither by a speedy messenger 
Summon the Prophetess. Upon the throne 
Let some one take his seat and personate 
My presence, while I mingle in the train. 
If she indeed be by the Spirit moved, 
That Spirit, certes, will direct her eyes 
To the true Prince whom she is sent to serve : 
But if she prove, as likeliest we must deem, 
One by her own imaginations crazed. 
Thus failing and convinced, she may return 
Unblamed to her obscurity, and we 



Be spared the shame of farther loss incurr'd 

By credulous faith. Well might the English scoflT,^^ 

If on a frantic woman we should rest 

Our last reliance." Thus the King resolved, 

And with a faith half-faltering at the proof, 

Dunois despatch'd a messenger, to seek 

Beside the banks of Vienne, the mission'd Maid, 

Soon is the court convened : the jewell'd crown 
Shines on a courtier's head. Amid the train 
The Monarch undistinguish'd takes his place, 
Expectant of the event. The Virgin comes, 
And as the Bastard led her to the throne, 
Quick glancing o'er the mimic Majesty, 
With gesture and with look like one inspired. 
She fix'd her eye on Charles : ^° " Thou art the 

King!" 
Then in a tone that thrill'd all hearts, pursued ; 
" I come the appointed Minister of Heaven, 
To wield a sword before whose fated edge. 
Far, far from Orleans shall the English Avolves 
Speed their disastrous flight. Monarch of France ! 
Send thou the tidings over all the realm, 
Great tidings of deliverance and of joy ; 
The Maid is come, the mission'd Maid, whose hand 
Shall in the consecrated walls of Rheims 
Crown thee, anointed King."^^ 

In wonder mute 
The courtiers heard. Astonish'd Charles exclaim'd, 
" This is indeed the agency of Heaven ! 
Hard, Maiden, were I of belief," he said, 
" Did 1 not now, with full and confirm'd faith, 
Receive thee as a Prophetess raised up 
For our deliverance. Therefore, not in doubt 
Of Providence or thee do I delay 
At once to marshal our brave countrymen 
Beneath thy banner ; but to satisfy 
Those who at distance from this most clear proof 
Might hear and disbelieve, or yield at best 
A cold assent. These fully to confirm. 
And more to make thy calling manifest, 1 

Forthwith with all due speed I will convene 
The Doctors of Theology ,^2 wise men, 
And learned in the mysteries of Heaven. 
By them thy mission studied and approved, 
As needs it must, their sanction to all minds 
Will bring conviction, and the sure belief 
Lead on thy favor'd troops to mightiest deeds, 
Surpassing human possibility." 

Well pleas'd the Maiden heard. Her the King 
leads 
From the disbanding throng, meantime to dwell 
With Mary. Watchful for her Lord's return 
She sat with Agnes ; Agnes proud of heart, 
Majestically fair, whose large full eye 
Or flashing anger, or with scornful scowl 
Too oft deform'd her beauty. Yet with her 
The lawless idol of the Monarch's heart, 
The Queen, obedient to her husband's will, 
Dwelt meekly in accord. With them the Maid 
Was left to sojourn ; by the gentle Queen 
With cordial affability received ; 
By Agnes courteously, whose outward show 
Of graciousness concealed an inward awe, 



BOOK III. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



23 



For while she hoped and trusted through her means 
Charles should be recstablish'd in his realm, 
She felt rebuked before her. 

Throvigh the land 
Meantime the King's convoking voice went forth, 
And from their palaces and monasteries 
The theologians came, men who had grown 
In midnight studies gray ; Prelates, and Priests, 
And Doctors: teachers grave, and with great 

names. 
Seraphic, Subtile, or Irrefragable, 
By their admiring scholars dignified. 

They met convened at Chinon, to the place 
Of judgment, in St. Katharine's fane assign'd. 
The floor with many a monumental stone 
Was spread, and brass-ensculptured effigies 
Of holy abbots honor'd in their day. 
Now to the grave gone down. The branching arms 
Of many a ponderous pillar met aloft, 
Wreath'd on the roof emboss'd. Through storied 

panes 
Of high arch'd windows came the tinctured light ; 
Pure water in a font beneath reflects 
The many -color' d rays ; around that font 
The fathers stand, and tliere with rites ordain'd 
And signs symbolic strew the hallowing salt, 
Wherewith the limpid water, consecrate. 
So taught the Church, became a spell approved 
Against the fiends of Satan's fallen crew ; 
A licit spell of mightier potency 
Than e'er the hell-hags taught in Thessaly ; 
Or they who sitting on the rifled grave, 
By the blue tomb-fire's lurid light dim seen. 
Share with the Gouls their banquet. 

This perform'd, 
The Maid is summon'd. Round the sacred font, 
Mark'd with the mystic tonsure and enrobed 
In sacred vests, a venerable train, 
They stand. The delegated Maid obeys 
Their summons. As she came, a blush suffused 
Her pallid check, such as might well beseem 
One mindful still of maiden modesty. 
Though to her mission true. Before the train 
In reverent silence waiting their sage will. 
With half-averted eye she stood composed. 
So have I seen a single snow-drop rise 
Amid the russet leaves that hide the earth 
In early spring, so seen it gently bend 
In modest loveliness alone amid 
The waste of winter. 

By the Maiden's side 
The Son of Orleans stood, prepared to vouch 
That when on Charles the Maiden's eye had fix'd, 
As led by power miraculous, no fraud. 
Nor juggling artifice of secret sign 
Dissembled inspiration. As he stood 
Steadily viewing the mysterious rites. 
Thus to the attentive Maid the President 
Severely spake. 

" If any fiend of Hell 
Lurk in thy bosom, so to prompt the vaunt 
Of inspiration, and to mock the power 
Of God and holy Church, thus by the virtue 
Of water hallowed in the name of God 



Adjure I that foul spirit to depart 
From his deluded prey." 

Slowly he spake, 
And sprinltled water on the virgin's face. 
Indignant at the unworthy charge, the Maid 
Felt her cheek flush ; but soon, the transient glow 
Fading, she answer'd meek. 

" Most holj Sires, 
Ye reverend Fathers of the Christian church, 
Most catholic I I stand before you here 
A poor Aveak woman ; of the grace vouchsafed, 
How far unworthy, conscious ; 3''et though mean, 
Innocent of fraud, and calfd by Heaven to be 
Its minister of aid. Strange voices heard. 
The dark and shadowing visions of the night, 
And feelings which I may not dare to doubt, 
Tliese portents make me certain of the God 
Within me ; He who to these eyes reveal'd 
My royal Master, mingled with the crowd 
And never seen till then. Such evidence 
Given to my mission thus, and thus confirm'd 
By public attestation, more to say, 
Methinks, would little boot, — and less become 
A silly Maid." 

" Thou spcakest," said the Priest, 
" Of dark and shadowing visions of the night. 
Canst thou remember. Maid, what vision first 
Seem'd more than fancy's shaping ? From sucli 

tale, 
Minutely told with accurate circumstance, 
Some judgment might be form'd." 

The Maid replied : 
" Amid the mountain valleys I had driven 
My father's flock. The eve was drawing on, 
When by a sudden storm surprised, I sought 
A chapel's neighboring shelter; ruin'd now. 
But I remember when its vesper bell 
Was heard among the hills, a pleasant sound. 
That made me pause upon my homeward road, 
Awakening in me comfortable thoughts 
Of holiness. The unsparing soldiery 
Had sack'd the hamlet near, and none was left 
Duly at sacred seasons to attend 
St. Agnes' chapel.^^ In the desolate pile 
I drove my flock, with no irreverent thoughts, 
Nor mindless that the place on which I trod 
Was holy ground. It was a fearful night I 
Devoutly to the virgin Saint I pray'd. 
Then heap'd the wither'd leaves which autumn 

winds 
Had drifted in, and laid me down upon them, 
And sure I think I slept. But so it was 
That, in the dead of night, Saint Agnes stood 
Before mine eyes, such and so beautiful 
As Avhen, amid the house of wickedness, 
The Power whom with such fervent love she served 
Veil'd her with glory .^^ And I saw her point 
To the moss-grown altar, and the crucifix 
Half hid by weeds and grass ; — and then I thought 
I could have wither'd armies with a look, 
For from the present Saint such divine power 
I felt infused — 'Twas but a dream perhaps. 
And yet methought that when a louder peal 
Burst o'er the roof, and all was left again 
Utterly dark, the bodily sense was clear 



24 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK III. 



And accurate in every circumstance 
Of time and place." 

Attentive to her words 
Thus the Priest answer' d : 

" Brethren, ye have heard 
The woman's tale. Behoves us now to ask 
Whether of holy Church a duteous child 
Before our court appears, so not unlike 
Heaven might vouchsafe its gracious miracle : 
Or misbelieving heretic, whose thoughts. 
Erring and vain, easily might stray beyond 
All reason, and conceit strange dreams and signs 
Impossible. Say, woman, from thy youth 
Hast thou, as rightly mother Church demands, 
Confess'd at stated times thy secret sins, 
And, from the priestly power conferr'dby Heaven, 
Sought absolution .? " 

"Father," she replied, 
" The forms of worship in mine earlier years 
Waked my young mind to artificial awe. 
And made me fear my God. Warm with the glow 
Of health and exercise, whene'er I pass'd 
Tlie threshold of the house of prayer, I felt 
A cold damp chill me ; 1 beheld the tapers 
That with a pale and feeble glimmering 
Dimm'd the noon-light; 1 heard the solemn mass. 
And with strange feelings and mysterious dread 
Telling my beads, gave to the mystic prayers 
Devoutest meaning. Often when I saw 
The pictured flames writhe round a penanced soul, 
I knelt in fear before the Crucifix, 
And wept and pray'd, and trembled, and adored 
A God of Terrors, But in riper years, 
When as my soul grew strong in solitude, 
I saw the eternal energy pervade 
The boundless range of nature, with the sun 
Pour life and radiance from his flamy path. 
And on the lowliest floweret of the field 
Tlie kindly dew-drops shed. And then I felt 
That He who form'd this goodly frame of things 
Must needs be good, and with a Father's name 
I call'd on Him, and from my burden'd heart 
Pour'd out the yearnings of unmingled love. 
Methinks it is not strange then, that I fled 
The house of prayer, and made the lonely grove 
My temple, at the foot of some old oak 
Watching the little tribes that had their world 
Within its mossy bark ; or laid me down 
Beside the rivulet whose murmuring 
Was silence to my soul,^^ and mark'd the swarm 
Whose light-edged shadows on the bedded sand 
Mirror'd their mazy sports, — the insect hum, 
The flow of waters, and the song of birds 
Making a holy music to mine ear : 
Oh ! was it strange, if for such scenes as these, 
Such deep devoutness, such intense delight 
Of quiet adoration, I forsook 
The house of worship ? strange that when 1 felt 
How God had made my spirit quick to feel 
And love whate'er was beautiful and good. 
And from aught evil and deform'd to shrink 
Even as with instmct ; — father ! was it strange 
That in my heart I had no thought of sin, 
And did not need forgiveness ? " 

As she spake 



The Doctors stood astonish'd, and some while 
They listen'd still in wonder. But at length 
A Monk replied, 

" Woman, thou seem'st to scorn 
The ordinances of our holy Church ; 
And, if 1 rightly understand thy words, 
Nature, thou say'st, taught thee in solitude 
Thy feelings of religion, and that now 
Masses and absolution and the use 
Of the holy wafer, are to thee unknown. 
But how could Nature teach thee true religion, 
Deprived of these ? Nature doth lead to sin, 
But 'tis the Priest alone can teach remorse, 
Can bid St. Peter ope the gates of Heaven, 
And from the penal fires of purgatory 
Set the soul free. Could Nature teach thee this.? 
Or tell thee that St. Peter holds the keys, 
And that his successor's unbounded power 
Extends o'er either world ? Although thy life 
Of sin were free, if of this holy truth 
Ignorant, thy soul in liquid flames must rue 
Its error." 

Thus he spake ; applauding looks 
Went round. Nor dubious to reply the Maid 
Was silent. 

" Fathers of the holy Church, 
If on these points abstruse a simple maid 
Like me should err, impute not you the crime 
To self-will'd reason, vaunting its own strength 
Above eternal wisdom. True it is 
That for long time I have not heard the sound 
Of mass high-chanted, nor with trembling lips 
Partook the holy wafer : yet the birds 
Who to the matin ray prelusive pour'd 
Their joyous song, methought did warble forth 
Sweeter thanksgiving to Religion's ear 
In their wild melody of happiness. 
Than ever rung along the high-arch'd roofs 
Of man : — yet never from the bending vine 
Pluck'd 1 its ripen'd clusters thanklessly, 
Or of that God unmindful, who bestow'd 
The bloodless banquet. Ye have told me, Sirs, 
That Nature only teaches man to sin ! 
If it be sin to seek the wounded lamb. 
To bind its wounds, and bathe them with my tears, 
This is what Nature taught ! No, Fathers, no ! 
It is not Nature that doth lead to sin : 
Nature is all benevolence, all love. 
All beauty ! In the greenwood's quiet shade 
There is no vice that to the indignant cheek 
Bids the red current rush ; no misery there ; 
No wretched mother, who with pallid face 
And famine-fallen hangs o'er her hungry babes, 
With such a look, so wan, so woe-begone, 
As shall one day, with damning eloquence, 
Against the oppressor plead ! — Nature teach sin ! 
Oh blasphemy against the Holy One, 
Who made us in the image of Himself, 
Who made us all for happiness and love, 
Infinite happiness, infinite love, 
Partakers of his own eternity." 

Solemn and slow the reverend Priest replied, 
"■ Much, woman, do I doubt that all-wise Heaven 
Would thus vouchsafe its gracious miracles 



BOOK IV. 



JOAN OF ARC 



25 



On one foredooni'd to misery ; for so doom'd 

Is ♦hat deluded one, who, of the mass 

I iiheeding, and the Church's saving power, 

L)eems Nature sinless. Therefore, mark me well ! 

Brethren, 1 would propose this woman try 

The holy ordeal. Let her, bound and search'd. 

Lest haply in her clothes should be conceal'd 

Some holy relic so profaned, be cast 

In some deep pond ; there if she float, no doubt 

The fiend upholds; but if at once she sink. 

It is a sign that Providence displays 

Her free from witchcraft. This done, let her walk 

Blindfold and bare o'er ploughshares heated red, 

And o'er these past, her naked arm immerse 

In scalding water. If from these she come 

Unhurt, to holy father of the church, 

Most blessed Pope, we then refer the cause 

For judgment : and this Chief, the Son of Orleans, 

Who comes to vouch the royal person known 

By her miraculous power, shall pass with her 

The sacred trial." 

" Grace of God ! " exclaim'd 
The astonish'd Bastard ; '• plunge me in the pool, 
O'er red-hot ploughshares make me skip to please 
Your dotard fancies ! Fathers of the church. 
Where is your gravity .'' what ! elder-like 
Would ye this fairer than Susannah eye .' 
Ye call for ordeals ; and I too demand 
The noblest ordeal, on the English host 
By victory to approve her mission sent 
From favoring Heaven. To the Pope refer 
For judgment ! Know ye not that France even now 
Stands tottering on destruction ! " 

Starting then 
With a wild look, the mission'd Maid exclaim'd, 
" The sword of God is here ! the grave shall speak 
To manifest me ! " 

Even as she spake, 
A pale blue flame rose from the trophied tomb 
Beside her ; and within that house of death 
A sound of arms was heard, as if below 
A warrior, buried in his armor, stirr'd. 

" Hear ye ! " the Damsel cried; '• these are the 
arms 
Which shall flash terror o'er the hostile host. 
These, in the presence of our Lord the King, 
And of the assembled people, I will take 
Here from the sepulchre, where many an age, 
They, incorruptible, have lain conceal'd. 
For me reserved, the Delegate of Heaven." 

Recovering from amaze, the Priest replied : 
'' Thou art indeed the Delegate of Heaven ! 
What thou hast said surely thou shalt perform. 
We ratify thy mission. Go in peace." 



THE FOURTH BOOK. 

The feast was spread, the sparkling bowl went 

round. 
And in the assembled court the minstrel harp'd 
4 



A song of other days. Sudden they heard 
The horn's loud blast. " This is no time for cares ; 
Feast ye the messenger without! " cried Charles, 
" Enough hath of the wearying day been given 
To the public weal." 

Obedient to the King 
The guard invites the way-worn messenger. 
"Nay, I will see the monarch," he replied, 
" And he must hear my tidings ; duty-urged, 
I have for many a long league hasten'd on, 
Not thus to be repell'd." Then with strong arm 
Removing him who barr'd his onward way. 
The hall he enter'd. 

" King of France ! I come 
From Orleans, speedy and eflectual aid 
Demanding for her gallant garrison, 
Faithful to thee, though thinn'd in many a fight. 
And now sore pressed by want. Pcouse thou thy- 
self, 
And with the spirit that becomes a King 
Responsive to his people's loyalty, 
Bring succor to the brave who in thy cause 
Abide the extremity of war." 

He said, 
And from the hall departing, in amaze 
At his audacious bearing left the court. 
The King exclaim'd, " But little need to send 
Quick succor to this gallant garrison. 
If to the English half so firm a front 
They bear in battle ! " 

" In the field, my liege," 
Dunois replied, " yon Knight hath serv'd thee well. 
Him have I seen the foremost of the fight. 
Wielding so manfully his battle-axe. 
That wheresoe'er he turn'd, the affrighted foe 
Let fall their palsied arms with powerless stroke, 
Desperate of safety. I do marvel much 
That he is here : Orleans must be hard press'd 
To send the bravest of her garrison 
On such commission." 

Swift the Maid exclaim'd, 
" I tell thee. Chief, that there the English wolves 
Shall never raise their yells of victory ! 
The will of God defends those fated walls. 
And resting in full faith on that high will, 
I mock their efforts. But the night draws on ; 
Retire we to repose. To-morrow's sun. 
Breaking the darkness of the sepulchre. 
Shall on that armor gleam, through many an age 
There for this great emergency reserved." 
She said, and rising from the board, retired. 

Meantime the herald's brazen voice proclaim'd 
Coming solemnity, and far and wide 
Spread the glad tidings. Then all labor ceased; 
The ploughman from the unfinish'd furrow hastes ; 
The armorer's anvil beats no more the din 
Of future slaughter. Through the thronging streets 
The buzz of asking wonder hums along. 

On to St. Katharine's sacred fane they go; 
The holy fathers with the imaged cross 
Leading the long procession. Next, as one 
Suppliant for mercy to the King of kings, 
And grateful for the benefits of Heaven, 



26 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK IV. 



The Monarch pass'd, and by his side the Maid} 

Her lovely limbs robed in a snow-white vest, 

Wistless that every eye on her was bent, 

With stately step she moved ; her laboring soul 

To high thoughts elevate ; and gazing round 

"With a full eye, that of the circling throng 

And of the visible world unseeing, seemd 

Fix'd upon objects seen by none beside. 

Near her the Avarlike Son of Orleans came 

Preeminent. He, nerving his young frame 

With exercise robvist, had scaled the cliff. 

And plunging in the river's full-swollen stream, 

Stemm'd with broad breast its current ; so his form, 

Sinewy and firm, and fit for deeds of arms, 

Tower'd above the throng effeminate. 

No dainty bath had from his hardy limbs 

Effaced the hauberk's honorable marks ; ^^ 

His helmet bore of hostile steel the dints 

Many and deep ; upon his pictured shield 

A Lion vainly struggled in the toils. 

Whilst by his side the cub with pious rage, 

Assail'd the huntsman. Tremouille followed them, 

Proud of the favor of a Prince who seem'd 

Given up to vain delights ; conspicuous he 

In arms with azure and with gold anneal'd, 

Gaudily graceful, by no hostile blade 

Defaced, nor e'er with hostile blood distain'd ; 

Trimly accoutred court-habiliments, 

Gay lady-dazzling armor, fit to adorn 

Tourney, or tilt, the gorgeous pageantry 

Of mimic warfare. After him there came 

A train of courtiers, summer flies that sport 

In the sunbeam of favor, insects sprung 

From the court dunghill, greedy blood-suckers, 

The foul corruption-gender'd swarm of state. 

As o'er some flowery field the busy bees 
Fill with their happy hum the fragrant air, 
A grateful music to the traveller, 
Who in the shade of some wide-spreading tree 
Rests on his way awhile ; or like the sound 
Of many waters down some far-off steep 
Holding their endless course, the murmur rose 
Of admiration. Every gazing eye 
Dwelt on the Prophetess ; of all beside, 
The long procession and the gorgeous train. 
Though glittering they with gold and sparkling 

gems. 
And their rich plumes high waving to the air. 
Heedless. 

The consecrated dome they reach, 
Rear'd to St. Katharine's holy memory. 
Her tale the altar told ; how Maximin, 
His raised lip kindled with a savage smile. 
In such deep fury bade the tenter'd wheel 
Rend her life piecemeal, that the very face 
Of the hard executioner relax'd 
With pity; calm she heard, no drop of blood 
Forsook her cheek, her steady eye was turn'd 
Pleaven-ward, and hope and meekest piety 
Beam'd in that patient look. Nor vain her trust ; 
For lo ! the Angel of the Lord descends, 
And crumbles with his fiery touch the wheel ! 
One glance of holy triumph Katharine cast, 
Then bow'd her to the sword of martyrdom.^'' 



Her eye averting from the pictured tale, 
The delegated damsel knelt and pour'd 
To Heaven her earnest prayer. 

A trophied tomb 
Stood near the altar where some warrior slept 
The sleep of death beneath. A massy stone 
And rude-ensculptured efRgy o'erlaid 
The sepulchre. In silent wonderment 
The expectant multitude with eager eye 
Gaze, listening as the mattock's heavy stroke 
Invades the tomb's repose : the heavy stroke 
Sounds hollow : over the high- vaulted roof 
Roll the repeated echoes : soon the day 
Dawns on the grave's long night, the slant sunbeam 
Falls on the arms inshrined, the crested helm. 
The bauldrick, and the shield, and sacred sword.^^ 
A sound of awe-repress'd astonishment 
Rose from the crowd. The delegated Maid 
Over her robes the hallowed breastplate threw, 
Self-fitted to her form; on her helm'd head 
The white plumes nod, majestically slow ; 
She lifts the buckler and the sacred sword, 
Gleaming portentous light. 

The wondering crowd 
Raise their loud shout of transport. " God of 

Heaven," 
The Maid exclaim'd, " Father all merciful ! 
Devoted to whose holy will, I wield 
The sword of vengeance ; go before our host ! 
All-just avenger of the innocent. 
Be thou our Champion ! God of Peace, preserve 
Those whom no lust of glory leads to arms." 

She ceased, and with an eager hush the crowd 
Still listen'd ; a brief while throughout the dome 
Deep silence dwelt ; then with a sudden burst 
Devout and full, they raised the choral hymn, 
"Thee Lord we praise, our God!" the throng 

without 
Catch the strange tidings, join the hymn of joy, 
And thundering transport peals along the heaven. 

As through the parting crowd the Virgin pass'd, 
He who from Orleans on the yesternight 
Demanded succor, clasp'd with warmth her hand, 
And with a bosom-thrilling voice exclaim' d, 
" Ill-omen'd Maid ! victim of thine own worth, 
Devoted for this king-curst realm of France, 
Ill-omen'd Maid, I pity thee ! " so saying. 
He turn'd into the crowd. At his strange words 
Disturb'd, the warlike Virgin pass'd along, 
And much revolving in her troubled mind, 
Retrod the court. 

And now the horn announced 
The ready banquet ; they partook the feast,^^ 
Then rose and in the cooling water cleansed 
Their hands, and seated at the board again 
Enjoy'd the bowl, or scented high with spice, 
Or flavor' d with the fragrant summer fruit. 
Or luscious with metheglin mingled rich.'''*' 
Meantime the Trouveur struck the harp ; he sung 
Of Lancelot du Lake, the truest Knight 
That ever loved fair Lady ; and the youth 
Of Cornwall "^^ underneath whose maiden sword l 

The strength of Ireland fell ; and he who struck i; 



BOOK IV. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



27 



The dolorous stroke, '^ the blameless and the brave, 
Who died beneath a brother's erring arm. 
[ Ye have not perish'd, Chiefs of Carduel ! 
The songs of earlier years embalm your fame ; 
And haply yet some Poet shall arise, 
Like that divinest Tuscan,'^ and enwreathe 
The immortal garland for himself and you. 

The harp still rung beneath the high-arch'd roof, 
And listening eager to the favorite lay. 
The guests sat silent, when into the hall 
The Messenger from that besieged town, 
Refinter'd. " It is pleasant, King of France," 
Said he, " to sit and hear the harper's song : 
Far other music hear the men of Orleans ! 
Famine is there ; and there the imploring cr)' 
Of Hunger ceases not." 

" Insolent man ! " 
Exclaim'd the Monarch, " cease to interrupt 
Our hour of festival ; it is not thine 
To instruct me in my duty." 

Of reproof 
Careless, the stranger to the minstrel cried, 
"Why harpest thou of good King Arthur's fame 
Amid these walls ? Virtue and genius love 
That lofty lay. Hast thou no loose, lewd tale 
To pamper and provoke the appetite ? 
Such should procure thee worthy recompense ! 
Or rather sing thou of that w^ealthy Lord, 
Who took the ewe lamb from the poor man's bosom, 
That was to him even as a daughter ! Charles, 
This parable would I tell, prophet-like. 
And look at thee and say, ' Thou art the man ! ' " 

He said, and with a quick and troubled step 
Withdrew. Astonish'd at his daring guise. 
The guests sat heedless of the lay awhile. 
Pondering his words mysterious, till at length 
The Court dispersed. Retiring from the hall, 
Charles and the delegated damsel sought 
The inner palace. There the gentle Queen 
Awaited them : with her Joan lov'd to pass 
Her intervals of rest; for she had won 
The Virgin's heart by her mild melancholy, 
The calm and duteous patience that deplored 
A husband's cold half-love. To her she told 
With what strange words the messenger from 

Orleans 
Had roused uneasy wonder in her mind ; 
For on her ear yet vibrated his voice. 
When lo ! again he came, and at the door 
Stood scowling round. 

" Why dost thou haunt me thus," 
The monarch cried ; " is there no place secure 
From thy rude insolence .'' unmanner'd man ! 
I know thee not ! " 

" Then learn to know me, Charles ! " 
Solemnly he replied ; " read well my face. 
That thou may'st know it on that dreadful day. 
When at the Throne of God I shall demand 
His justice on thee ! " Turning from the King, 
To Agnes as she entered, in a tone 
More low, more mournfully severe, he cried, 
" Dost thou too know me not ! " 

She glanced on him, 



And pale and breathless hid her head convulsed 
In the Maid's bosom. 

" King of France ! " he said, 
" She loved me, and by mutual word and will 
We were betroth'd, when, in unhappy hour, 
I left her, as in fealty bound, to fight 
Thy battles, in mine absence thou didst come 
To tempt her then unspotted purity — 
For pure she was. — Alas ! these courtly robes 
Hide not the indelible stain of infamy ! 
Thou canst not with thy golden belt put on 
An honorable name,''* O lost to me. 
And to thyself, forever, ever lost. 
My poor polluted Agnes ! — Charles, that faith 
Almost is shaken, which should be henceforth 
My only hope : thou hast thy wicked will. 
While I the victim of her guilt and tliine, 
Though meriting alike from her and thee 
Far other guerdon, bear about with me 
A wound for which this earth aifords no balm. 
And doubt Heaven's justice." 

So he said, and frown'd 
Austere as he who at Mahommed's door 
Knock'd loud and frequent, at whose dreadful mien 
Stricken with terror, all beholders fled. 
Even the prophet, almost terrified, 
Scarcely could boar his presence ; for he knew 
That this was the Death-Angel Azrakl, 
And that his hour was come. Conscious of guilt 
The Monarch sate, nor could endure to face 
His bosom-probing frown. The Maid of Arc 
Meantime had read his features, and she cried 
" I know thee, Conrade ! " Rising from her seat, 
She took his hand, for he stood motionless, 
Gazing on Agnes now with steady eye. 
Severe though calm : him from the Court she drew, 
And to the river side, resisting not. 
Both sad and silent, led ; till at the last 
As from a dream awaking, Conrade look'd 
Full on the Maid, and falling on her neck, 
He wept. 

" I know thee, Damsel ! " he exclaim'd. 
" Dost thou remember that tempestuous night, 
When I, a weather-beaten traveller, sought 
Your hospitable door .' Ah me ! I then 
Was happy ! You too sojourn'd then in peace. 
Fool that I was ! I blamed such happiness, 
Arraign'd it as a guilty, selfish sloth. 
Unhappily prevailing, so I fear me. 
Or why art thou at Chinon .' " 

Him the Maid 
Answering, address'd : " 1 do remember well, 
That night; for then the holy Spirit first. 
Waked by thy words, possess'd me." 

Conrade cried, 
" Poor Maiden, thou wert happy ! thou hadst lived 
Blessing and blest, if I had never stray'd, 
Needlessly rigid, from my peaceful path. 
And thou hast left thine home then, and obey'd 
The feverish fancies of an ardent brain I 
And hast thou left him too, the youth whose eye 
Forever glancing on thee, spake so well 
Affection's eloquent tale ? " 

So as he said, 
Rush'd the warm purple to the Virgin's cheek 



28 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK IV. 



" I am alone," she answered, " for this realm 

Devoted." Nor to answer more the Maid 

Endured, for many a melancholy thought 

Throng'd on her aching memory. Her mind s eye 

Beheld Domremi and the fields of Arc : 

Her burden'd heart was full ; such grief she felt, 

Yet such sweet solacing of self-applause. 

As cheers a banish'd Patriot's lonely hours 

When Fancy pictures to him all he loved. 

Till the big tear-drop rushes o'er its orb. 

And drowns the soft enchantment. 

With a look 
That spake solicitous wonder, Conrade eyed 
The silent Maid ; nor would the Maid repress 
The thoughts that swell' d within her, or from him 
Hide her soul's workings. " 'Twas on the last day 
Before I left Domremi : eve had closed ; 
I sat beside the brook ; my soul Avas full, 
As if inebriate with Divinity. 
Then, Conrade ! I beheld a ruffian herd 
Circle a flaming pile, where at the stake 
A woman stood ; the iron bruised her breast. 
And round her limbs, half- garmented, the fire 
Curl'd its fierce flakes. I saw her countenance, 
I knew Myself." '''^ Then, in a tone subdued 
Of calmness, " There are moments when the soul 
From her own impulse with strange dread recoils. 
Suspicious of herself; but with a full, 
And perfect faith I know this vision sent 
From Heaven, and feel of its unerring truth, 
As that God liveth, that I live myself, 
The feeling that deceives not." 

By the hand 
Her Conrade held and cried, " Ill-fated Maid, 
That I have torn thee from affection's breast. 
My soul will groan in anguish. Thou wilt serve. 
Like me, the worthless Court, and having served. 
In the hour of ill abandon'd, thou wilt curse 
The duty that deluded. Of the world 
Fatigued, and loathing at my fellow-men, 
I shall be seen no more. There is a path'''^ — 
The eagle hath not mark'd it, the young wolf 
Knows not its hidden windings : I have trod 
That path, and found a melancholy den. 
Fit place for penitence and hopeless woe. 
Where sepulchred, the ghost of what he was, 
Conrade may pass his few and evil days. 
Waiting the wish'd-for summons to lay down 
His weary load of life." 

But then the Maid 
Fix'd on the v/arrior her reproving eye ; 
"I pass'd the fertile Auxerrois," she said; 
" The vines had spread their interwoven shoots 
Over the unpruned vineyards, and the grape 
Rotted beneath the leaves ; for there was none 
To tread tlie vintage, and the birds of Heaven 
Had had their fill. I saw the cattle start 
As they did hear the loud alarum-bell,''"'' 
And with a piteous moaning vainly seek 
To fly the coming slaughterers. I look'd back 
Upon the cottage where I had partaken 
The peasant's meal, — and saw it wrapt in flames. 
And then I thank' d my God that I had burst 
The ties, strong as they are, which bind us down 
To selfish happiness, and on this earth 



Was as a pilgrim'** — Conrade ! rouse thyself ! 
Cast the weak nature off"! ''^ A time like this 
Is not for gentler feelings, for the glow 
Of love, the overflowings of the heart. 
There is oppression in thy country, Conrade ! 
There is a cause, a holy cause, that needs 
The brave man's aid. Live for it, and enjoy 
Earth's noblest recompense, thine own esteem ; 
Or die in that good cause, and thy reward 
Shall sure be found in Heaven." 

He answer'd not, 
But pressing to his heart the virgin's hand, 
Hasten'd across the plain. She with dim eyes — 
For gushing tears obscured them — follow'd him 
Till lost in distance. With a weight of thought 
Opprest, along the poplar-planted Vienne 
Awhile she wander'd, then upon the bank 
She laid her down, and watch'd the tranquil stream 
Flow with a quiet murmuring, by the clouds 
Of evening purpled. The perpetual flow, 
The ceaseless murmuring, lull'd her to such dreams 
As memory in her melancholy mood 
Loves best. The wonted scenes of Arc arose ; 
She saw the forest brook, the weed that waved 
Its long green tresses in the stream, the crag 
Which overbrow'd the spring, and that old yew 
Which through the bare and rifted rock had forced 
Its twisted trunk, the berries cheerful red 
Starring its gloomy green. Her pleasant home 
She saw, and those who made that home so dear, 
Her lov'd lost friends. The mingled feelings fill'd 
Her eyes, when from behind a voice was heard — 
" O Lady ! canst thou tell me where to find 
The Maid whom Heaven hath sent to rescue 

France.? " 
Thrill'd by the well-known tones, she started up, 
And fell upon the neck of Theodore. 

''Have I then found thee!" cried the impas- 
sioned youth; 
'' Henceforth we part no more ; but where thou 

goest 
Thither go I. Beloved ! in the front 
Of battle thou shalt find me at thy side ; 
And in the breach this breast shall be thy shield 
And rampart. Oh, ungenerous ! Why from me 
Conceal the inspiration .? why from me 
Hide thy miraculous purpose ? Am I then 
So all-unworthy that thou shouldst set forth 
Beneath another's guidance .? " 

Thus he cried, 
Mingling reproach with tenderness, yet still 
Clasping in warm embrace the maid beloved. 
She of her bidding and futurity 
Awhile forgetful, patient of the embrace, 
With silent tears of joy bedew'd his neck. 
At length, " I hope," she cried, " thou art not come 
With heavier fault and breach of nearer tie ! 
How did thy mother spare thee, — thou alone 
The stay and comfort of her widowed age .'' 
Did she upon thy parting steps bestow 
Her free-will blessing .' or hast thou set forth. 
Which Heaven forbid, unlicensed and unblest.? " 

" Oh, surely not unblest ! " the youth replied ; 



BOOK V. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



29 



Yet conscious of his unrepented fault, 
With countenance flush'd, and faltering in reply : 
" She wept at my departure ; she would fain 
Have turned me from my purpose, and my heart 
Perhaps had fail'd me, if it had not glow'd 
With ardor like thine own ; the sacred fire 
With which thy bosom burns had kindled me ; 
High in prophetic hope, I bade her place 
Her trust in Heaven} I bade her look to hear 
Good tidings soon of glorious victory ; 
I told her I should soon return, — return 
With thee, and thou wouldst be to her old age 
What Madelon had been." 

As thus he spake, 
Warm with the imaginary bliss, he clasp'd 
The dear one closer to his yearning heart. 
But the devoted Virgin in his arms 
Started and shudder'd, for the flaming pile 
Flashed on remembrance aiow, and on her soul 
The whole terrific vision rose again. 
A death-like paleness at the dreadful thought 
Wither 'd her cheek ; cold damps suffused her brow. 
And falling on the neck of Theodore, 
Feeble and faint she hung. His eager eye 
Concentring all the anguish of the soul, 
And strain'd in anxious love, gazed fearfully 
With wondering anguish ; till ennobling thoughts 
Of her high mission roused her, and her soul 
Collected, and she spake. 

" My Theodore, 
Thou hast done ill to quit thy mother's home ! 
Alone and aged she will weep for thee. 
Wasting her little that is left of life 
In anguish. Now go back again to Arc, 
And cheer her wintry hours of widowhood. 
And love my memory there. ' 

Swift he exclaim'd, 
" Nay, Maid ! the pang of parting is o'erpast, 
And my dear mother looks for the glad liou.r 
When we shall both return. Amid the war 
How many an arm will seek thy single life, 
How many a sword and spear ! I will go with thee 
And spread the guardian shield " 

" Nay," she replied, 
" I shall not need thy succor in the war. 
Me, Heaven, if so seem good to its high will. 
Will save. I shall be happier, Theodore, 
Thinking that thou dost sojourn safe at home. 
And make thy mother happy." 

The youth's cheek 
A rapid blush disorder'd. " Oh ! the court 
Is pleasant then, and thou wouldst fain forget 
A humble villager, who only boasts 
The treasure of the heart!" 

She look'd at him 
With a reproaching eye of tenderness : 
" Injurious man ! devoted for this realm, 
I go a willing victim. The dark veil 
Hath been withdrawn for me, and I have seen 
The fearful features of Futurity. 
Yes, Theodore, I shall redeem my country. 
Abandoning for it the joys of life, 
Yea, life itself! " Then on his neck she fell. 
And with a faltering voice, " Return to Arc ! 
I do not tell thee there are other maids 



As fair ; for thou wilt love my memory. 

Hallowing to me the temple of thy heart. 

Worthy a happier, not a better love,^° 

My Theodore ! " — Then, pressing his pale lips, 

A last and holy kiss the virgin fix'd. 

And fled across the plain. 

She reach'd the court 
Breathless. The mingled movements of her mind 
Shook every fibre. Sad and sick at heart, 
Fain to her lonely chamber's solitude 
Tlie Maiden had retired ; but her the King 
Met on the threshold. He of the late scene 
Forgetful and his crime, as cheerful seem'd 
As though there had not been a God in Heaven ! 
"Enter the hall," he said, "the maskers there 
Join in the dance. Why, Maiden, art thou sad.? 
Has that rude madman shook thy gentle frame 
With his strange speeches? " 

Ere the Maid replied, 
The Son of Orleans came with joyful speed. 
Poising his massy javelin. " Thou hast roused 
The sleeping virtue of the sons of France ; 
They crowd around the standard," cried the chief. 
" Our brethren, pent in Orleans, every moment 
Gaze from tlie watch-tower with the sickening eye 
Of expectation." 

Then the King exclaim'd, 
" O chosen by Heaven ! defer one day thy march, 
That humbled at the altar we may join 
The general prayer. Be these our holy rites 
To-morrow's task ; — to-night for merriment ! " 

The Maid replied, " The wretched ones in 
Orleans, 
In fear and hunger and expiring hope. 
Await my succor, and my prayers would plead 
In Heaven against me, did they waste one hour 
When active duty calls. For this night's mirth 
Hold me excused ; in truth I am not fit 
For merriment ; a heavy charge is on me. 
And I must put away all mortal thoughts." ^^ 
Her heart was full, and pausing, she repress'd 
The unbidden anguish. " Lo ! they crowd around 
The standard ! Thou, Dunois, the chosen troops 
Marshal in speed, for early with the dawn 
We march to rescue Orleans from the foe." 



THE FIFTH BOOK. 

Scarce had the early dawn from Chinon's towers 

Made visible the mist that curl'd along 

The river's winding way, when from her couch 

The martial Maid arose. She mail'd her limbs; 

The white plumes nodded o'er her helmed head ; 

She girt the sacred falchion by her side. 

And, like a youth who from his mother's arms, 

For his first field impatient, breaks away. 

Poising the lance went forth. 

Twelve hundred men, 
Rearing in order'd ranks their glittering spears, 
Await her coming. Terrible in arms 
Before them tower'd Dunois, his manly face 



30 



JOAN OF ARC 



O'ersliadow'd by the helmet's iron cheeks. 

The assembled court gazed on the marshall'd train^ 

And at the gate the aged prelate stood 

To pour his blessing on the chosen host. 

And now a soft and solemn symphony 

Was heard, and chanting high the hallow'd hymn, 

From the near convent came the vestal maids. 

A holy banner, woven by virgin hands, 

Snow-white they bore. A mingled sentiment 

Of awe and eager ardor for the fight, 

Thrill'd through the army, as the reverend man 

Took the white standard, and with heaven- ward eye 

Call'd on the God of Justice, blessing it. 

The Maid, her brows in reverence unhelm'd, 

Her dark hair floating on the morning gale, 

Knelt to his prayer, and stretching forth her hand 

Received the mystic banner. From the host 

A loud and universal shout burst forth. 

As rising from the ground, upon her brow 

She placed the plumed casque, and waved on high 

The banner'd lilies. On their way they march. 

And dim in distance, soon the towers of Chinon 

Fade from the eye reverted. 

The sixth sun, 
Purpling the sky with his dilated light. 
Sunk westering ; when embosom'd in the depth 
Of that old forest, which for many a league 
Shadow'd the hills and vales of Orleannois, 
They pitch their tents. The hum of occupation 
Sounds ceaseless. Waving to the evening gale 
The streamers flutter ; and ascending slow 
Beneath the foliage of the forest trees. 
With many a light hue tinged, the curling smoke 
Melts in the impurpled air. Leaving her tent. 
The martial Maiden wander'd through the wood ; 
There, by a streamlet, on the mossy bank 
Reclined, she saw a damsel, her long locks 
With willow wreathed ; upon her lap there lay 
A dark-hair'd man, listening the while she sung 
Sad ditties, and enwreathed to bind his brow 
The melancholy garland. At the sound 
Of one in arms approaching, she had fled ; 
But Conrade, looking upward, recognized 
The Maid of Arc. '' Nay, fear not, Isabel," 
Said he, "for this is one of gentle kind. 
Whom even the wretched need not fear to love." 

So saying, he arose and took her hand, 
And press'd it to his bosom. " My weak heart. 
Though school'd by wrongs to loath at human kind. 
Will beat, rebellious to its own resolves. 
Come hither, outcast one ! and call her friend. 
And she will be thy friend more readily 
Because thou art unhappy." 

Isabel 
Saw a tear starting in the virgin's eye, 
And glancing upon Conrade, she too wept. 
Wailing his wilder'd senses. 

"Mission'd Maid ! " 
The warrior cried, "be happy ! for thy power 
Can make this sufferer so. From Orleans driven, 
Orphan'd by war, and of her only friend 
Bereft, I found her wandering in the wilds, 
Worn out with want and wretchedness. Thou, 
Joan, 



Wilt his beloved to the youth restore ; 
And trust me, Maid ! the miserable feel 
When they on others bestow happiness, 
Their happiest consolation." 

She replied, 
Pressing the damsel's hand, in the mild tone 
Of equal friendship, solacing her cares. 
" Soon shall we enter Orleans," said the Maid ; 
A few hours in her dream of victory 
England shall triumph, then to be awaked 
By the loud thunder of Almighty wrath ! 
Irksome meantime the busy camp to me 
A solitary woman. Isabel, 
Wert thou the while companion of my tent, 
Lightlier the time would pass. Return with me ; 
I may not long be absent." 

So she spake. 
The wanderer in half-utter'd words express'd 
Grateful assent. " Art thou astonish'd, then, 
That one though powerful is benevolent .? 
In truth thou well mayst wonder ! " Conrade 

cried. 
"But little cause to love the mighty ones 
Hath the low cottager ; for with its shade 
Too oft doth Power, a death-dew-dropping tree, 
Blast every herb beneath its baleful boughs ! 
Tell thou thy sufferings, Isabel ! Relate 
How warr'd the chieftains, and the people died. 
The mission'd Virgin hath not heard thy woes ; 
And pleasant to mine ear the twice-told tale 
Of sorrow." 

Gazing on the martial Maid 
She read her wish, and spake. " A wanderer now, 
Friendless and hopeless, still I love to think 
Upon my native home, and call to mind 
Each haunt of careless youth ; the woodbined wall, 
The jessamine that round the straw-roof 'd cot 
Its fragrant branches wreathed, beneath whose 

shade 
I wont to sit and watch the setting sun, 
And hear the thrush's song. Nor far remote, 
As o'er the subject landscape round I gazed, 
The tov/ers of Yenville rose upon the view. 
A foreign master holds my father's home ! 
I, far away, remember the past years. 
And weep. 

" Two brethren form'd our family ; 
Humble we were, and happy ; honest toil 
Procured our homely sustenance ; our herds 
Duly at morn and evening to my hand 
Gave their full stores ; the vineyard we had rear'd 
Purpled its clusters in the southern sun. 
And, plenteous produce of my father's toil, 
The yellow harvest billow'd o'er the plain. 
How cheerfully around the blazing hearth. 
When all the labor of the day was done. 
We past the evening hours ; for they would sing 
Or merry roundelay, or ditty sad 
Of maid forsaken and the willow weed. 
Or of the doughty Paladins of France 
Some warlike fit, the while my spinning-wheel 
A fitting music made. 

" Thus long we lived, 
And happy. To a neighboring youth my handj 
In holy wedlock soon to be consign'd. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



3] 



Was plighted : my poor Francis ! " Here she paused, 
And here she wept awhile. 

" We did not think 
The desolating stream of war would reach 
To us ; but soon as with the whirlwind's speed 
Ruin rusli'd round us.'*^ Mehun, Clery, fell, 
The banner'd Leopard waved on Gergeau's wall ; 
Baugenci yielded ; soon the foe approach'd 
The towers of Yenville. 

" Fatal was the hour 
To me and mine : for from the wall, alas ! 
The rusty sword was taken, and the shield 
Which long had moulder'd on the mouldering nail. 
To meet the war repair'd. No more was heard 
The ballad, or the merry roundelay ; 
The clattering hammer's clank, the grating file 
Harsh sounded through the day a dismal din ; 
I never shall forget their mournful sound ! 

" My father stood encircling his old limbs 
In long-forgotten arms. ' Come, boys,' he cried ; 
' I did not think that this gray head again 
Should bear the helmet's weight ; but in the field 
Better to bravely die a soldier's death. 
Than here be tamely butcher'd. Isabel, 
Go to the abbey ! if we should survive. 
We soon shall meet again ; if not, my child. 
There is a better world ! ' 

In broken words, 
Lifting his eyes to Heaven, my father breathed 
His blessing on me. As they went away. 
My brethren gazed on me, and wrung my hand 
In silence, for they loved their sister Avell. 
From the near cottage Francis join'd the troop. 
Then did I look on our forsaken home, 
And almost sob my very soul away ; 
For all my hopes of happiness were fled. 
Even like a dream ! " 

" Perish these mighty ones," 
Cried Conrade, " these who let destruction loose, 
Who walk elated o'er their fields of fame, 
And count the thousands that lie slaughter'd there, 
And with the bodies of the innocent, rear 
Their pyramid of glory ! perish these, 
The epitome of all the pestilent plagues 
That Egypt knew ! who send their locust swarms 
O'er ravaged realms, and bid the brooks run blood. 
Fear and Destruction go before their path. 
And Famine dogs their footsteps. God of Justice, 
Let not the innocent blood cry out in vain ! " 

Thus while he spake, the murmur of the camp 
Rose on their ear ; first like the distant sound 
When the full-foliaged forest to the storm 
Shakes its hoarse head ; anon with louder din ; 
And through the opening glade gleam 'd many a fire. 
The Virgin's tent they enter'd ; there the board 
Was spread, the wanderer of the fare partook, 
Then thus her tale renew'd : — 

" Slow o'er the hill 
Whose rising head conceal'd our cot I past. 
Yet on my journey paused awhile, and gazed 
And wept ; for often had I cross 'd the hill 
With cheerful step, and seen the rising smoke 
Of hospitable fire ; alas ! no smoke 



Curl'd o'er its melancholy chimneys now ! 
Orleans I reach'd. There in the suburbs stood 
The abbey ; and ere long I learnt the fall 
Of Yenville. 

" On a day, a soldier ask'd 
For Isabel. Scarce could my faltering feet 
Support me. It was Francis, and alone — 
The sole survivor of that company ! 

" And soon the foes approach'd : impending war 
Soon sadden'd Orleans .^^ There the bravest chiefs 
Assembled : Thouars, Coarase, Chabannes, 
And the Sire Chapelle,**^ in successful war 
Since wounded to the death ; and that good Knight 
Giresme of Rhodes, who in a better cause 
Can never wield the crucifix that hilts 
His hallowed sword ; ^ and Xaintrailles ransom'd 

now. 
And Fayette late released, and that young Duke"*' 
Who at Verneuil senseless with many a wound 
Fell prisoner, and La Hire, the merriest man **' 
That ever yet did win his soldiers' love ; 
And over all for hardihood renown'd 
The Bastard Orleans. 

" These within the town 
Expect the foe. Twelve hundred chosen men, 
Well tried in war, uprear the guardian shield 
Beneath their banners. Dreadful was the sight 
Of preparation. The wide suburbs stretch'd 
Along the pleasant borders of the Loire, 
Late throng'd with multitudes, now feel the hand 
Of ruin. These preventive care destroys, 
Lest England, shelter'd by the friendly walls, 
Securely should approach. The monasteries 
Fell in the general waste. The holy monks 
Unwillingly their long-accustom'd haunts 
Abandon, haunts where every gloomy nook 
Call'd to awaken'd memory some trace 
Of vision seen, or sound miraculous. 
Trembling and terrified, their noiseless cells, 
For the rude uproar of a world unknown. 
The nuns desert : their abbess, more composed, 
Collects her maids around, and tells her beads, 
And pours the timid prayer of piety. 
The pioneers, by day and night employ'd, 
Throw up the violated earth, to impede 
The foe : the hollow chambers of the dead 
Echo'd beneath their stroke. The brazen tomb 
Which late recorded death, in the furnace cast 
Is made to inflict it now. Sad sight it was 
To see so wide a waste ; the aged ones 
Hanging their heads, and weeping as they went 
O'er the fallen dwellings of their happier years ; 
The stern and sullen silence of the men 
Musing on vengeance : and but ill represt, 
The mother's fears as to her breast she clasp'd 
Her ill-doom'd infant. Soon the suburbs lay 
One ample ruin ; ^^ whence the stones were borne 
Within the town to serve in its defence. 

" And now without the walls the desolate space 
Appear'd, a rough and melancholy waste, 
With uptorn pavements and foundations deep 
Of many a ruin'd dwelling. Nor within 
Less dreary was the scene ; at evening hour 



32 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK V. i 



No more the merry viol's note was heard ; ®^ 

No more the aged matron at her door 

Humm'd cheery to her spinning-wheel, and saw 

Her children dancing to the roundelay. 

The chieftains strengthening still the ancient walls, 

Survey them every where with prying eye ; 

The eager youth, in anxious preparation, 

Practise the arts of war ; silent and stern, 

With the hurrying restlessness of fear, they urge 

Their gloomy labors. In the city dwelt 

An utter silence of all pleasant sounds ; 

But all day long the armorer's beat was heard, 

And all night long it echoed. 

" Soon the foe 
Led to our walls the siege : as on they move 
The clarions clangor, and the cheerful fife, 
Accordant to the thundering drum's deep sound, 
Direct their measured march. Before the ranks 
Salisbury was seen, Salisbury, so long the scourge 
Of France ; and Talbot towered by his side, 
Talbot, at whose dread name the froward child 
Clings mute and trembling to his nurse's breast. 
Suffolk was there, and Hungerford, and Scales, 
And Fastolffe, victor in the frequent fight. 
Dark as the autumnal storm they roll'd along, 
A countless host ! From the high tower I mark'd 
The dreadful scene ; I saw the iron gleam 
Of javelins sparkling to the noontide sun, 
Their banners tossing to the troubled gale, 
And — fearful music — heard upon the wind 
The modulated step of multitudes. 

'• There in the midst, shuddering with fear, I saw 
The dreadful stores of death ; tremendous roll'd 
Over rough roads the harsh wheels ; the brazen tubes 
Flash'd in the sun their fearful splendor far, 
And, last, the loaded wagons creak'd along. 

" Nor were our chieftains, whilst their care pro- 
cured 
Human defence, neglectful to implore 
That heavenly aid, deprived of which the strength 
Of man is weakness. Bearing through our streets 
The precious relics of the holy dead, 
The monks and nuns pour'd many an earnest 

prayer. 
Devoutly join'd by all. Saint Aignan's shrine 
Was throng'd by supplicants, the general voice 
Call'd on Saint Aignan's name^'' again to save 
His people, as of yore, before he past 
Into the fulness of eternal rest ; 
When by the Spirit to the lingering camp 
Of jfEtius borne, he brought the timely aid, 
And Attila, with all his multitudes. 
Far off retreated to their field of shame." 

And now Dunois — for he had seen the camp 
Well-order'd — enter'd. " One night more in peace 
England shall rest," he cried, " ere yet the storm 
Burst on her gxiilty head ! then their proud vaunts 
Forgotten, or remember'd to their shame. 
Vainly her chiefs shall curse the hour when first 
They pitch'd their tents round Orleans." 

" Of that siege," 
The Maid of Arc replied, " gladly I hear 



The detail. Isabel, proceed ! for soon 
Destined to rescue this devoted town, 
The tale of all the ills she hath endured 
I listen, sorrowing for the past, and feel 
Joy and contentment in the merciful task 
For which I am sent forth." 

Thus spa,ke the maid. 
And Isabel pursued. " And now more near 
The hostile host advancing pitch their tents. 
Unnumber'd streamers wave, and clamorous shouts, 
Anticipating conquest, rend the air 
With universal uproar. From their camp 
A herald came ; his garb emblazon'd o'er 
With leopards and the lilies of our realm — 
Foul shame to France ! The summons of the foe 
He brought." 

The Bastard interrupting cried, 
" I was with Gaucour and the assembled chiefs, 
When by his office privileged and proud 
That herald spake, as certain of success 
As he had made a league with Victory. 
^ Nobles of France rebellious ! from the chief 
Of yon victorious host, the mighty Earl 
Of Salisbury, now there in place of him 
Your Regent John of Bedford : in his name 
I come, and in our sovereign Lord the King's, 
Henry. Ye know full well our master's claim, 
Incontrovertible to this good realm. 
By right descent, and solemnly confirm'd 
By your great monarch and our mighty king 
Fifth Henry, in the treaty ratified 
At Troyes,^^ wherein your monarch did disclaim 
All future right and title to this crown, 
His own exempted, for his son and heirs 
Down to the end of time. This sign'd and seal'd 
At the holy altar, and by nuptial knot 
Of Henry and your princess, gives the realm, 
Charles dead and Henry, to his infant son 
Henry of Windsor. Who then dares oppose 
My master's title, in the face of God, 
Of wilful perjury, most atrocious crime, 
Stands guilty, and of flat rebellion 'gainst 
The Lord's anointed. He, at Paris crown'd 
With loud acclaim of duteous multitudes. 
Thus speaks by me. Deliver up your town 
To Salisbury, and yield yourselves and arms, 
So shall your lives be safe : and such his grace, 
If of your free accord to him you pay 
Due homage as your sovereign Lord and King, 
Your rich estates, your houses shall be safe, 
And you in favor stand, as is the Duke, 
Philip of Burgundy. But — mark me well I 
If, obstinately wilful, you persist 
To scorn his proffer'd mercy, not one stone 
Upon another of this wretched town 
Shall then be left ; and when the English host 
Triumphant in the dust have trod the towers 
Of Orleans, who survive the dreadful war 
Shall die like traitors by the hangman's hand. 
Ye men of France, remember Caen and Roan ! ' 

" He ceased : nor Gaucour for a moment paused 
To form reply. 

" ' Herald ! to all thy vaunts 
Of English sovereignty let this suffice 



BOOK V. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



33 



For answer : France will only own as King 
Her own legitimate Lord. On Charles's brow, 
Transmitted through a long and good descent, 
The crown remains. We know no homage due 
To English robbers, and disclaim the peace 
Inglorious made at Troyes by factious men 
Hostile to France. Tliy master's proffer 'd grace 
Meets the contempt it merits. Herald, yes. 
Be sure we shall remember Caen and Roan ' 
Go tell the mighty Earl of Salisbury, 
That as like Blancliard, Gaucour dares his power, 
Like Blanchard, he can brave his cruelty, 
And triumph by enduring. Speak 1 well, 
Ye men of Orleans ? ' 

'' Never did 1 hear 
A shout so universal as ensued 
Of approbation. The assembled host 
As with one voice pour'd forth their loyalty. 
And struck their sounding shields ; and walls and 

towers 
Echoed the loud uproar. The herald went. 
The work of war began." 

"A fearful scene," 
Cried Isabel. " The iron storm of death 
Clash'd in the sky ; the mighty engines hurl'd 
Huge stones, which shook the ground where'er 

they fell. 
Then was there heard at once the clang of arms, 
The thundering cannons, and the soldier's shout. 
The female's shriek, the affrighted infant's cry, 
The groan of death, — discord of dreadful sounds 
That jarr'd the soul. 

'• Nor while the encircling foe 
Leaguer'd the walls of Orleans, idly slept 
Our friends : for winning down the Loire its way 
The frequent vessel with provision fraught. 
And men, and all the artillery of death, 
Cheer'd us with welcome succor. At the bridge 
These safely landed mock'd the foeman's force. 
This to prevent, Salisbury, their Avatchful chicf,'-^'- 
A mighty work prepares. Around our walls. 
Encircling walls he builds, surrounding thus 
The city. Firm'd with massiest buttresses. 
At equal distance, sixty forts protect 
The English lines. But chief where in the town 
The six great avenues meet in the niidst,^^ 
Six castles there he rear'd impregnable. 
With deep-dug moats and bridges drawn aloft, 
Where over the strong gate suspended hung 
The dread portcullis. Thence the gunner's eye 
From his safe shelter could with ease survey 
Intended sally, or approaching aid. 
And point destruction. 

" It were long to tell. 
And tedious, how in many a bold assault 
The men of Orleans sallied on their foes ; 
How after difficult fight the enemy 
Possess'd the Tournelles,^^ and the embattled tower 
That shadows from the bridge the subject Loire ; 
Thovigh numbermg now three thousand daring 

men. 
Frequent and fierce the garrison repell'd 
Their far outnumbering foes. From every aid 
Included, they in Orleans groan'd beneath 
All ills accumulate. The shatter 'd roofs 
5 



Allow'd the dews of night free passage there ; 
And ever and anon the ponderous stone, 
lluining where'er it fell, with hideous crash 
Came like an earthquakc,^^ startling from his sleep 
The affrighted soldier. From the brazen slings 
The wild-fire balls hiss'd through the midnight 

sky ; 96 
And often their huge engines cast among us 
The dead and loathsome cattle of their camp, 
As though our enemies, to their deadly league 
Forcing the common air, would make us breathe 
Poisonous pollution.^^ Through the streets were 

seen 
The frequent fire, and heaps of dead, in haste 
Piled up and streaming to infected Heaven. 
For ever the incessant storm of death 
Pours down, and crowded in unwholesome vaults^ 
The wretched females hide, not idle there. 
Wasting the hours in tears, but all employ 'd, 
Or to provide the hungry soldier's meal. 
Or tear their garments to bind up his wounds : 
A sad equality of wretchedness I 

'' Now came the worst of ills, for Famine came : 
The provident hand deals out its scanty dole, 
Yielding so little a supply to life 
As but protracted death. The loathliest food 
Hunted with eager eye and dainty deem'd, 
The dog is slain, that at his master's feet 
Howling with hunger lay ; with jealous fear, 
Hating a rival's look, tlie husband hides 
His miserable meal ; the famish'd babe 
Clings closely to his dying mother's breast; 
And — horrible to tell ! — where, thrown aside, 
There lay unburied in the open streets 
Huge heaps of carcasses, the soldier stands 
Eager to mark the carrion crow for food.^^ 

" O peaceful scenes of childhood ! pleasant 
fields 1 
Haunts of mine infancy, where I have stray'd 
Tracing the brook along its winding way, 
Or pluck'd the primrose, or with giddy speed 
Chased the gay butterfly from flower to flower ! 

days in vain remember'd ! how my soul, 
Sick with calamity, and the sore ills 

Of hunger, dwelt on you and on my home ! 
Thinking of you amid the waste of war, 

1 could in bitterness have cursed the great 
Who made me what I was, a helpless one, 
Orphan'd, and wanting bread ! " 

" And be they curst ! " 
Conrade exclaim' d, his dark eye flashing rage ; 
" And be they curst ! O groves and woodland 

shades, 
How blest indeed were you, if the iron rod 
Should one day from Oppression's hand be wrench'd 
By everlasting Justice ! Come that hour. 
When in the Sun the Angel of the Lord^o*' 
Shall stand and cry to all the fowls of Heaven, 
' Gather ye to the supper of your God, 
That ye may eat the flesh of mighty men, 
Of captains, and of kings ! ' Then shall be peace." 

"And now lest all should perish," she pursued, 



34 



JOAN OF ARC 



The women and the infirm must from the town 
Go forth and seek their fate. 

" I will not now 
Recall the moment, when on my poor Francis 
With a long look I hung. At dead of night, 
Made mute by fear, we mount the secret bark, 
And glide adown the stream with silent oars : 
Thus thrown upon the mercy of mankind, 
I wandered reckless where, till wearied out, 
And cold at heart, I laid me down to die ; 
So by this warrior found. Him I had known 
And loved, for all loved Conrade who had known 

him 5 
Nor did 1 feel so pressing the hard hand 
Of want in Orleans, ere he parted thence 
On perilous envoy. For of his small fare — " 

" Of this enough," said Conrade. " Holy Maid ! 
One duty yet awaits me to perform. 
Orleans her envoy sent me, to demand 
Aid from her idle sovereign. Willingly 
Did I achieve the hazardous enterprise, 
For rumor had already made me fear 
The ill that hath fallen on me. It remains, 
Ere I do banish me from human kind, 
That 1 reenter Orleans, and announce 
Thy march. 'Tis night, and hark ! how dead a 

silence ' 
Fit hour to tread so perilous a path ! " 

So saying, Conrade from the tent went forth. 



THE SIXTH BOOK. 

The night was calm, and many a moving cloud 
Shadow'd the moon. Along the forest glade 
With swift foot Conrade past, and now had reach'd 
The plain, where whilome by the pleasant Loire, 
Cheer 'd with the song, the rustics had beheld 
The day go down upon their merriment : 
No song of peace now echoed on its banks. 
There tents were pitch'd, and there the sentinel, 
Slow pacing on his sullen rounds, beheld 
The frequent corse roll down the tainted stream. 
Conrade with wider sweep pursued his way. 
Shunning the camp, now hush'din sleep and still. 
And now no sound was heard save of the Loire, 
Murmuring along. The noise of coming feet 
Alarm'd him ; nearer drew the rapid steps 
As of pursuit ; anon — the clash of arms ! 
That instant breaking through a rifted cloud 
The moonlight show'd, where two with force 

combined 
Prest on a single foe, who, warding still 
Their swords, retreated in unequal fight. 
As he would make the city. Hastening 
With timely help to save him, Conrade sped. 
One with an unexpected stroke he slew ; 
The other fled : '< Now let us speed our best, 
Frenchman ! " he cried. On to the Loire they ran. 
And making way with practised arms across, 
Ere long in safety gain'd the opposite shore. 



" Whence art thou .' " cried the warrior; "and 
on what 
Commission 'd .'' " 

" Is it not the voice of Conrade .? ' 
Francis replied ; " and dost thou bring to us 
Tidings of succor .'' oh ! that it had come 
A few hours earlier ! Isabel is gone ! " 

" Nay, she is safe," cried Conrade ; " her I found 
Bewilder'd in the forest, and consigned her 
To the protection of the holy Maid, 
Whom Heaven hath sent to rescue u.s. Now say 
Wherefore alone .'' A fugitive from Orleans, 
Or sent on dangerous service from the town? " 

" There is no food in Orleans," he replied, 
" Scarce a meal more. The assembled chiefs 

resolve. 
If thou shouldst bring no tidings of near aid. 
To cut their way to safety, or by death 
Prevent the pang of famine.^^^ One they sought, 
Who, venturing to the English lines, should spy 
Where best to venture on this desperate chance, 
And I, believing all I loved was lost, 
OfFer'd myself." 

So saying, they approach'd 
The gate. The sentinel, soon as he heard 
Thitherward footsteps, with uplifted lance 
Challenged the darkling travellers. At their voice 
He drew the strong bolts back, and cautiously 
Open'd the wicket. To the careful chiefs 
Who sate in midnight council, they were led, 
And Conrade thus address'd them : 

" Sirs, the Lord, 
In this our utmost need, hath sent us aid. 
A holy Maid hath been raised up by Heaven ; 
Her mission is by miracles confirm'd. 
And hither, with twelve hundred chosen men, 
Led by Dunois, she comes. I am myself 
A witness to the truth of what I tell ; 
And by to-morrow's noon, before these walls 
Her banner will be seen." 

Thereat the chiefs 
Were fill'd with wonder and with joy, by doubt 
Little repress'd. " Open the granaries ! " 
Xaintrailles exclaim'd ; •' give we to all the host 
With hand unsparing now a plenteous meal ; 
To-morrow we are safe I for Heaven all-just 
Hath seen our sufferings and decreed their end. 
Let the glad tidings echo through the town ! 
God is with us ! " 

" Be not too confident," 
Graville replied, " in this miraculous aid. 
Some frantic woman this, who gives belief 
To idle dreams, and with her madness then 
Infects the simple ! That Dunois is there, 
Leading in arms twelve hundred chosen men, 
Aflfords a better hope ; yet lavish not 
Our stores, lest in the enterprise he fail. 
And Orleans then be fain to bear the yoke 
Of England!" 

" Chief! I tell thee," Conrade cried, 
" I did myself behold the sepulchre, 
Fulfilling what she spake, give up those arms 
Which surely for no common end the grave 



JOAN OF ARC. 



35 



Through many an age hath held inviolate. 
She is the Prophetess of the Most High, 
And will deliver Orleans ! " 

Gaucour then, 
" Be it as thou hast said. For I must think. 
That surely to no vulgar tale these chiefs 
Would yield a light belief; and our poor stores 
Must speedily, ye know, be clean consumed. 
Spread then the joyful tidings through the troops 
That God hath to deliver the oppress'd, 
As in old time, raised up a Prophetess, 
And the belief itself will make them fight 
With irresistible courage." 

Thus the chief. 
And what he said seem'd good. The men of Orleans, 
Long by their foemen bay'd, such transport felt, 
As when the Mexicans,^"'- with eager eye 
Gazing to Huixachtla's distant top. 
On that last night, doubtful if ever morn 
Again shall cheer them, mark the mystic fire 
Flame on the breast of some brave prisoner, 
A dreadful altar. As they see the blaze 
Beaming on Iztapalapan's near towers, 
Or on Tezcuco's calmy lake flash'd far, 
Songs of thanksgiving and the shout of joy 
Wake the loud echo ; the glad husband tears 
The mantling aloe from his consort's face. 
And children, now delivcr'd from the dread 
Of everlasting darkness, look abroad, 
Hail the good omen, and expect the sun 
Uninjur'd still to run his flaming race. 

While thus in Orleans hope had banished sleep, 
The Maiden's host perform'd their evening prayer, 
And in the forest took their rest secure. 
And now the morning came. At earliest dawn 
Lightly upstarting, and bedight in arms. 
The Bastard moved along, with provident eye 
Marshalling the troops. All high in hope they 

march ; 
And now the sun shot from the southern sky 
His noontide radiance, when afar they hear 
The hum of men, and see the distant towers 
Of Orleans, and the bulwarks of the foe, 
And many a streamer wantoning in air. 
These as they saw and thought of all the ills 
Their brethren had endured, closely pent there 
For many a month, such ardor for the fight 
Burnt in each bosom, as young Ali felt 
Then when Mohammed of the assembled tribe 
Ask'd who would be his Vizir. Fierce in faith. 
Forth from the race of Hashem stept the youth, 
" Prophet of God ! lo — T will be the man ! " 
And well did Ali merit that high post. 
Victorious upon Beder's fertile vale. 
And on mount Ohud, and before the walls 
Of Chaibar, when down-cleaving to the chest 
His giant foe, he grasp'd the massy gate, 
Shook with strong arm and tore it from the fort, 
And lifted it in air, portentous shield ! 

"Behold the towers of Orleans," cried Dunois, 
" Lo ! this the vale where on the banks of Loire, 
Of yore, at close of day the rustic band 
Danced to the roundelay. In younger years 



As oft I glided down the silver stream, 
Freqvicnt upon the lifted oar I paused. 
Listening the sound of far-off merriment. 
There wave the hostile banners ! martial Maid, 
Give thou the signal ! — let us fall upon 
These merciless invaders, who have sack'd 
Village and town, and made the hamlet haunts 
Silent, or hearing but the widow's groan. 
Give but the signal, Maiden ! " 

Her dark eye 
Fix'd sadly on the foe, the holy Maid 
Answer 'd him ; " Ere the avenging sword be drawn, 
And slaughter be let loose, befits us send 
Some peaceful messenger, who shall make known 
The will of Heaven: so timely warn'd, our foes 
Haply may yet repent, and quit in peace 
Besieged Orleans, for I fain would spare 
The bloody price of victory." 

So she said ; 
And as she spake, a soldier from the ranks 
Came forward. " I will be thy messenger, 

Prophetess ! and to the English camp 
Will bear thy bidding." 

" Go," the Virgin cried; 
" Say to the Lord of Salisbury, and the chiefs 
Of England, Suffolk, Fastolffe, Talbot, Scales, 
Invaders of the country, say, thus saj's 
The Maid of Orleans: ' With your troops retire 
In peace. Of every captured town the keys 
Restore to Charles ; so bloodless you may seek 
Your native island ; for the God of Hosts 
Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir, 
By long descent and by the willing choice 
Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd 
The kingdom. In His name the Virgin comes 
Arm'd with the sword, yet not of mercy void. 
Depart in peace : for ere the morrow dawns, 
Victorious upon yonder wall shall wave 
Her holy banner.' " To the English camp 
Fearless the herald went. 

At mid-day meal. 
With all the dissonance of boisterous mirth. 
The British chiefs caroused and quafl"d the bowl, 
AVhen by the sentinel conducted there 
The Maiden's herald came. 

'•' Chiefs," he began, 
•' Salisbury, and ye the representatives 
Of the English King, usurper of this realm, 
To ye the leaders of the English host 

1 come, no welcome messenger. Thus saith 
The Maid of Orleans : 'With your troops retire 
In peace. Of every captured town the keys 
Restore to Charles ; so bloodless you may seek 
Your native island; for the God of Hosts 

Thus hath decreed. To Charles the rightful heir, 
By long descent and by the willing choice 
Of duteous subjects, hath the Lord assign'd 
The kingdom. In His name the Virgin comes, 
Arm'd with the sword, yet not of mercy void. 
Depart in peace : for ere the morrow dawns, 
Victorious upon yonder wall shall wave 
Her holy banner.' " 

Wonder made a pause ; 
To this alaugh succeeds. " What ! " Fastolffe cried, 
" A virgin warrior hath your monarch sent 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK VI. 



To save devoted Orleans ? By the rood, 
1 thank his grace. If she be young and fair, 
No worthless prize, my lords ! Go, tell your Maid, 
Joyful we wait her coming." 

There was one 
Among the English chiefs who had grown old 
In arms, yet had not age unnerved his limbs. 
But from the flexile nimbleness of youth 
To unyielding stiffness braced them. One who saw 
Him seated at the board, might well have deem'd 
That Talbot with his whole collected might 
Wielded the sword in war, for on his neck 
The veins were full,'^"^ and every muscle bore 
The character of strength. He his stern eye 
Fix'd on the herald, and before he spake 
His silence threaten'd.^"* 

" Get thee gone ! " exclaim'd 
The indignant chief: "away ! nor think to scare 
With girlish phantasies the English host 
That scorns your bravest warriors. Hie thee thence, 
And tell this girl she may expect to meet 
The mockery of the camp ! " 

" Nay, scare her not," 
Replied their chief: " go, tell this Maid of Orleans, 
That Salisbury longs to meet her in the fight. 
Nor let her fear that cords or iron chains 
Shall gall her tender limbs ; for I myself 
Will be her prison, and " 

" Contemptuous man ! 
No more ! " the herald cried, as to his cheek 
Rush'd the red anger : " bearing words of peace 
And timely warning came 1 to your camp ; 
And here have been with insolent ribaldry 
Received. Bear witness, chieftains ! that the 

French, 
Free from blood-guiltiness, shall meet the war." 

" And who art thou ? " cried Suffolk, and his eye 
Grew fierce and v/rath-inflamed : " What fool art 

thou. 
Who at this woman's bidding comest to brave 
The host of England ? Thou shalt have thy meed ! " 
Then turning to the sentinel he cried, 
" Prepare a stake ! and let the men of Orleans, 
And let this woman Avho believes her name 
May privilege her herald, see the fire 



Plant a stake ! for by my God 



Consume hir 

He shall be kalendared of this new faith 

First martyr." 

As he spake, a sudden flush 
Came o'er the herald's cheek, and his heart beat 
With quicker action; but the sudden flush, 
Nature's instinctive impulse, faded soon 
To such a steady hue as spake the soul 
Roused up with all its powers, and unsubdued. 
And strengthen 'd for endurance. Through the 

camp, 
Soon as the tidings spread, a shout arose, 
A hideous shout, more savage than the howl 
Of midnight wolves, around him as they throng'd, 
To gaze upon their victim. He pass'd on ; 
And as they led him to the appointed place 
Look'd round, as though forgetful of himself, 
And cried aloud, " Oh ! woe it is to think 
So many men shall never see the sun 



Go down ! Ye English mothers, mourn ye now ! 
Daughters of England, weep ! for, hard of heart. 
Still your mad leaders urge this impious war ; 
And for their folly and their wickedness, 
Your sons, your husbands, by the sword must fall. 
Long-suffering is the Lord, and slow to wrath. 
But heavy are his judgments ! " 

He who spake 
Was young and comely ; had his cheek been pale 
With dread, and had his eye look'd fearfully, 
Sure he had won compassion ; but the blood 
Gave now a livelier meaning to his cheek. 
As with a prophet's look and prophet's voice 
He raised his ominous warning : they who heard 
Wonder'd, and they who rear'd the stake perform'd 
With half-unwilling hands their slacken'd toil, 
And doubted what might follow. 

Not unseen 
Rear'd they the stake, and piled around the wood *, 
In sight of Orleans and the Maiden's host,^°^ 
Had Suffolk's arrogant fierceness bade the work 
Of death be done. The Maiden's host beheld; 
At once in eager wrath they raised the loud 
And general clamor, " Lead us to the foe ! " 
"Not upon us, O God ! " the Maid exclaim'd^ 
" Not upon us cry out the innocent blood ! " 
And bade the signal sound. In the English camp 
The clarion and the trumpet's blare was heard ; 
In haste they seize their arms, in haste they form, 
Some by bold words seeking to hide their fear 
Even from themselves, some silently in prayer, 
For much their hearts misgave them. 

But the rage 
Of Suffolk swell'd within him. ',' Speed your 

work ! " 
Exclaim'd the injurious earl; "kindle the pile, 
That France may see the fire, and in defeat 
Feel aggravated shame ! " 

And now they bound 
The herald to the stake : he cried aloud, 
And fix'd his eye on Suffolk, " Let not him 
Who girdeth on his harness boast himself 
As he that puts it off ! ^°' They come ; they come ! 
God and the Maid ! " 

The host of France approach'd. 
And Suffolk eagerly beheld the fire 
Brought near the pile ; when suddenly a shout 
Toward Orleans call'd his eye, and thence he saw 
A man-at-arms upon a barded steed 
Come thimdering on. 

As when Chederles comes ^"^ 
To aid the Moslem on his deathless horse. 
Swaying the sword with such resistless arm, 
Such mightiest force, as he had newly quaff 'd 
The hidden waters of eternal youth. 
Till with the copious draught of life and strength 
Inebriate; such, po fierce, so terrible. 
Came Conrade through the camp. Aright, aleft, 
The affrighted foemen scatter from his spear; 
Onward he comes, and now the circling throng 
Fly from the stake, and now he checks his course, 
And cuts the herald's bonds, and bids him live 
To arm, and fight, and conquer. 

" Haste thee hence 
To Orleans," cried the warrior. "Tell the chiefs 



JOAN OF ARC. 



37 



Tliere is confusion in the English camp. 

Bid them come forth." On Conrade's steed the 

youth 
Leapt up, and hasten'd onward. He the while 
Turn'd to the war. 

Like two conflicting cloiids, 
Pregnant with thunder, moved the hostile hosts. 
Then man met man, then on tlie battcr'd shield 
Rung the loud lance, and through tlie darken'd sky 
Fast ft'll the arrowy storm. Amid his foes 
The Bastard's arm dealt irresistibly 
The strokes of death ; and by his side the Maid 
Led the fierce fight, the Maid, though all unused 
To such rude conflict, now inspired by Heaven, 
Flashing her flamy falchion through the troops. 
That like the thunderbolt, where'er it fell, 
Scatter'd the trembling ranks. The Saracen, 
Though arm'd from Cashbin or Damascus, wields 
A weaker sword ; nor might that magic blade 
Compare with this, which Oriana saw 
Flame in the ruffian Ardan's robber hand, 
When, sick and cold as death, she turn'd away 
Her dizzy eyes, lest they should see the fall 
Of her own Amadis. Nor plated sliield, 
Nor the strong hauberk, nor the crested casque. 
Stay that descending sword. Dreadful she moved 
Like as the Angel of the Lord went forth 
And smote his army, when the Assyrian king, 
Haughty of Hamath and Sepharvaim fallen. 
Blasphemed the God of Israel. 

Yet the fight 
Hung doubtful, where exampling hardiest deeds, 
Salisbury struck down the foe, and Fastollfe strove, 
And in the hottest doings of the war 
Towered Talbot. He, remembering the past day 
When from his name the affrighted sons of France 
Fled trembling, all astonish'd at their force 
And wontless valor, rages round the field 
Dreadful in anger ; yet in every man 
Meeting a foe fearless, and in the faith 
Of Heaven's assistance firm. 

The clang of arms 
Reaches the walls of Orleans. For the war 
Prepared, and confident of victory. 
Forth speed the troops. Not when afar exhaled 
The hungry raven snuff's tlie steam of blood 
That from some carcass-cover'd field of fame 
Taints the pure air, flies he more eagerly 
To feed upon the slain, than the Orleanites, 
Impatient now for many an ill endured 
In the long siege, to wreak upon their foes 
Due vengeance. Then more fearful grew the fray ; 
The swords that late flash'd to the evening sun ^°^ 
Now quench "d in blood their radiance. 

O'er the host 
Howl'd a deep wind that ominous of storms 
RoU'd on the lurid clouds. The blacken'd night 
Frown' d, and the thunder from the troubled sky 
Roar'd hollow. Javelins clash'd and bucklers 

rang; 
Shield prest on shield ; loud on the helmet jarr'd 
The ponderous battle-axe ; the frequent groan 
Of death commingling with the storm was heard. 
And tlie shrill shriek of fear. Even such a storm 
Before the walls of Chartres quell' d the pride 



Of the third Edward, when the heavy hail 
Smote down his soldiers, and the conqueror heard 
God in the tempest, and remembered then 
With a remorseful sense of Christian fear 
What misery he had caused, and in the name 
Of blessed Mary vowed a vow of peace. "° 

Lo ! where the holy banner waved aloft, 
The lambent lightnings play. Irradiate round, 
As with a blaze of glory, o'er the field 
It stream'd miraculous splendor. Then their hearts 
Sunk, and the English trembled; with such fear 
Possessd, as when the Canaanites beheld 
The sun stand still on Gibeon, at the voice 
Of that king-conquering warrior, he who smote 
The country of the hills, and of the south, 
From Baal-gad to Halak, and their chiefs. 
Even as the Lord commanded. Swift they fled 
From that portentous banner, and the sword 
Of France ; though Talbot witli vain valiancy 
Yet urged the war, and stemm'd alone the tide 
Of battle. Even their leaders felt dismay ; 
Fastolffe fled first, and Salisbury in the rout 
Mingled, and all impatient of defeat. 
Borne backward Talbot turns. Then echoed loud 
The cry of conquest, deeper grew the storm. 
And darkness, hovering o'er on raven wing, 
Brooded the field of death. 

Nor in the camp 
Deem themselves safe the trembling fugitives ; 
On to the forts they haste. Be wilder "d there 
Amid the moats by fear and the thick gloom 
Of more than midnight darkness, plunge the troops, 
Crush'd by fast-following numbers, who partake 
The death they give. As swol'n with vernal snows 
A mountain torrent hurries on its way, 
Till at the brink of some abrupt descent 
Arrived, with deafening clamor down it falls. 
Thus borne along, tumultuously the troops 
Driven by the force behind them, plunge amid 
The liquid death. Then rose the di-eadful cries 
More dreadful, and the dash of breaking waters 
That to the passing lightning as they broke 
Open'd their depth. 

Nor of the host so late 
Exultant in the pride of long success, 
A remnant had escaped, had not their chief, 
Slow as he moved unwilling from the field, 
What most might profit the defeated ranks 
Bethought him. He, when he had gain'd the fort 
Named from St. John, there kindled up on high 
The guiding fire. Not unobserved it rose ; 
The watchful guards on Tournelles, and the pile 
Of that proud city in remembrance fond 
Call'd London, light their beacons. Soon the fires 
Flame on the summit of the circling forts. 
Which, with their moats and crenellated walls, 
Included Orleans. Far across the plain 
They cast a lurid splendor ; to the troops 
Grateful, as to the way-worn traveller. 
Wandering with parch'd feet o'er Arabian sands, 
The far-seen cistern ; he for many a league 
Travelling the trackless desolate, where heaved 
With tempest swell the desert billows round, 
Pauses, and shudders at his perils past, 



38 



JOAN OF ARC 



BOOK VII. 



Then wild with joy speeds on to taste the wave 
So long be wail' d. 

Swift as the affrighted herd 
Scud o'er the plain, when rattling thunder-cracks 
Upon the bolted lightning follow close, 
The English hasten to their sheltering forts, 
Even there of safety doubtful, still appall'd 
And trembling, as the pilgrim who by night 
On his way wilder'd, to the wolf's deep howl 
Hears the wood echo, when from close pursuit 
Escaped, the topmost branch of some tall tree 
He grasps close clinging, still of the wild beast 
Fearful, his teeth jar, and the cold sweat stands 
Upon his clammy limbs. 

Nor now the Maid 
Greedy of vengeance presses the pursuit. 
She bids the trumpet of retreat resound ; 
A welcome note to the affrighted foe 
Elew that loud blast, whereat obediently 
TJie French, though eager on the invaders' heads 
To wreak their wrath, stay the victorious sword. 

Loud is the cry of conquest as they turn 
To Orleans. There what few to guard the town 
Unwilling had remain' d, haste forth to meet 
The triumph. Many a blazing torch they held, 
Which raised aloft amid the midnight storm 
Flash'd far a festive light. The Maid advanced ; 
Deep through the sky the hollow thunders 

roird;iii 
Innocuous lightnings round the hallowed banner 
Wreath 'd their red radiance. 

Through the city gate 
Then, as the laden convoy pass'd, was heard 
The shout of exultation ; and such joy 
The men of Orleans at that welcome sight 
Possess 'd, as when from Bactria late subdued, 
The mighty Macedonian led his troops 
Amid the Sogdian desert, where no stream 
Wastes on the wild its fertilizing waves, 
Fearful alike to pause, or to proceed ; 
Scorch'd by the sun, that o'er their morning march 
Steam'd his hot vapors, heart-subdued and faint ; 
Such joy as then they felt, when from the heights 
Burst the soul-gladdening sound, for thence was 

seen 
The evening sun silvering the fertile vale, 
Where Oxus roll'd below. 

Clamors of joy 
Echo along the streets of Orleans, wont 
Long time to hear the infant's feeble cry. 
The mother's frantic shriek, or the dread sound. 
When from the cannon burst its stores of death. 
Far flames the fire of joy on ruin'd piles 
And high heap'd carcasses, whence scared away 
From his abhorred meal, on clattering wing 
Rose the night-raven slow. 

In the English forts 
Sad was the scene. There all the livelong night 
Steal in the straggling fugitives ; as when 
Past is the storm, and o'er the azure sky 
Serenely shines the sun, with every breeze 
The waving branches drop their gather'd rain, 
Renewing the remembrance of the storm. 



THE SEVENTH BOOK. 

Strong were the English forts,"^ by daily toil 
Of thousands rear'd on high, when to insure 
His meditated conquest Salisbury 
Resolved from Orleans to shut out all means 
Of human succor. Round the city stretch' d 
Their line continuous, massy as the wall 
Erst by the fearful Roman on the bounds 
Of Caledonia raised, when soul-enslaved 
The race degenerate fear'd the car-borne chiefs 
Who moved from Morven down. 

Broad battlements 
Crested the bulwark, and safe standing place 
For archer or for man-at-arms was there. 
The frequent buttress at just distance rose 
Declining from its base, and sixty forts 
Seem'd in their strength to render all secure. 
But loftier and massier than the rest. 
As though of some large castle each the keep, 
Stood six square fortresses with turrets flank'd, 
Piles of unequall'd strength, though now deem'd 

weak 
'Gainst puissance more than mortal. Safely thence 
The skilful bowman, entering with his eye ^^^ 
The city, might, himself the while unseen. 
Through the long opening aim his winged deaths. 
Loire's waves diverted fill'd the deep-dug moat 
Circling the whole ; a bulwark vast it was 
As that which round their camp and stranded ships 
The Achaians raised, a common sepulchre 
Of thousands slaughter'd, and the doom'd death- 
place 
Of many a chief, when Priam's virtuous son 
Assail'd them, then in hope, with favoring Jove 

But cowering now amid their sheltering forts 
Trembled the invading host. Their leader's care 
In anxious vigilance prepares to ward 
The assault expected. Rightly he ared 
The Maid's intent, but vamly did he seek 
To kindle in their breasts the wonted flame 
Of valor , for, by prodigies unmann'd, 
They wait the morn. The soldiers' pride was* 

gone ; 
The blood was on their swords, their bucklers lay 
Defiled and unrepair'd,"'* they sharpen'd not 
Their blunted spears, the affrighted archer's hand 
Relax'd not his bent bow. To them, confused 
With fears of unknown danger, the long night 
Was dreadful, but more dreadful dawn'd the day. 

The morning came ; the martial Maid arose ; 
Lovely in arms she moved. Around the gate, 
Eager again for conquest, throng the troops. 
High tower'd the Son of Orleans, in his strength 
Poising the ponderous spear. His batter'd shield, 
Witnessing the fierce fray of yesternight, 
Hung on his sinewy arm. 

" Maiden of Arc," 
So as he spake approaching, cried the chief, 
" Well hast thou proved thy mission, as by words 
And miracles attested when dismay'd 
The grave theologists dismiss'd their doubts, 



BOOK VII. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



39 



So in the field of battle now confirm'd. 
Yon well-fenced forts protect the fugitives. 
And seem as in their strength they niock'd our force. 
Yet must they fall." 

" And fall they shall ! " replied 
The Maid of Orleans. " Ere the sun be set 
The lily on that shattered wall shall wave 
Triumphant. — Men of France ! ye have fought 

well 
On yon blood-reeking plain. Your humbled foes 
Lurk trembling now behind their massy walls. 
Wolves that have ravaged the neglected flock ! 
The Shepherd — the Great Shepherd is arisen ! 
Ye fly ! yet shall not ye by flight escape 
His vengeance. Men of Orleans ! it were vain 
By words to waken wrath within your breasts. 
Look round ! Your holy buildings and your 

homes — 
Ruins that choke the way I your populous town — 
One open sepulchre ! who is there here 
That does not mourn a friend, a brother slain, 
A parent famished, — or his dear, loved wife 
Torn from his bosom — outcast — broken-hearted — 
Cast on the mercy of mankind .' " 

She ceased; 
A cry of indignation from the host 
Burst forth, and all impatient for the war 
Demand the signal. These Dunois arrays 
In four battalions. Xaintrailles, tried in war, 
Commands the first ; Xaintrailles, who oftentimes 
Defeated, oft a prisoner, and as oft 
Released for ransom, both with friend and foe 
Growing repute of active hardihood, 
And martial skill obtained ; so erst from earth 
Antaeus vaunting in his giant bulk, 
When graspt by force Herculean, down he fell 
V^anquish'd, anon uprose more fierce for war. 

Gaucour the second battle led, true friend 
And faithful servant of the imprison'd Duke ; 
In counsel provident, in action prompt, 
Collected always, always self-controll'd, 
He from the soldiers' confidence and love 
Prompter obedience gain'd, than ever fear 
Forced from the heart reluctant. 

The third band 
Alen^on leads. On Verneuil's fatal field 
The day when Buchan and the Douglas died. 
Wounded and senseless with the loss of blood. 
He fell, and there being found, was borne away 
A prisoner, in the ills of that defeat 
Participant, partaking not the shame : 
But for his rank and high desert, the King 
Had ransom'd him, doom'd now to meet the foe 
With better fortune. 

O'er the last presides 
The bastard son of Orleans, great in arms. 
His prowess knew the foes, and his fair fame 
Acknowledged, since before his stripling arm 
Fled Warwick ; Warwick, he whose wide renown 
Greece knew, and Antioch, and the holy soil 
Of Palestine, since there in arms he went 
On gallant pilgrimage ; yet by Dunois 
Bafiled, and yielding him the conqueror's praise. 
And by his side the martial Maiden pass'd. 



Lovely in arms, as that Arcadian boy 
Parthenopa^us,^^^ when the war of beasts 
Disdaining, he to cope with men went forth, 
Bearing the bow and those Dictaean shafts 
Diana gave, when she the youth's fair form 
Saw, soften'd, and forgave the mother's fault. 

Loup's was the nearest fort. Here Gladdis- 

dale "« 
Commands the English, who as the enemy 
Moved to the assault, from bow and arbalist 
Their shafts and quarrels showered. Nor did they 

use 
Hand-weapons only and hand-engines here, 
Nor by the arm alone, or bow-string sped 
The missile flew, but driven by the strain'd force 
Of the balista,"''' in one body spent 
Stay'd not; through arms and men it made its way, 
And leaving death behind, still held its course 
By many a death unclogg'd. With rapid march 
Onward the assailants came ; and now they reach'd 
Where by the bayle's embattled wall "^ in arms 
The knights of England stood. There Poynings 

shook 
His lance, and Gladdisdale his heavy mace, 
For the death-blow prepared. Alenron here, 
And here the Bastard came, and by the Maid, 
That daring man who to the English host, 
Then insolent of many a conquest gain'd, 
Had borne her bidding. A rude coat of mail, 
Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line,"^ 
He wore, though here, amid the high-born chiefs 
Preeminent for prowess. On his head 
A black plume shadow'd the rude-featured helm.^'^° 
Then was the war of men, when front to front 
They rear'd the hostile hand, for low the wall 
Where an assailant's upward-driven spear 
Might reach his enemy. 

As AleuQon moved. 
On his crown-crested helm'^^ with ponderous blow 
Fell Gladdisdale's huge mace. Back he recoil'd 
Astounded; soon recovering, his sharp lance 
Thrust on the warrior's shield : there fast infixed, 
Nor could Alenron the deep-driven spear 
Recover, nor the foeman from his grasp 
Wrench the contended weapon. Fierce again 
He lifts the mace, that on the ashen hilt 
Fell full ; it shiver'd, and the Frenchman held 
A pointless truncheon. Where the Bastard fought. 
The spear of Poynings, through his plated mail 
Pierced, and against the iron fence beneath^^^ 
Blunted its point. Again he thrust the spear ; 
At once Dunois on his broad buckler met 
The unharming stroke, and aim'd with better hap 
His javelin. Through his sword-arm did it pierce 
Maugre the mail : hot from the streaming wound 
He pluck'd the weapon forth, and in his breast 
Clean through the hauberk drove. 

But there tlie war 
Raged fiercest where the martial Maiden moved 
A minister of wrath ; for thither throng'd 
The bravest champions of the adverse host. 
And on her either side two warriors stood 
Protecting her, and aiming at her foes 
Watchful their weapons, of themselves the while 



40 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK VII 



Little regarding : on the one side he 
Who to the English had her bidding borne ; 
Firmly he stood, untired and undismay'd, 
Though many a spear against his burgonet 
Was thrust, and on his arm the buckler hung 
Heavy, thick-bristled with the hostile shafts, 
Even like a porcupine, when in his rage 
Roused, he collects within him all his force, 
Himself a quiver. On the other hand. 
Competing with him to protect the Maid, 
Conrade maintain'd the fight ; at all points arm'd, 
A jazerent of double mail he wore ; 
Its weight in little time had wearied one 
Of common strength ; but unencumber'd he, 
And unfatigued, alertly moved in it, 
And wielded with both hands a battle-axe. 
Which gave no second stroke ; for Avhere it fell, 
Not the strong buckler nor the plated mail 
Might save, nor crested casque. On Molyn's head, 
As at the Maid he aim'd his javelin. 
Forceful it fell, and shiver'd with the blow 
The iron helm, and to his brain-pan drove 
The fragments. At his fall the enemy. 
Stricken with instantaneous fear, gave way. 
That instant Conrade, with an active bound. 
Sprung on the battlements ; ^'^'^ and there he stood, 
Keeping the ascent. The herald and the Maid 
Follow'd, and soon the exulting cry of France 
Along the lists was heard, as there they saw 
Her banner planted. Gladdisdale beheld, 
And hastened from his well-defended post, 
That where immediate danger more required 
There he might take his stand ; against the Maid 
He bent his way, and hoped one happy blow 
Might end at once the new-raised hopes of France, 
And by her death, to the English arms their old 
Ascendency restore. Nor did not Joan 
Areed his purpose, but with lifted shield 
Prepared she stood, and poised her sparkling spear. 
The English chief came on ; he raised his mace ; 
With circling force the iron weight swung high,^^* 
And Gladdisdale with his collected strength 
Impell'd the blow. The man of lowly line 
That instant rush'd between, and rear'd his shield. 
And met the broken stroke, and thrust his lance 
Clean through the gorget of the English knight. 
A gallant man, of no ignoble line. 
Was Gladdisdale. His sires had lived in peace ; 
They heap'd the hospitable hearth, they spread 
The feast, their vassals loved them, and afar 
The traveller told their fame. In peace they died. 
And to their ancient burial-place were borne 
With book and bell, torches, and funeral chant ; 
And duly for their souls the neighboring monks 
The solemn office sung. Now far away 
Their offspring falls, the last of all his race, 
Slain in a foreign land, and doom'd to share 
A common grave. 

Then terror seized the host, 
Their chieftain dead. And lo ! where on the wall 
Maintain'd of late by Gladdisdale so well. 
The Son of Orleans stands, and sways around 
His falchion, keeping thus at bay the foe, 
Till on the battlements his comrades climb 
And raise the shout of conquest. Then appall'd 



The English fled : nor fled they unpursued, 
For mingling with the foremost fugitives, 
The gallant Conrade rush'd; and with the throng; 
The knights of France together o'er the bridge 
Press'd forward. Nor the garrison within 
Durst let the ponderous portcullis fall, 
For in the entrance of the fort the fight 
Raged fiercely, and together through the gate 
The vanquish'd English and their eager foes 
Pass'd in the flying conflict. 

Well I deem 
And wisely did the heroic Spaniard act 
At Vera Cruz, when he his yet sound ships 
Dismantling, left no spot where treacherous fear 
Might still with wild and wistful eye look back . 
For knowing no retreat, his desperate troops 
In conquest sought their safety ; victors hence 
At Tlascala, and o'er the Cholulans, 
And by Otompan, on that bloody field 
When Mexico her patriot thousands pour'd, 
Fierce in vain valor, on their dreadful foes. 
There was a portal in the English fort 
Which open'd on the wall ; '^^ a speedier path 
In the hour of safety, whence the soldier's eye 
Might overlook the river's pleasant course. 
Fierce in the gate-way raged the deadly war ; 
For there the Maiden strove, and Conrade there,' 
And he of lowly line, bravelier than whom 
Fought not in that day's battle. Of success 
Desperate, for from above the garrison 
(Lest upon friend and enemy alike 
The indiscriminating blow should light) 
Could give no aid, the English of that way 
Bethought them; by that egress they forsook 
St. Loup's, and the Orleanites with shouts of joy- 
Beheld the Virgin's banner on its height 
In triumph planted. Swift along the wall 
The English haste to St. John's neighboring fort, 
Flying with fearful speed. Nor from pursuit 
The victors ceased, but with the fugitives 
Mingled and waged the war ; and combatants, 
Lock'd in each other's grasp, together fell 
Precipitate. 

But foremost of the French, 
Dealing destruction, Conrade made his way 
Along tlie wall, and to the nearest fort 
Came in pursuit ; nor did not then the chief 
What most might serve bethink him ; but he took 
His stand in the portal, and first looking back, 
Lifted his voice aloud ; three times he raised, 
Cheering and calling on his countrymen. 
That voice o'er all the uproar heard afar, 
Then to the strife addrest himself, assail' d 
By numerous foes, who clamorously now 
Menaced his single person. He the while 
Stood firm, not vainly confident, or rash, 
But in his vantage more than his own strength 
Trusting ; for narrow was the portal way. 
To one alone fit passage, from above 
Not overbrow'd by jutting parapet,i26 
Whence aught might crush him. He in double mail 
Was arm'd ; a massy burgonet, well tried 
In many a hard-fought field, helming his head ; 
And fenced with iron plates, a buckler broad 
Huntr from his neck. Nor to dislodge the chief 



BOOK VII. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



41 



, Could the English bring their numbers, for the way 
By upward steps presented from the fort 
») A narrow ascent, where one alone could meet 

I The war. Yet were they of their numbers proud, 
Though useless numbers were in that strait path, 
Save by assault unceasing to outlast 
A single warrior, who at length must sink 
Fatigued with slaughter, and by toil fo redone 
Succumb. 

There was amid the garrison 
A gallant knight who at Verneuil had fought, 
And good renown for feats of arms achieved 
Had gain'd in that day's victory. For him 
His countrymen made way, and he his lance 
Thrust upward against Conrade, who perceived 
The intent, and, as the weapon touchd his shield, 
Smote with his battle-axe the ashen shaft ; 
Then plucking from the shield the severed head, 
He threw it back.*^ Witli wary bend the foe 
Shrunk from the flying death ; yet not in vain 
From that strong hand the fate-fraught weapon tie w : 
Full on the corselet of a meaner man ^^ 
It fell, and pierced him where the heaving lungs, 
In vital play distended, to the heart 
Roll back their brighten'd tide : from the deep 

wound 
The red blood gush'd ; prone on the steps he fell. 
And in the strong, convulsive grasp of death 
Grasp'd his long pike. Of unrecorded name 
The soldier died ; and yet he left behind 
One who then never said her daily prayers 
Of him forgetful ; who to every tale 
Of the distant war lending an eager ear. 
Grew pale and trembled. At her cottage door 
The wretched one shall sit, and with fix'd (>ye 
Gaze on the path, where on his parting steps 
Her last look hung. Nor ever shall she know 
Her husband dead, but cherishing a hope, 
Whose falsehood inwardly she knows too well. 
Feel life itself with that false hope decay ; 
And wake at night from miserable dreams 
Of his return, and weeping o'er her babe. 
Too surely think that soon that fatherless child 
Must of its mother also be bereft. 

Dropping his broken spear, the exasperate knight 
Drew forth the sword, and up the steps advanced. 
Like one who disregarded in his strength 
The enemy's vantage, destined to abide 
That rashness dearly. Conrade stood prepared. 
Held forth his buckler, and his battle-axe 
Uplifted. Where the buckler was beneath 
Rounded, the falchion struck, a bootless blow 
To pierce its plated folds ; more forcefully 
Full on his crested helm the battle-axe 
Descended, driving in both crest and crown ; 
From the knight's eyes, at that death-stroke, the 

blood 
Started ; with blood the chambers of the brain 
Were fill'd ; his breastplate with convulsive throes 
Heaved as he fell. Victorious, he the prize 
At many a tournament had borne away 
In mimic war ; happy, if so content 
With bloodless glory, he had never left 
The mansion of his sires. 
6 



But terrified 
The English stood, nor durst adventure now 
Near that death-doing foe. Amid tlieir host 
Was one wlio well could from the stubborn yew 
Send his sharp shafts ; well skill'd in wood-crafl he, 
Even as the merry outlaws wlio tlieir haunts 
In Sherwood held, and bade their bugles rouse 
The sleeping stag, ere on the web-woven grass 
The dew-drops sparkled to the rising sun. 
He safe in distance at the warrior aim'd 
The feather'd dart; with force he drew the bow; 
Loud on his bracer struck the sounding string. 
And swift and strong the well-fledged arrow flew. 
It pierced the shield, and reach'd, but reach'd in vain. 
The breastplate : while he fitted to the bow 
A second arrow, Conrade raised his voice, 
Sliouting for timely succor to secure 
The entrance he had gain'd. Nor was the call 
Unheard, nor unobeyd ; responsive shouts 
Announced assistance nigh ; the Orleanites 
From St. Loup's captured fort along the wall 
Sped to support him ; cheering was the sound 
Of their near footsteps to the chief; he drew 
His falchion forth, and down the steps he went. 
Then terror seized the English, for their foes 
Press'd through the open portal, and the sword 
Of Conrade was among them making way. 
Not to the Trojans when their ships were lost 
More dreadful the Rutilian hero seem'd. 
Then hoping well to right himself in arms ; 
Nor with more fury through the streets of Paris 
llush'd the fierce king of Sarza, Rodomont, 
Clad in his dragon mail. 

Like some tall rock, 
Around whose billow-beaten foot the waves 
Spend their vain force, unshaken Conrade stood, 
When, drawing courage from despair, the foe 
Rene w'd the contest. Through the throng he hew'd 
His way unhurt amid the arrowy shower. 
Though on his shield and helm the darts fell fast. 
As the sear'd leaves that from the trembling tree 
The autumnal whirlwind shakes. Nor did he pause 
Till to the gate he came, and with strong hand 
Seized on the massy bolts. These as he drew, 
Full on his helm a weighty English sword 
Descended ; swift he turn'd to wreak his wrath, 
When lo ! the assailant gasping on the ground. 
Cleft by the Maiden's falchion : she herself 
To the foe opposing with her herald's aid. 
For they alone, following the adventurous steps 
Of Conrade, still kept pace as he advanced. 
Shielded him while with eager hand he drew 
The bolts : the gate turn'd slow ; forth leapt the chief. 
And shiver'd with his battle-axe the chains 
That held on high the bridge : down fell the bridge 
Rebounding ; the victorious troops rush'd in ; 
And from their walls the Orleanites with shouts 
And tears of joy beheld on Fort St. John 
The lilies wave, 

" On to Fort London ! on ! " 
Cried Conrade ; '• Xaintrailles ! while the day 

endures 
Once more advance to certain victory ! 
Force ye the lists, and fill the moat, and bring 
The battering-ram against their gates and walla 



42 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK VII 



Anon I shall be with you. Thus he said ; 
Then to the damsel. " Maid of Arc ! awhile 
Let thou and I withdraw, and by short rest 
Renew our strength." So saying he his helm 
Unlaced, and in the Loire's near flowmg stream 
Cool'd his hot face. The Maid her head unhelm'd, 
And stooping to the stream, reflected there 
SaAv her white plumage stain' d with human blood ! 
Shuddering she saw, but soon her steady soul 
Collected : on the banks she laid her down, 
Freely awhile respiring, for her breath 
Still panted from the fight : silent they lay, 
And gratefully the cooling breezes bathed 
Their throbbing temples. 

Eve was drawing on : 
The sunbeams on the gently-waving stream 
Danced sparkling. Lost in thought the warrior lay ; 
Then as if wakening from a dream he said, 
" Maiden of Arc ! at such an hour as this. 
Beneath the o'erarching forest's checker'd shade, 
With that lost woman have I wander'd on, 
Talking of years of happiness to come ! 
Oh ! hours forever fled ! delightful hopes 
Of the unsuspecting heart ! I do believe 
If Agnes on a worthier one had fix'd 
Her love, that though my heart had nurst till death 
Its sorrows, I had never on her choice 
Cast one upbraiding — but to stoop to him I 
A harlot ! — an adulteress ! " ^-^ 

In his eye 
Fierce anger flash'dj anon of what she was 
Ere the contagious vices of the court 
Polluted her, he thought. " Oh, happy age ! " 
He cried, '* when all the family of man 
Freely enjoy'd their goodly heritage, 
And only bow'd the knee in prayer to God ! 
Calm flow'd the unruffled stream of years along, 
Till o'er the peaceful rustic's head the hair 
Grew gray in full of time. Then he would sit 
Beneath the coetaneous oak, while round, 
Sons, grandsons, and their offspring join'd to form 
The blameless merriment; and learnt of him 
What time to yoke the oxen to the plough, 
What hollow moanings of the western wind 
Foretell the storm, and in what lurid clouds 
The embryo lightning lies. Well pleased, he taught, 
A heart-smile glowing on his aged cheek, 
Mild as the summer sun's decaying light. 
Thus quietly the stream of life flow'd on, 
Till in the shoreless ocean lost at length. 
Around the bed of death his numerous race 
Listen'd, in no unprofitable grief. 
His last advice, and caught his latest sigh : 
And when he died, as he had fallen asleep, 
in his own ground, and underneath the tree 
Which, planted at his birth, with him had grown, 
And flourish'd in its strength when he decay'd, 
They delved the narrow house : where oft at eve 
Their children's children gathered round to hear 
The example of Jiis life and death impress'd. 
Maiden 1 and such the evening of my days 
Fondly I hoped ; and would that I had lived 
In those old times,^^'^ or till some better age 
Slumber'd unborn; for this is a hard race, 
An evil generation ; nor by day 



Nor in the night have respite from their cares 
And wretchedness. But I shall be at rest 
Soon, in that better world of peace and love 
Where evil is not : in that better world, 
Joan ! we shall meet, and he too will be there, 
Thy Theodore." 

Soothed by his words, the Maid 
Had listen'd sadly, till at that loved name 
She wept. " Nay, Maid ! ' ' he cried, " I did not think 
To wake a tear; — yet pleasant is thy grief! 
Thou know'st not what it is, around thy heart 
To have a false one wreathe in viper folds. 
But to the battle ! in the clang of arms. 
We win forgetfulness." 

Then from the bank 
He sprung, and helm'd his head. The Maid arose, 
Bidding awhile adieu to gentle thoughts. 
On to the fort they speed, whose name recall'd 
England's proud capital to the English host. 
Now half subdued, anticipating death, 
And vainly wishing they from her white cliffs 
Had never spread the sail. Cold terror creeps 
Through every nerve : already they look round 
With haggard eyes, as seeking where to fly, 
Though Talbot there presided, with their chief, 
The dauntless Salisbury. 

" Soldiers, tried in arms ! " 
Thus, hoping to revive with gallant speech 
Their courage, Salisbury spake ; " Brave country- 
men, 
Victorious in so many a hard-fought fight, 
What — shrink ye now dismay 'd ? Oh call to mind 
The plains of Agincourt, where vanquish' d France 
Fled with her thousands from your fathers' arms ? 
Have ye forgotten how our English swords. 
On that illustrious day before Verneuil, 
Cut down the flower of all their chivalry ? 
Then was that noble heart of Douglas pierced,^^^ 
Bold Buchan bit the earth, and Narbonne died, 
And this Alenqon, boaster as he is. 
Cried mercy to his conqueror. Shall I speak 
Of our victorious banner on the walls 
Of Yenville and Baugenci triumphing ; 
And of that later hour of victory 
When Clermont and the Bastard plied their spurs .'' 
Shame ! shame ! that beaten boy is here in arms, 
And ye will fly before the fugitives, — 
Fly from a woman ! from a frantic girl ! 
Who with her empty mummeries tries to blast 
Your courage ; or if miracles she bring. 
Aid of the Devil ! Who is there among you 
False to his country, — to his former fame, 
To your old leader who so many a time 
Hath led ye on to glory ? " 

From the host 
There came a heartless shout; then Talbot's cheek 
Grew red with indignation. '* Earl ! " said he, 
Addressing Salisbury, " there is no hope 
From these white-liver'd dastards, and this fort 
Will fall an easy conquest. We must out 
And gain the Tournelles, better fortified, 
Fit to endure a siege : that hope in view, 
Cow'd as they are, the men from very fear 
May gather what will do for this poor turn 
The work of courage." 



BOOK VII. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



43 



Bravely thus he spake, 
Advising well, and Salisbury replied : 
" Rightly thou say'st. But. Talbot, could we reach 
The sorceress in the battle, one sure blow 
Might give us back, this hour, the mastery 
So marvellously lost : nor difficult 
To meet the wench, for from the battlements 
I have beheld her foremost in attack. 
Playing right valiantly the soldier's part. 
In her the enemy have their strength; with her 
Their strength would fall. And had we her but once 
Within arm-stroke, witch though she be, raethinks 
Pier devilry could neither blunt the edge 
Of thy good sword, or mine." 

Thus communed they, 
And through the host the gladdening tidings ran, 
That they should seek the Tournelles. Then their 

hearts 
Gather'd new strength, placing on those strong 

walls 
Dependence ; oh vain hope ! for neither wall, 
Nor moat, nor fort can save, if fear within 
Palsy the soldier's arm. 

Them issuing forth. 
As from the river's banks they pass'd along, 
The Maid beheld " Lo ! Conrade ! " she exclaim'd, 
" The foe advance to meet us — look ! they lower 
The bridge ! and now they rush upon the troops : — 
A gallant onset ! Dost thou mark the man 
Who all this day has by our side endured 
The hottest conflict ? Often 1 beheld 
Kis feats with wonder, but his prowess now 
Makes all his actions in the former fight 
Seem as of no account : knowest thou him .'' 
There is not one, amid the host of France, 
Of fairer promise." 

" He," the chief replied, 
" Wretched and prodigal of life, achieves 
The exploits of despair ; a gallant youth, 
Widow'd like me of hope, and but for whom 
I had been seen among mankind no more. 
Maiden ! with me thy comrade in the war. 
His arm is vow'dto heaven. Lo ! where he stands 
Bearing the battle's brunt ! " 

Nor paused they now 
In further converse, to the perilous fray 
Speeding, not unobserved ; for Salisbury saw 
And call'd on Talbot. Six, the bravest knights, 
And sworn with them, against the Virgin's life 
Address'd their course. She by the herald's side 
Now urged the war, when on her white-plumed helm 
The hostile falchion fell. On high she lifts 
That hallowed sword, which in the tomb for her 
Age after age, by miracle reserved. 
Had lain, which time itself could not corrode. 
How then might shield, or breastplate, or close mail 
Rotund its edge ? Beneath that edge her foe 
Fell ; and the knight who to avenge him came, 
Smitten by Conrade 's battle-axe, was fell'd 
Upon his dying friend. With Talbot here 
The daring herald urged unequal fight ; 
For, like some oak that in its rooted strength 
Defies the storm, the undaunted Earl endured 
His quick assault. The herald round him wheels 
Rapidly, now on this side, now on that, 



With many a feign'd and many a frustrate aim 

Flashing his falchion ; now, as he perceives 

With wary eye the Earl's intended stroke, 

Bending, or leaping, lithe of limb, aside. 

Then quick and agile in assault again. 

Ill-fated man ! one deed of glory more 

Shall with the short-lived lightning's splendor 

grace 
This thy death-day; for Slaughter even now 
Stands o'er thy loom of life, and lifts his sword. 

Upon her shield the martial Maid received 
An English warrior's blow, and in his side, 
Beneath the arm upraised, in prompt return 
Pierced him : that instant Salisbury sped his sword, 
Which, glancing from her helm, fell on the folds 
That arm'd her neck, and making there its Avay, 
Stain'd with her blood its edge. The herald saw, 
And turn'd from Talbot, heedless of himself, 
And lifting up his falchion, all his force 
Concentred. On the breast of Salisbury 
It fell, and cleft his mail, and through the plate 
Beneath it drove, and in his heart's blood plunged. 
Lo ! as he struck, the mighty Talbot came. 
And smote his helmet : slant the weapon fell ; 
The strings gave way, the helmet dropt, the Earl 
Repeated on that head disarm'd his blow : 
Too late to interpose the Maiden saw. 
And in that miserable moment knew 
Her Theodore, 

Him Conrade too had seen, 
And from a foe whom he had beaten down 
Turn'd terrible in vengeance. Front to front 
They stood, and each for the death-blow prepared 
His angry might. At once their weapons fell. 
The Frenchman's battle-axe and the good sword 
Of Talbot. He, stunn'd by the weighty blow, 
Sunk senseless, by his followers from the field 
Convey'd with timely speed : nor had his blade 
Fallen vainly on the Frenchman's crested helm, 
Though weak to wound ; for from his eyes the fire 
Sparkled, and back recoiling with the blow, 
He in the Maiden's arms astounded fell. 

But now their troops, all captainless, confused, 
Fear seized the English. Not with more dismay, 
When over wnld CafFraria's wooded hills 
Echoes the lion's roar, the timid herd 
Fly the death-boding sound. The forts they seek, 
Now reckless w4iich, so from that battle's rage 
A present refuge. On their flying ranks 
The victors press, and mark their course with blood. 

But loud the trumpet of retreat resounds, 
For now the westering sun with many a hue 
Streak'd the gay clouds. 

" Dunois ! " the Maiden cried, 
" Form now around yon stronger pile the siege. 
There for the night encamping." So she said. 
The chiefs to Orleans for their needful food, 
And enginery to batter that huge pile, 
Dismiss'd a troop, and round the Tournelles led 
The host beleaguering. There they pitch their tents, 
And plant their engines for the morrow's war. 
Then, to their meal, and o'er the cheerful bowl 



44 



JOAN OF ARC. 



Recount the tale of danger ; soon to rest 
Betaking them ; for now the night drew on. 



THE EIGHTH BOOK. 

Now was the noon of night, and all was still, 
Save where the sentinel paced on his rounds 
Humming a broken song. Along the camp 
High flames the frequent fire. The Frenchmen 

there, 
On the bare earth extended, rest their limbs 
Fatigued ; their spears lay by them, and the shield 
Pillow' d the helmed head : ^^^ secure they slept. 
And busy in their dreams they fought again 
The fight of yesterday. 

But not to Joan, 
But not to her, most wretched, came thy aid. 
Soother of sorrows. Sleep ! no more her pulse, 
Amid the battle's tumult throbbing fast, 
Allow'd no pause for thought. With clasp'd hands 

now 
And with fix'd eyes she sat, and in her mind 
The spectres of the days departed rose, 
A melancholy train ! Upon the gale 
The raven's croak was heard ; she started then, 
And passing through the camp with hasty step, 
She sought the field of blood. 

The night was calm ; 
Nor ever clearer welkin canopied 
Chaldea, while the watchful shepherd's eye 
Survey 'd the host of heaven, and mark'd them rise 
Successive, and successively decay, 
Lost in the stream of light, as lesser springs 
Amid Euphrates' current. The high wall 
Cast a deep shadow, and the Maiden's feet 
Stumbled o'er carcasses and broken arms ; 
And sometimes did she hear the heavy groan 
Of one yet struggling in the pangs of death; 
She reach'd the spot where Theodore was slain 
Before Fort London's gate ; but vainly there 
Sought she the youth, on every clay-cold face 
Gazing with such a look as though she fear'd 
*rhe thing she sought.^^^ And much she marvell'd 

then. 
For there the victim of his vengeful arm. 
And close beside where he himself had fallen, 
Known by the buckler's blazon' d heraldry, 
Salisbury lay dead. So as the Virgin stood 
Looking around the plain, she mark'd a man 
Pass slowly on, as burden'd. Him to aid 
She sped, and soon with unencumber'd speed 
O'ertaking, thus bespake him: "Dost thou bear 
Some slaughter' d friend? oris it one whose wounds 
Leave yet a hope of life ? oh ! if he lives, 
1 will with earnest prayer petition Heaven 
To shed its healing on him ! " 

So she said. 
And as she spake stretch'd forth her careful hands 
To ease the burden. " Warrior ! " he replied, 
" Thanks for thy proifer'd aid : but he hath ceased 
To suffer, and my strength may well suffice 
To bear him hence for burial. Fare thee well ! 



The night is far advanced ; thou to the camp 
Return : it fits not darkling thus to stray." 

"Conrade!" the Maid exclaim'd, for well she 
knew 
His voice : — With that she fell upon his neck 
And cried, "'My Theodore ! — But wherefore thus 
Through the dead midnight dost thou bear his 



" Peace, Maiden ! " Conrade cried, " collect thy 
soul ! 
He is but gone before thee to that world 
Whither thou soon must follow ! Yestermorn, 
Ere yet from Orleans to the war we went, 
He pour'd his tale of sorrow on mine ear. 
' Lo, Conrade, where she moves ! beloved Maid ! 
Devoted for the realm of France she goes. 
Abandoning for this the joys of life. 
Yea — life itself! Yet on my heart her words 
Vibrate. If she must perish in the war, 
I will not live to bear the thought that I 
Perhaps might have preserved her. I will go 
In secret to protect her. If I fall, — 
And trust me I have little love of life, — 
Do thou in secret bear me from the field. 
Lest haply I might meet her wandering eye 
A mangled corpse. She must not know my fate. 
Do this last act of friendship, and in the stream 
Cast me, — she then may think of Theodore 
Without a pang.' Maiden, I vow'd with him 
To take our place in battle by thy side, 
And make thy safety our peculiar care. 
And now I hoped thou hadst not seen him fall." 

Saying thus, he laid the body on the ground. 
With steady eye the wretched Maiden view'd 
That life-left tenement : his batter' d arms 
Were with the night-dews damp ; his brown liair 

clung 
Gore-clotted in the v/ound, and one loose lock 
Play'd o'er his cheek's black paleness.^^'^ " Gallant 

youth ! " 
She cried, " I would to God the hour were come 
When I might meet thee in the bowers of bliss ! 
No, Theodore ! the sport of winds and waves, 
Thy body shall not float adown the stream ! 
Bear him with me to Orleans, there to rest 
In holy ground, where priests may say their prayers 
And hymn the requiem to his parted soul. 
So will not Elinor in bitterness 
Lament that no dear friend to her dead child 
Paid the last office." 

From the earth they lift 
Their mournful burden, and along the plain 
Pass with slov/ footsteps to the city gate. 
The obedient sentinel, knowing Conrade 's voice, 
Admits them at that hour, and on they go, 
Till in the neighboring abbey's porch arrived 
They rest the lifeless load. 

Loud rings the bell ; 
The awaken'd porter turns the heavy door. 
To him the Virgin : " Father, from the slain 
On yonder field, a dear-loved friend we bring 
Hither for Christian sepulture • chant ye 



BOOK VIII. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



45 



The requiem to his soul : to-morrow eve 
I will return, and in the narrow house 
Will see him laid to rest." The father knew 
The Prophetess, and humbly bow'd assent. 

Now from the city, o'er the shadowy plain, 
Backward they bend their way. From silent 

thoughts 
The Maid awakening cried, " There was a time, 
When thinking on my closing hour of life, 
Though with a mind resolved, some natural fears 
Shook my weak frame ; but now the happy hour, 
When this emancipated soul shall burst 
The cumbrous fetters of mortality, 
I look for wishfully. Conrade ! my friend. 
This wounded heart would feel another pang 
Shouldst thou forsake me." 

" Joan ! " the chief replied, 
" Along the weary pilgrimage of life 
Together will we journey, and beguile 
The painful way with hope, — such hope as, fix'd 
On heavenly things, brings with it no deceit, 
Lays up no food for sorrow, and endures 
From disappointment safe." 

Thus communing 
They reach'd the camp, yethush'd ; there separating. 
Each in the post allotted restless waits 
The day-break. 

Morning came : dim through the shade 
The twilight glimmers; soon the brightening 

clouds 
Imbibe the rays, and o'er the landscape spread 
The dewy light. The soldiers from the earth 
Arise invigorate, and each his food 
Receives, impatient to renew the war. 
Dunois his javelin to the Tournelles points — 
" Soldiers of France ! behold, your foes are there ! " 
As when a band of hunters, round the den 
Of some wood-monster, point their spears, elate 
In hope of conquest and the future feast. 
When on the hospitable board their spoil 
Shall smoke, and they, as foaming bowls go round, 
Tell to their guests their exploits in the chase, 
They with their shouts of exultation make 
The forest ring ; so elevate of heart, 
With such loud clamors for the fierce assault 
The French prepare. Nor, keeping now the lists 
Dare the disheartened English man to man 
Meet the close conflict. From the barbican, ^^^ 
Or from the embattled wall ^^^ at random they 
Their arrows and their death-fraught enginery 
Discharged; meantime the Frenchmen did not 

cease 
With well-directed shafts their loftier foes 
To assail : behind the guardian pavais fenced,^^''' 
They at the battlements their arrows aim'd. 
Showering an iron storm, whilst o'er the bayle, 
The bayle now levell'd by victorious France, 
The assailants pass'd with all their mangonels ; ^-^^ 
Or tortoises,^^^ beneath whose roofing safe. 
They, filling the deep moat, might for the towers 
Make fit foundation ; or with petraries. 
War- wolves, and beugles, and that murderous sling 
The matafund, from whence the ponderous stone 
Made but one wound of him whom in its way 



It met ; no pious hand might then compose 
The crush' d and mangled corpse to be conveyed 
To where his fathers slept : a dreadful train ^^'^ 
Prepared by Salisbury o'er the town besieged 
For hurling ruin ; but that dreadful train 
Must hurl its ruin on the invader's head ; 
Such retribution righteous Heaven decreed. 

Nor lie the English trembling, for the fort 
Was ably garrison'd. Glacidas, the chief, 
A gallant man, sped on from place to place 
Cheering the brave ; or if an arclier's hand. 
Palsied with fear, shot wide his ill-aim'd shaft, 
Driving him from the ramparts with reproach 
And shame. He bore an arbalist himself, 
A weapon for its sure destructivcness 
Abominated once;'-*^ wherefore of yore 
The assembled fathers of the Christian church 
Pronounced the man accursed whose impious hand 
Should use the murderous engine. Such decrees 
Befitted them, as ministers of peace, 
To promulgate, and with a warning voice, 
To cry aloud and spare not, ' Woe to them 
Whose hands are full of blood ! ' 

An English king, 
The lion-hearted Richard, their decree 
First broke, and rightly was he doom'd to fall 
By that forbidden weapon ; since that day 
Frequent in fields of battle, and from far 
To many a good knight bearing his death wound 
From hands unknown. With such an instrument 
Arm'd on the ramparts, Glacidas his eye 
Cast on the assailing host. A keener glance 
Darts not the hawk when from the feather'd tribe 
He marks his prey. 

A Frenchman for his aim 
He chose, who kneeling by the trebuchet. 
Charged its long sling with death. '■'^ Him Glacidas, 
Secure behind the battlements, beheld. 
And strung his bow ; then bending on one knee, 
He in the groove the feather'd quarrel placed,^'^ 
And levelling with sure eye, his victim mark'd. 
The bow-string twang'd, swifl on its way the dart 
Whizz'd, and it struck, there where the helmet's 

clasps 
Defend the neck ; a weak protection now, 
For through the tube which draws the breath of life 
Pierced the keen shaft ; blood down the unwonted 

way 
Gush'd to the lungs : prone fell the dying man 
Grasping, convulsed, the earth ; a hollow groan 
In his throat struggled, and the dews of death 
Stood on his livid cheek. The days of youth 
He had pass'd peaceful, and had known what joys 
Domestic love bestows, the father once 
Of two fair children ; in the city hemm'd 
During the siege, he had beheld their cheeks 
Grow pale with famine, and had heard their cries 
For bread. His wife, a broken-hearted one, 
Sunk to the cold grave's quiet, and her babes 
With hunger pined, and follow'd ; he survived, 
A miserable man, and heard the shouts 
Of joy in Orleans, when the Maid approach'd. 
As o'er the corpse of his last little one 
He heap'd the unhallowed earth. To him the foe 



46 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK VIII 



Perform'd a friendly part, hastening the hour 
Grief else had soon brought on. 

The English chief, 
Pointing again his arbalist, let loose 
The string ; the quarrel, by that impact driven, 
True to its aim, fled fatal : one it struck 
Dragging a tortoise to the moat, and fix'd 
Deep in his liver ; blood and mingled gall 
Flow'd from the wound, and writhing with keen 

pangs. 
Headlong he fell. He for the wintry hour 
Knew many a merry ballad and quaint tale, 
A man in his small circle well beloved. 
None better knew with prudent hand to guide 
The vine's young tendrils, or at vintage time 
To press the full-swollen clusters ; he, heart-glad. 
Taught his young boys the little all he knew, 
Enough for happiness. The English host 
Laid waste his fertile fields : he, to the war. 
By want compelled, adventured, in his gore 
Wow weltering. 

Nor the Gallic host remit 
Their eager efforts ; some, the watery fence, 
Beneath the tortoise roofed, with engines apt 
Drain painful j^'*^ part, laden with wood, throw 

there 
Their buoyant burdens, laboring so to gain 
Firm footing : some the mangonels supply. 
Or charging with huge stones the murderous 

sling,i4^ 

Or petrary, or in the espringal 
Fix the brass-winged arrows : ^^^ hoarse around 
The uproar and the din of multitudes 
Arose. Along the ramparts Gargrave went. 
Cheering the English troops ; a bow he bore ; 
The quiver rattled as he moved along. 
He knew aright to aim his feathered shafts, 
Well skilled to pierce the mottled roebuck's side, 
O'ertaken in his speed. Him passing on, 
A ponderous stone from some huge martinet,^^''' 
Struck : on his breastplate falling, the huge weight 
Shattered the bone, and to his mangled lungs 
Drove in the fragments. On the gentle brow 
Of a fair hill, wood-circled, stood his home, 
A stately mansion, far and wide from whence 
The sight ranged unimpeded, and surveyed 
Streams, hills, and forests, fair variety ! 
The traveller knew its hospitable towers, 
For open were the gates, and blazed for all 
The friendly fire. By glory lured, the youth 
Went forth 5 and he had bathed his falchion's edge 
In many a Frenchman's blood; now crush'd beneath 
The ponderous fragments' force, his lifeless limbs 
Lie quivering. 

Lo ! towards the levelled moat, 
A moving tower, the men of Orleans wheel ^^s 
Four stages elevate. Above was hung, 
Equalling the walls, a bridge ; in the lower stage 
A battering-ram : within a chosen troop 
Of archers, through the opening, shot their 

shafts.149 
In the loftiest part was Conrade, so prepared 
To mount the rampart; for, no hunter he, 
He loved to see the dappled foresters 
Browze fearless on their lair, with friendly eye, 



And happy in beholding happiness, 

Not meditating death : the bowman's art 

Therefore he little knew, nor was he wont 

To aim the arrow at the distant foe. 

But uprear in close conflict, front to front, 

His battle-axe, and break the shield and helm, 

First in the war of men. There too the Maid 

Awaits, impatient on the wall to wield 

Her falchion. Onward moves the heavy tower, 

Slow o'er the moat and steady, though the foe 

Showered there their javelins, aimed their engines 

there, 
And from the arbalist the fire-tlpt dart 
Shot burning through the sky .^^"^ In vain it flamed 
For well with many a reeking hide secured. 
Passed on the dreadful pile, and now it reached 
The wall. Below, with forceful impulse driven, ' 
The iron headed engine swings its stroke, 
Then back recoils ; while they within who guide, 
In backward step collecting all their strength. 
Anon the massy beam with stronger arm 
Drive full and fierce. So rolls the swelling sea 
Its curly billows to the unmoved foot 
Of some huge promontory, whose broad base 
Breaks the rough wave ; the shivered surge rolls 

back. 
Till, by the coming billow borne, it bursts 
Again, and foams with ceaseless violence : 
The wanderer, on the sunny clift outstretched, 
Harks to the roaring surges, as they rock ^ 

His weary senses to forgetfulness. 

But nearer danger threats the invaders now, 
For on the ramparts, lowered from above 
The bridge reclines. ^^^ A universal shout 
Rose from the hostile hosts. The exultant French 
Break out in loud rejoicing, whilst the foe 
Raise a responsive cry, and call aloud 
For speedy succor there, with deafening shout 
Cheering their comrades. Not with louder din 
The mountain torrent flings precipitate 
Its bulk of waters, though amid the fall 
Shattered, and dashing silvery from the rock. 

Lo ! on the bridge forth comes the undaunted man, 
Conrade ! the gathered foes along the wall 
Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes, 
Cresting with armed men the battlements. 
He undismayed, though on that perilous height, 
Stood firm, and hurled his javelin ; the keen point 
Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm 
Joined the broad breast : a wound which skilful care 
Haply had healed ; but, him disabled now 
For further service, the unpitying throng 
Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall 
Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to throw 
His deadly javelins fast, for well within 
The tower was stored with weapons, to his hand 
Quickly supplied. Nor did the missioned Maid 
Rest idle from the combat; she, secure. 
Aimed the keen quarrel ; taught the crossbow's use 
By the willing mind that what it well desires 
Gains aptly : nor amid the numerous throng. 
Though haply erring from their destined mark, 
Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower 



BOOK VIII. 



JOAN OF ARC 



47 



Ceaseless the bow-strings twang : the knights below, 

Eacli by his pavais bulwarked, thither aimed 

Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there; 

So thickly thronged they stood, and fell as fast 

As when the monarch of the East goes forth 

From Gemna's banks and the proud palaces 

Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood 

Die in the blameless warfare : closed within 

The still-contracting circle, their brute force 

Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there, 

Or by each other's fury lacerate, 

The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance 

Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain. 

Rajah or Omrah, in the war of beasts 

Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. 

Shouts of alarm ring now along the wall. 
For now the French their scaling-ladders place, 
And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault 
Mount fearless : from above the furious troops 
Fling down such weapons as inventive care 
Or frantic rage supplies : huge stones and beams 
Crush the assailants ; some, thrust from the height. 
Fall living to their death; tormented, some, 
And writhing wildly as the liquid lead 
Consumes their flesh, leap desperately down. 
To end their pain by death. Still others mount. 
And by their fellows' fate unterrified. 
Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless 
To the English was the fight, though where they 

stood 
The vantage-place was theirs ; for them amidst 
Fast fled the arrows there ; and brass- wing 'd darts. 
There driven resistless from the espringal, 
Keeping their impulse even in the wound. 
Whirl as they pierce the victim. ^^- Some fall 

crush'd 
Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends 
The heavier from its height : some the long lance. 
Whizzing impetuous on its viewless way, 
Transfix'd. The cannon ever and anon 
With thunder rent the air ; conflicting shouts 
And war-cries French and English rung around, 
And Saints and Devils were invoked in prayers 
And execrations, Heaven and Hell adjured. 

Conrade, meantime, who stood upon the bridge, 
With many a well-aim'd javelin dealing death. 
Made way upon the rampart, and advanced 
With wary valor o'er his slaughter'd foes. 
Two youths, the boldest of the English host. 
Essay 'd to thrust him from that perilous height; 
At once they press 'd upon him : he, his axe 
Dropping, the dagger drew : one through the throat 
He pierced, and swinging his broad buckler round, 
Struck down his comrade. Even thus unmoved, 
Stood Corineus,^^^ the sire of Guendolen, 
When, grappling with his monstrous enemy. 
He the brute vastness held aloft, and bore, 
And headlong hurl'd, all shatter'd to the sea, 
Down from the rock's high summit, since that day 
Him, hugest of the giants, chronicling. 
Called Langoemagog. 

Behold, the Maid 
Bounds o'er the bridge, and to the wind displays 



Her hallowed banner. At that welcome sight 
A general shout of acclamation rose. 
And loud, as when the trumpest-tossing forest 
Roars to the roaring wind. Then terror seized 
The garrison; and fired anew with hope, 
The fierce assailants to their prize rush on 
Resistless, Vainly do their English foes 
Hurl there their beams, and stones, and javelins, 
And firebrands ; fearless in the escalade, 
The assailants mount, and now upon the wall 
Wage equal battle. 

Burning at the sight 
With indignation, Glacidas beheld 
His troops fly scattered; fast on every side 
The foe up-rushing eager to their spoil ; 
The holy standard waving ; and the Maid 
Fierce in pursuit. " Speed but this arrow, 

Heaven! " 
The chief exclaim'd, "and I shall fall content." 
So saying, he his sharpest quarrel chose, 
And fix'd the bow-string, and against the Maid 
Levelling, let loose : her arm was raised on high 
To smite a fugitive ; he glanced aside, 
Shunning her deadly stroke, and thus received 
The chieftain's arrow : through his ribs it pass'd, 
And cleft that vessel whence the purer blood 
Through many a branching channel o'er the frame 
Meanders. 

" Fool ! " the exasperate knight exclaim'd, 
" Would she had slain thee ! thou hast lived too 

long." 
Again he aim'd his arbalist : the string 
Struck forceful : swift the erring arrow sped 
Guiltless of blood, for lightly o'er the court 
Bounded the warrior Virgin. Glacidas 
Levell'd his bow again ; the fated shaft 
Fled true, and difficultly through the mail 
Pierced to her neck, and tinged its point with blood. 
"She bleeds! she bleeds!" exulting cried the 

chief; 
" The sorceress bleeds ! nor all her hellish arts 
Can charm my arrows from their destin'd course." 
Ill-fated man ! in vain with eager hand 
Placing thy feather'd quarrel in its groove, 
Dream'st thou of Joan subdued ! She from her neck 
Plucking the shaft unterrified, exclaim'd, 
" This is a favor ! ^^* Frenchmen, let us on ! 
Escape they cannot from the hand of God ! " 

But Conrade, rolling round his angry eyes, 
Beheld the English chieftain as he arm'd 
Again the bow : with rapid step he strode ; 
And Glacidas, perceiving his approach. 
At him the quarrel turn'd, which vainly sent, 
Fell blunted from his buckler. Conrade came 
And lifting high the deadly battle-axe. 
Through pouldron and through shoulder deeply 

driven 
Buried it in his bosom : prone he fell ; 
The cold air rush'd upon his heaving heart. 
One whose low lineage gave no second name 
Was Glacidas,^^^ a gallant man; and still 
His memory in the records of the foe 
Survives. 

And now, dishearten'd at his fall, 






43 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK VIII. 



The vanquish 'd English fly towards the gate, 
Seeking the inner coart,^^^ as yet in hope 
To abide a second siege, and with their friends 
Find present refuge there. Mistaken men ! 
The vanquish' d have no friends ! defeated thus, 
Press' d by pursuit, in vain with eager voice 
They call their comrades in the suppliant tones 
Of pity now, now with the bitter curse 
Of fruitless anger ; they indeed within 
Fast from the ramparts cast upon the French 
Beams, stones, and javelins, — but the gate is 

barr'd, 
The huge portcullis down ! 

Then terror seized 
Their hopeless hearts : some, furious in despair, 
Turn on their foes ; fear-palsied some await 
The coming death ; some drop the useless sword, 
And cry for mercy. 

Then the Maid of Arc 
Took pity on the vanquish'd ; and she call'd 
Aloud, and cried unto the host of France, 
And bade them cease from slaughter. They obey'd 
The delegated Damsel. Some there were 
Apart who communed murmuring, and of those 
Graville address'd her : " Prophetess ! our troops 
Are few in number; and to well secure 
These many prisoners such a force demands, 
As should we spare might shortly make us need 
The mercy we bestow ; not mercy then, 
Rather to these our soldiers, cruelty. 
Justice to them, to France, and to our king, 
And that regard wise nature hath in each 
Implanted of self-safety, all demand 
Their deaths." 

" Foul fall such evil policy ! " 
The indignant Maid exclaim'd. " I tell thee, chief, 
God is with us ! but God shall hide his face 
From them, short-sighted they, as hard of heart. 
Who, disregarding all that mitigates. 
All that ennobles dreadful war, shed blood 
Like water ; who, in the deceitful scales 
Of worldly wisdom, dare to counterpoise 
The right with the expedient, and resolve 
Without compunction, as the beam inclines 
Held in a faltering or a faithless hand. 
These men shall live to see their homes again. 
Some to be welcomed there with tears of joy 
By those who to the latest hour of life 
Will in their grateful prayers remember us. 
And when that hour shall come to us, that comes 
To all, how gladly should we then exchange 
Renown, however splendid, for the thought 
That we have saved one victim from the sword, — 
If only one, — who begs for us from Heaven 
That mercy which to others we have shown ! " 

Turning to Conrade, then she said, "Do thou 
Appoint an escort for the prisoners. 
Thou need'st not be reminded they are men, 
Rather by fortune, or by fate, than choice. 
Brought hither from their homes to work our bale, 
And for their own not less ; but yielded thus 
Whom we must neither treat as enemies 
Nor trust as friends, but in safe-keeping hold, 
Both for their own security and ours." 



She said : when Conrade cast his eyes around. 
And saw from man to man where Francis ran, 
Bidding them spare the vanquish'd ; him he hail'd. 
" The Maid hath bade me choose a leader forth 
To guard the prisoners ; thou shalt be the man ; 
For thou wilt guard them with due diligence. 
Yet not forgetful of humanity." 

Meantime the garrison of that stronghold, 
Y/ho, lest the French should enter, had exposed 
Their comrades to the sword, sustain'd the siege 
In desperate valor. Fast against the walls 
The battering-ram was driven ; the mangonels 
Plied at the ramparts fast ; the catapults 
Drove there their dreadful darts ; the war- wolves 

there 
Hurl'd their huge stones ; and, through the kindled 

sky, 
The engines shower'd their sheets of liquid fire.^^' 

"Feel ye not, comrades, how the ramparte 
shake .'' ' ' 
Exclaim'd a daring Englishman. " Our foes. 
In woman-like compassion, have dismiss'd 
A powerful escort, weakening thus themselves. 
And giving us fair hope, in equal field, 
Of better fortune. Sorely here annoy'd, 
And slaughter' d by their engines from afar, 
We perish. Vainly may the soldier boast 
Undaunted courage and the arm of strength, 
If thus pent up, like some wild beast he falls, 
Mark'd for the hunter's arrows. Let us out 
And meet them in the battle, man to man. 
Either to conquer, or at least to die 
A soldier's death." 

"Nay, nay — not so," replied 
One of less hopeful courage. " Though they point 
Their engines here, our archers not in vain 
Discharge their quarrels. Let the walls and works 
Still be defended ; it will then be time 
To meet them in the battle man to man, 
When these shall fail us." 

Scarcely had he said, 
When a huge stone, thrown from some petrary 
Smote him upon the breast, and with dismay 
Fill'd all around ; for as it shattered him. 
His blood besprinkled them, and they beheld 
His mangled lungs lie quivering. 

" Such the fate 
Of those who trust them to their walls' defence ! " 
Again exclaim'd the soldier : " Thus they fall, 
Betray'd by their own fears. Courage alone 
Can save us." 

Nor to draw them from the fort 
Now needed eloquence ; with one accord 
They bade him lead the onset. Forth they rush'd 
Impetuous. With such fury o'er the plain. 
Swollen by the autumnal tempest, Vega rolls 
His rapid waters, when the gathered storm, 
On the black heights of Hatteril bursting, swells 
The tide of desolation. 

Then the Maid 
Spake to the Son of Orleans, " Let our troops 
Fall back, so shall the English in pursuit 
i Leave this strong fortress, thus an easy prey." 



BOOK IX. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



49 



Time was not for long counsel. From the court, 
Obedient to Dunois, the French retire 
As if at the irruption of their foes 
Dishearten'd ; they, with shouts and loud uproar, 
Haste to their fancied conquest : Joan, the while 
Placing a small but gallant garrison. 
Bade them secure the gates ; then sallying forth. 
With such fierce onset charged them in the rear, 
That terror smote the English, and they wish'd 
Again that they might hide them in their walls 
Rashly abandoned, for now wheeling round 
Dunois attack'd their flank. All captainless, 
lll-marshall'd, ill-directed, in vain rage 
They waste their furious efforts, falling fast 
Before the Maid's good falchion and the arm 
Of Conrade: loud was heard the mingled sound 
Of arms and men ; the soil, that, trampled late 
By multitudes, sent up its stifling clouds 
Of dust, was miry now w^ith human blood. 

On the fort's summit Talbot mark'd the fight. 
And calling for his arms impatiently. 
Eager to issue forth, was scarce withheld ; 
For now, dishearten' d and discomfited, 
The troops took flight. 

Upon the bridge there stood 
A strong-built tower, commanding o'er the Loire. 
The traveller sometimes lingor'd on his way, 
Marking the playful tenants of the stream, 
Seen in its shadow, stem the sea-ward tide ; 
This had the invaders won in hard assault. 
Before the delegate of Heaven came forth 
And made them fear who never fear'd till then. 
Thither the English troops with hasty steps 
Retired, not utterly defeated yet, 
But mindful of defence : the garrison 
Them thus retreating saw, and open threw 
Their guarded gates, and on the Gallic host, 
Covering their vanquish'd fellows, pour'd their 

shafts. 
Check'd in pursuit they stop. Then Graville cried, 
'• 111, Maiden, hast thou done ! those valiant troops 
Thy womanish pity has dismiss'd, with us 
Conjoin'd, might press upon the vanquish'd foe. 
Though aided thus, and plant the lilied flag 
Victorious on yon tower." 

" Dark-minded man ! " 
The Maid of Orleans answer'd ; " to act well 
Brings with itself an ample recompense. 
I have not rear'd the Oriflamme of death — ^^^ 
Now God forbid ! The banner of the Lord 
Is this, and come what will, me it behoves, 
Mindful of Him whose minister I am, 
To spare the fallen foe : that gracious God 
Sends me a messenger of mercy forth. 
Sends me to save this ravaged realm of France, 
To England friendly as to all the world, 
Only to those an enemy, whose lust 
Of sway makes them the enemies of man." 

She said, and suddenly threw off her helm; 
Her bosom heaved, — her cheek grew red, — her 

eyes 
Beam'd with a wilder lustre. " Thou dost deem 
That I have illy spared so large a band, 
7 



Disabling from pursuit our weaken'd troops; — 
God is with us ! " she cried — " God is with us ! 
Our Champion manifest! " 

Even as she spake, 
The tower, the bridge, and all its multitudes. 
Sunk with a mighty crash.^^^ 

Astonishment 
Seized on the French ; an universal cry 
Of terror burst from them. Crush'd in the fall, 
Or by their armor hopelessly w^eigh'd down, 
Or while they plied their unencumber'd arms. 
Caught by some sinking wretch, whograsp'd them 

fast. 
Shrieking they sunk, while frequent fragments huge 
Fell in the foaming current. From the fort 
Talbot beheld, and gnash'd his teeth, and cursed 
Tlie more than mortal Virgin ; whilst the towers 
Of Orleans echoed to the loud uproar, 
And all who heard trembled, and cross'd their 

breasts, 
And as they hasten'd to the city walls, 
Told fearfully their beads. 

'T was now the hour 
When o'er the plain the fading rays of eve 
Their sober light effuse ; when the lowing herd, 
Slow as they move to shelter, draw behind 
Their lengthening shadows; and toward his nest, 
As heavily he flaps the dewy air. 
The hoarse rook breathes his melancholy note. 
" Now then, Dunois, for Orleans ! " cried the Maid, 
" And give we to the flames these monuments 
Of sorrow and disgrace. The ascending flames 
Will to the dwellers of yon rescued town 
Rise with a joyful splendor, while the foe 
Behold and tremble." 

As she spake, they ran 
To burn the forts ; they shower their wild fire there, 
And high amid the gloom the ascending flames 
Blaze up ; ^^'^ then joyful of their finish'd toil 
The host retire. Hush'd is the field of fight 
As the calm'd ocean, when its gentle waves 
Heave slow and silent, wafting tranquilly 
The shatter'd fragments of some midnioht wreck 



THE NINTH BOOK. 

Far through the shadowy sky the ascending flames 
Stream'd their fierce torrents, by the gales of night 
Now curl'd, now flashing their long lightnings up 
That made the stars seem pale ; less frequent now 
Through the red volumes briefer splendors shot, 
And blacker waves roll'd o'er the darken'd heaven. 
Dismay'd amid the forts which yet remain'd 
The invaders saw, and clamor 'd for retreat. 
Deeming that aided by invisible powers 
The Maid went forth to conquer. Not a sound 
Moved on the air but fill'd them with vague dread 
Of unseen dangers ; if a sudden blast 
Arose, through every fibre a deep fear 
Crept shivering, and to their expecting minds 
Silence itself was dreadful. '^^ One there was 
Who, learning wisdom in the hour of ill, 



50 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK IX. 



Exclaim' d, '* I marvel not that the Most High 
Hath hid his face from England ! Wherefore thus 
Quitting the comforts of domestic life, 
Came we to desolate this goodly land, 
Making the drench'd earth rank with human blood. 
Scatter pollution on the winds of Heaven ? 
Oh ! that the sepvilchre had closed its jaws 
On the proud prelate, that blood-guilty man, 
Who, trembling for the church's ill-got wealth, 
Bade our Fifth Henry claim the crown of France ! ^^^ 
Oh ! that the grave had swallow'd him, ere he 
Stirr'd up the sleeping claim, and sent him forth 
To slaughter ! Sure that holy hermit spake 
The Almighty's bidding,'^^ who in his career 
Of conquest met the King, and bade him cease 
The work of death, before the wrath divine 
Fell heavy on his head. — Full soon it fell, 
And sunk him to the grave ; — and soon that wrath 
On us, alike in guilt, alike shall fall; 
For thousands and ten thousands, by the sword 
Cut off, and sent before the Eternal Judge, 
With all their unrepented crimes upon them. 
Cry out for vengeance ; for the widow's groan, 
Though here she groan unpitied or unheard. 
Is heard in Heaven against us; o'er this land 
For hills of human slain, unsepulchred, 
Steam pestilence, and cloud the blessed sun ! 
The wrath of God is on us, — God hath raised 
This Prophetess, and goes before her path ; — 
Our brethren, vainly valiant, fall beneath them, 
Clogging with gore their weapons, or in the flood 
Whelm' d like the Egyptian tyrant's impious host. 
Mangled and swollen, their blacken'd carcasses 
Float on the tainted current ! We remain, — 
For yet our rulers will pursue the war, — 
We still remain to perish by the sword. 
Soon to appear before the throne of God, 
Conscious, too late, of folly and of guilt, 
Uninjured, unprovoked, who dared to risk 
The life His goodness gave us, on the chance 
Of war, and in obedience to our chiefs 
Durst disobey our God." 

Then terror seized 
The troops and late repentance ; and they thought 
The spirits of the mothers and their babes 
Famish'd at Roan sat on the clouds of night,^*''* 
Circling the forts, to hail with gloomy joy 
The hour of vengeance. 

Nor the English chiefs 
Heard these loud murmurs heedless ; counselling 
They met despondent. Suffolk, now their chief. 
Since Salisbury fell, began. 

" It now were vain 
Lightly of this our more than mortal foe 
To speak contemptuous. She hath vanquish'dus. 
Aided by Hell's leagued powers, nor aught avails 
Man unassisted 'gainst Infernal powers 
To dare the conflict.^^^ Were it best remain 
Waiting the doubtful aid of Burgundy, 
Doubtful and still delay'd ? or from this place. 
Scene of our shame, retreating as we may. 
Yet struggle to preserve the guarded towns 
Of the Orleannois .? " 

He ceased, and with a sigh. 
Struggling with pride that heaved his gloomy breast, 



Talbot replied, " Our council little boots ; 
For by their numbers now made bold in fear ^^^ 
The soldiers will not fight ; they will not heed 
Our vain resolves, heart-wither'd by the spells 
Of this accursed sorceress. Soon will come 
The expected host from England ; even now 
Perchance the tall bark scuds across the deep 
That bears my son: young Talbot comes, — he 

comes 
To find his sire disgraced ! But soon mine arm, 
By vengeance nerved, and shame of such defeat, 
Shall from the crest-fallen courage of yon witch, 
Regain its ancient glory. Near the coast 
Best is it to retreat, and there expect 
The coming succor." 

Thus the warrior spake. 
Joy ran through all the troops,^^'' as though retreat 
Were safety. Silently in order'd ranks 
They issue forth, favor'd by the thick clouds 
Which mantled o'er the moon. With throbbing 

hearts 
Fearful they speeded on ; some in sad thoughts 
Of distant England, and now wise too late, 
Carsing in bitterness the evil hour 
That led them from her shores; some in faint hope 
Thinking to see their native land again ; 
Talbot went musing on his former fame. 
Sullen and stern, and feeding on dark thoughts, 
And meditating vengeance. 

In the walls 
Of Orleans, though her habitants with joy 
Humbly acknowledged the high aid of Heaven, 
Of many a heavy ill and bitter loss 
Mindful, such mingled sentiments they felt 
As one from shipwreck saved, the first warm glow 
Of transport past, who contemplates himself 
Preserved alone, a solitary wretch, 
Possess'd of life indeed, but reft of all 
That makes man love to live. The chieftains 

shared 
The social bowl,^^^ glad of the town relieved, 
And communing of that miraculous Maid, 
Who came the savior of the realm of France, 
When, vanquish'd in the frequent field of shame, 
Her bravest warriors trembled. 

Joan the while 
Fasting and silent to the convent pass'd, 
Conrade with her, and Isabel ; both mute, 
Yet gazing on her oft with anxious eyes. 
Looking the consolation that they fear'd 
To give a voice to. Now they reach' d the dome : 
The glaring torches o'er the house of death 
Stream'd a sad splendor. Flowers and funeral herbs 
Bedeck'd the bier of Theodore, — the rue. 
The dark green rosemary, and the violet, 
That pluck'd like him wither d in its first bloom. 
Dissolved in sorrow, Isabel her grief 
Pour'd copiously, and Conrade also wept : 
Joan only shed no tears ; from her fix'd eye 
Intelligence was absent ; and she seem'd. 
Though listening to the dirge of death, to hear 
And comprehend it not, till in the grave, — 
In his last home, — now Theodore was laid. 
And earth to earth upon the coffin thrown ; 
Then the Maid started at that mortal sound, 



BOOK IX. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



51 



And her lip quiver'd, and on Isabel, 

Treinbling and faint, she leant, and pale as death. 

Then in the priest arose an earnest hope, 
That, weavy of the world and sick with woe. 
The Maid might dwell with them a virgin vow'd. 
"Ah, damsel!" slow he spake, and cross'd his 

breast, 
" Ah, damsel ! favor'd as thou art of Heaven, 
Let not thy soul beneath its sorrow sink 
Despondent; Heaven by sorrow disciplines 
The froward heart, and chastens whom it loves. 
Therefore, companion of thy way of life. 
Shall sorrow wean thee from this faithless world. 
Where happiness provokes the traveller's chase, 
And like the midnight meteor of the marsh 
Allures his long and perilous pursuit. 
Then leaves him dark and comfortless. O Maid ! 
Fix thou thine eyes upon that heavenly dawn 
Beyond the night of life ! Thy race is run. 
Thou hast deliver'd Orleans : now perfect 
Thyself, accomplish all, and be the child 
Of God. Amid these sacred haunts the groan 
Of woe is never heard ; these hallow'd roofs 
Reucho only to the pealing quire. 
The chanted mass, and virgiu's holy hymn. 
Celestial sounds ! Secluded here, the soul 
Receives a foretaste of her joys to come ; 
This is the abode of piety and peace ; 
OJi ! be their inmate, Maiden ! Come to rest. 
Die to the world, and live espoused to Heaven ! " 

Then Conrade answered, " Father ! Heaven has 

call'd 
This Maid to active duties." 

" Active ! " cried 
The astonish'd Monk ; " thou dost not know the toils 
This holy warfare asks ; thou dost not know 
How powerful the attacks that Satan makes 
By sinful Nature aided ! Dost thou think 
It is an easy task from the fond breast 
To root affection out .'' to burst the cords 
Which grapple to society the heart 
Of social man ? to rouse the unwilling spirit, 
That, rebel to devotion, faintly pours 
The cold lip-worship of the wearying prayer .'' 
To fear and tremble at Him, yet to love 
A God of Terrors ? Maid beloved of Heaven, 
Come to this sacred trial ! share with us 
The day of penance and the night of prayer ! 
Humble thyself; feel thine own worthlessness, 
A reptile worm, before thy birth condemn'd 
To all the horrors of thy Maker's wrath. 
The lot of fallen mankind ! Oh, hither come ! 
Humble thyself in ashes. So thy name 
Shall live amid the blessed host of saints. 
And unborn pilgrims at thy hallowed shrine 
Pour forth their pious offerings." 

" Hear me, father ! " 
Exclaim'd the awaken'd Maid. " Amid these 

tombs. 
Cold as their clayey tenants, know, my heart 
Must never grow to stone ! Chill thou thyself. 
And break thy midnight rest, and tell thy beads, 
And labor through thy still repeated prayer ; 



Fear thou thy God of Terrors ; spurn the gifts 
He gave, and sepulchre thyself alive ! 
But far more valued is the vine that bends 
Beneath its swelling clusters, than the dark 
And joyless ivy, round the cloister's wall 
Wreathing its barren arms. For me, I know 
That I have faithfully obey'd my call. 
Confiding not in mine own strength, but His 
Who sent me forth to suffer and to do 
His will ; and in that faith I shall appear 
Before the just tribunal of that God 
Whom grateful love has taught me to adore !" 

Severe she spake, for sorrow in her heart 
Had wrought unwonted sternness. From the dome 
They pass'd in silence, when, with hasty steps. 
Sent by the chiefs, a messenger they met, 
Who, in alarm, the mission'd Virgin sought, 
A bearer of ill tidings. 

" Holy Maid ! " 
He said, " they ask thy counsel. Burgundy 
Comes in the cause of England, and his troops 
Scarce three leagues from the walls, a fearful power, 
Rest tented for the night." 

" Say to the chiefs, 
At morn I will be with them," she replied; 
" And to this urgency will give meantime 
My nightly thoughts." 

So saying, on she went 
In thoughtful silence. A brief while she mused, 
Brief, but sufficing to excite her soul. 
As with a power and impulse not its own. 
To some great purpose. " Conrade ! " then she said, 
" I pray thee meet me at the eastern gate 
With a swift steed prepared, — for I must hence." 

Her voice was calm, and Conrade througli the 

gloom 
Saw not the flush that witness'd on her cheek 
Inward emotion at some thought conceived. 
She to her quarters hastily repair'd, 
There with a light and unplumed casquetel ^^ 
She helm'd her head ; hung from her neck the 

shield,i70 

And forth she went. Her Conrade by the gate 
Awaited. " May I, Maiden, ask unblamed 
W^hither this midnight journey ? may I share 
The peril.'' " cried the warrior. She rejoin'd, 
" This, Conrade, must not be. Alone I go. 
That impulse of the soul which comes from God 
Sends me. But thou of this remain assured, 
If aught that I must enterprise required 
Associate firmness, thou shouldst be the man, 
Best, — last, — and only friend ! " 

So up she sprung 
And lefl him. He beheld the warden close 
The gate, and listen'd to her courser's tramp, 
Till soon upon his ear the far-off sound 
Fell faintly, and was lost. 

Swift o'er the vale 
Sped the good courser ; eagerly the Maid 
Gave the loose rein ; and now her speed attain'd 
The dark encampment. Through the sleeping 

ranks 
Onward she past. The trampling of her steed 



52 



JOAN OF ARC. 



Or mingled with the soldier's busy dreams, 
Or with vague terrors fill'd his startled sense, 
Prompting a secret prayer. 

So on she past 
To where in loftier shade arose the tent 
Of Burgundy : light leaping from her seat 
She enter'd. 

On the earth the chieftain slept, 
His mantle scarft around him ; near him hung 
His helmet and his shield, and at his side 
Within hand-reach his sword. Profound he slept, 
Nor heard the coming courser's sounding hoof. 
Nor entering footstep. " Burgundy ! " she cried, 
" What, Burgundy ! awake ! " He started up. 
And saw the gleam of arms, and to his sword 
Reach'd a quick hand. But what he now beheld 
Thrill' d him, for full upon her face the lamp 
Cast its deep glare, and in her solemn look 
Was an unearthly meaning. Pale she was ; 
And in her eye a saintly lustre beam'd. 
And that most calm and holiest confidence 
That guilt knows never. " Burgundy, thou seest 
The Maid of Orleans ! " 

As she spake, a voice 
Exclaim'd, " Die, sorceress ! " and a knight rush'd 

in, 
Whose name by her illustrated yet lives, 
Franquet of Arras. With uplifted arm 
Furious he came ; her buckler broke the blow, 
And forth she flash' d her sword, and with a stroke 
Swift that no eye could Avard it, and of strength 
No mail might blunt, smote on his neck, his neck 
Unfenced, for he in haste aroused had cast 
An armet^'''^ on; resistless there she smote, 
And to the earth prone fell the headless trunk 
Of Franquet. 

Then on Burgundy she fix'd 
Her eye severe. " Go, chief, and thank thy God 
That he with lighter judgments visits thee 
Than fell on Sisera, or by Judith's hand 
He wrought upon the Assyrian! Thank thy God, 
That when his vengeance smote the invading sons 
Of England, equal though thou wert in guilt, 
Thee he has spar'd to work by penitence 
And better deeds atonement." 

Thus she spake. 
Then issued forth, and bounding on her steed 
Sped o'er the plain. Dark on the upland bank 
The hedge-row trees distinct and colorless 
Rose on the gray horizon, and the Loire 
Form'd in its winding way islands of light 
Amid the shadowy vale, when now she reach'd 
The walls of Orleans. 

From the eastern clouds 
The sun came forth, as to the assembled chiefs 
The Maiden pass'd. Her bending thitherwards 
The Bastard met. " Now perils threaten us," 
He said, "new toils await us ; Burgundy, — " 

" Fear not for Burgundy ! " the Maid replied, 
" Him will the Lord direct. Our earliest scouts 
Shall tell h is homeward march. What of the troops 
Of England.?" 

" They," the Son of Orleans cried, 
" By darkness favor'd, fled ; yet not by flight 



Shall these invaders now escape the arm 
Of retribution. Even now our troops, 
By battle unfatigued, unsatisfied 
With conquest, clamor to pursue the foe." 

The delegated Damsel thus replied : 
" So let them fly, Dunois ! But other work 
Than that of battle, now must be perform'd. 
We move not in pursuit, till we have paid 
The rites of burial to our countrymen. 
And liymn'd our gratitude to that All-just 
Who gave the victory. Thou, ineantime, despatch i 
Tidings to Cliinon : let the King set forth, '| 

That crowning him before assembled France, 
\\\ Rlieims delivered from the enemy, 
I may accomplish all." 

So said the Maid, 
Then to the gate moved on. The assembled troops 
Beheld her coming, and they smote their shields, i 
And with one voice of greeting bless'd her name, 
And pray'd her to pursue the flying foe. 
She waved her hand, and silently they stood. 
Attentive while she spake ; — " Fellows in arms ! 
We must not speed to joyful victory. 
And leave our gallant comrades where they lie, 
For dogs, and wolves, and carrion-birds a prey; 
Ere we advance, let us discharge to them 
The duty that is due." 

So said the Maid ; 
And as she spake, the thirst of battles dies 
In every breast, such awe and love pervade 
The listening troops. They o'er the corse-strewn J 
plain j 

Speed to their sad employment : some dig deep 
The house of death; some bear the lifeless load; 
Others the while search carefully around. 
If haply they may find surviving yet 
Some wounded wretches. As they labor thus, 
They mark far off" the iron-blaze of arms ; 
See distant standards waving on the air. 
And hear the clarion's clang. Then spake the Maid i 
To Conrade, and she bade him haste to espy 
The coming army ; or to meet their march 
With friendly greeting, or if foes they came 
With such array of battle as short space 
Allow'd : the warrior sped across the plain, 
And soon beheld the banner'd lilies wave. 

Their chief was Pvichemont : he when as he heard 
What rites employed the Virgin, straightway bade 
His troops assist in burial ; they, though grieved 
At late arrival, and the expected day 
Of conquest past, yet give their willing aid : 
They dig the general grave, and thither bear 
English or French, alike commingled now, 
And heap the mound of death. 

Amid the plain 
There was a little eminence, of old 
Raised o'er some honored chieftain's narrow house. 
His praise the song had ceased to celebrate. 
And many an unknown age had the long grass 
Waved o'er that nameless mound, though barren 

now 
Beneath the frequent tread of multitudes. 
There elevate, the martial Maiden stood, 



BOOK X. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



53 



Her brow unlielm'd, and floating on the wind 
Her long, dark locks. The silent troops around 
Stood thickly throng'd, as o'er the fertile field 
Billows the ripen'd corn. The passing breeze 
Bore not a murmur from the numerous host, 
Sucli deep attention held them. She began. 

" Glory to those who in their country's cause 
Fall in the field of battle ! Countrymen, 
I stand not here to mourn these gallant men, 
Our comrades, nor, with vain and idle phrase 
Of sorrow and compassion, to console 
The friends who loved them. They indeed who fall 
Beneath oppression's banner, merit well 
Our pity ; may the God of Peace and Love 
Be merciful to those blood-guilty men 
Who came to desolate the realm of France, 
To make us bow the knee, and crouch like slaves 
Before a foreign master. Give to these, 
And to their wives and orphan little ones 
That on their distant father vainly cry 
For bread, give these your pity ! — Wretched men. 
Forced or inveigled from their homes, or driven 
By need and hunger to the trade of blood ; 
Or, if with free and willing mind they came, 
Most wretched, — for before the eternal throne, 
Guilty alike in act and will, tliey stand. 
But our dead comrades for their country fought; 
No arts they needed, nor the specious bribes 
Of promise, to allure them to this fight, 
This holy warfare ! them their parents sent, 
And as they raised their streaming eyes to Heaven, 
Bade them go forth, and from the ruffian's sword 
Save their gray hairs : them their dear wives sent 

out, 
Fix'd tlu^ir last kisses on tlicir armed hands,'"- 
And bade them in the battle think tliey fought 
For them and for their children. Thus inflamed, 
By every milder feeling, they went forth : 
They fought, they conquer'd. To this holy ground 
The men of Orleans in the days to come 
Shall bring their boys, and tell them of the deeds 
Their countrymen achieved, and bid them learn 
Like them to love their country, and like them. 
Should usurpation pour again its tide 
Of desolation, to step forth and stem, 
Fearless, the furious torrent. Men of France, 
Mourn not for these our comrades ! boldly they 
Fought the good fight, and that Eternal One, 
Who bade the Angels harbinger his Word 
With ' Peace on earth,' rewards them. We survive. 
Honoring their memories to avenge their fall 
Upon tlie unjust invaders. They may drain 
Their kingdom's wealth and lavishly expend 
Its blood, insanely thinking to subdue 
This wide and populous realm ; for easier were it 
To move the ancient mountains from their base, 
Than on a nation knowing its own strength 
To force a foreign yoke. France then is safe. 
My gloriovis mission soon will be fulfill'd, 
My work be done. But, oh ! remember ye, 
And in their generation let your sons 
Transmit to theirs the all-concerning truth. 
That a great people, wrongfully assail'd, 
If faithful to themselves, and resolute 



In duty to the last, betide what may, — 
Although no signs be given, no miracles 
Vouchsafed, as now, no Prophetess ordain'd, 
May yet with hope invincible hold on. 
Relying on their courage, and their cause. 
And the sure course of righteous Providence." 



THE TENTH BOOK. 

Thus to the martyrs in their country's cause 
The Maiden gave their fame ; and when she ceased, 
Such murmur from the multitude arose, 
As when at twilight hour the summer breeze 
Moves o'er the elmy vale. There was not one 
Who mourn'd with feeble sorrow for his friend, 
Slain in the fight of freedom ; or if chance 
Remembrance with a tear suffused the eye. 
The patriot's joy shone through. 

And now the rites 
Of sepulture perfnrm'd, the hymn to Heaven 
They chanted. To the town the Maid return'd, 
Dunois with her, and Richemont, and the man 
Conrade, whose converse most the Virgin loved. 
They of pursuit and of the future war 
Sat communing; when loud the trumpet's voice 
Proclaim'd a heralds coming. 

" To the Maid," — 
Such was his errand, — " and to thee, Dunois, 
Son of the chief he loved, Du Chastel sends 
Greeting. The aged Avarrior hath not spared 
All active efforts to partake your toil, • 

And serve his country ; and though late arrived, 
He share not in tlie fame your arms acquire. 
His heart is glad that he is late arrived, 
And France preserved thus early. He were here 
To join your host, and follow the pursuit, 
But Richemont is his foe. To that high Lord 
Thus says my master : We, though each to each 
Be hostile, are alike the embattled sons 
Of our dear country. Therefore do thou join 
The conquering troops, and prosecute success ; 
I will the while assault what guarded towns 
Bedford yet holds in Orleannois : one day. 
Perhaps the Constable of France may learn 
He wrong'd Du Chastel." 

As the herald spake, 
Richemont's cheek redden'd, partly with a sense 
Of shame, and partly anger half supprest. 
" Say to thy master," eagerly he said, 
" I am the foe of those court parasites 
Who poison the King's ear. Him who shall serve 
Our country in the field, I hold my friend : 
Such may Du Chastel prove." 

So said the chief 
And pausing as the herald went his way, 
Turn'd to the Virgin : " If 1 guess aright. 
It is not from a friendly tongue's report. 
That thou hast heard of me." 

Dissembling not 
The unwelcome truth, "Yes, chieftain I " she 

replied, 
" Report bespeaks thee haughty, violent, 



54 



JOAN OF ARC. 



Suffering no rival, brooking- no control, 

And executing by unrighteous means 

The judgments of thine own unlawful will." 

" But hear me, Maid of Orleans ! " he exclaim'd : 
" Should the wolf enter thy defenceless flock, 
Were it a crime if thy more mighty force 
Destroy'd the fell destroyer? If thy hand 
Had slain a ruffian as he burst thy door 
Prepared for midnight murder, should'st thou feel 
The weight of blood press heavy on thy souP 
1 slew the wolves of state, the murderers 
Of thousands. Joan ! when rusted in its sheath 
The sword of justice hung, blamest thou the man 
That lent his weapon for the righteous deed ? " 

Conrade replied, " Nay, Richemont, it were well 
To slay the ruffian as he burst thy doors ; 
But if he bear the plunder safely thence. 
And thou should'st meet him on the future day. 
Vengeance must not be thine : there is the law 
To punish ; and the law allowetli not, 
That the accuser take upon himself 
The judge's part; still less doth it allow 
That he should execute upon the accused 
Untried, unheard, a sentence, which so given 
Becomes, whate'er the case, itself a crime." 

"Thou hast said wisely," cried the Constable ; 
" But there are guilty ones above the law. 
Men whose black crimes exceed the utmost bound 
Of private guilt ; court vermin that buzz round. 
And fly-blow the King's ear, and make him waste. 
In this most perilous time, his people's wealth 
And blood ; immersed one while in sensual sloth, 
Heedless though ruin threat the realm they rule ; 
And now projecting some mad enterprise. 
Sending their troops to sure defeat and shame. 
These are the men who make the King suspect 
His v/isest, faithfulest, best counsellors ; 
And for themselves and their dependents, seize 
All places, and all profits ; and they wrest 
To their own ends the statutes of the land, 
Or safely break them ; thus, or indolent, 
Or active, ruinous alike to France. 
Wisely thou sayest, warrior, that the Law 
Should strike the guilty ; but the voice of Justice 
Cries out, and brings conviction as it cries. 
Whom the laws cannot reach, the dagger should." 

The Maid replied, " It seemeth then, O Chief, 
That reasoning to thine ov/n conviction thus. 
Thou standest self-acquitted of all wrong. 
Self-justified, yea, self-approved. I ask not 
Whether this public zeal hath look'd askaunt 
To private ends ; men easily deceive 
Others, and oft more easily themselves. 
But what if one reasoning as thou hast done 
Had in like course proceeded to the act, 
One of the people, one of low degree. 
In whom the strong desire of public good 
Had grown to be his one sole sleepless thought, 
A passion, and a madness; raised as high 
Above all sordid motives as thyself; 
Beneath such impulses of rivalry 



And such ambitious projects, as perforce 

Men will impute to thee ? had such a man 

Stood forth the self-appointed minister 

To execute his own decrees of death. 

The law on him had rightfully enforced 

That sentence, which the Almighty hath enjoin'd 

Of life for life. Thou, chief, art by thy rank 

And power exempted from the penalty : 

What then hast thou exampled, — right and wrong 

Confounding thus, and making lawless might 

The judge in its own quarrel .'' Trust me, chief, 

That if a people sorely are oppress'd. 

The dreadful hour of overthrow will come 

Too surely and too soon ! He best meanwhile 

Performs the sage's and the patriot's part. 

Who in the ear of rage and faction breathes 

The healing words of love." 

Thus communed they. 
Meantime, all panic-struck and terrified. 
The English urge their flight ; by other thoughts 
Possess'd than when, elate with arrogance. 
They dreamt of conquest, and the crown of France 
At their disposal. Of their hard-fought fields, 
Of glory hardly earn'd, and lost with shame. 
Of friends and brethren slaughter'd, and the fate 
Threatening themselves, they brooded sadly, now 
Repentant late and vainly. They whom fear 
Erst made obedient to their conquering march, 
Rise on them in defeat, while they retire. 
Marking their path with ruin, day by day 
Leaving the weak and wounded destitute 
To the foe's mercy; thinking of their home. 
Though to that far-ofl" prospect scarcely hope 
Could raise a sickly eye. Oh then what joy 
Inspired anew their bosoms, when, like clouds 
Moving in shadows down the distant hill. 
They saw their coming succors ! In each heart 
Doubt raised a busy tumult ; soon they knew 
The English standard, and a general shout 
Burst from the joyful ranks : yet came no joy 
To Talbot : he, with dark and downward brow, 
Mused sternly, till at length aroused to hope 
Of vengeance, welcoming his gallant son. 
Pie brake a sullen smile. '''^ 

'■'■ Son of my age. 
Welcome young Talbot to thy first of fields. 
Thy father bids thee welcome, though disgraced, 
Baffled, and flying from a woman's arm ! 
Yes, by my former glories, from a woman ! 
The scourge of France, the conqueror of men, 
Flying before a woman ! Son of Talbot, 
Had the winds wafted thee a few days sooner. 
Thou hadst seen me high in honor, and thy name 
Alone had scatter'd armies ; yet, my son, 
I bid thee welcome ! here we rest our flight. 
And face again the foe." 

So spake the chief; 
And well he counsell'd : for not yet the sun 
Had reach'd meridian height, when o'er the plain 
Of Patay, they beheld the troops of France 
Speed in pursuit. Soon as the troops of France 
Beheld the dark battalions of the foe 
Shadowing the distant plain, a general shout 
Burst from the expectant host, and on they prest, 
Elate of heart and eager for the fight, 



BOOK X. 



JOAN OF ARC 



55 



With clamors ominous of victory. 
Thus urging on, one from the adverse host 
Advanced to meet them : they his garb of peace 
Knew, and they halted as the herald spake 
His bidding to the chieftains. " Sirs !" he cried, 
" 1 bear defiance to you from the Earl 
William of Suffolk. Here on this fit ground, 
He wills to give you battle, power to power, 
So please you, on the morrow." 

" On the morrow 
We will join battle then," replied Dunois, 
" And God befriend the right ! ' ' Then on the 

herald 
A robe rich-furr'd and embroider'd he bestow'd,^"-* 
A costly guerdon. Through the army spread 
The unwelcome tidings of delay ; possess'd 
With agitating hopes they felt the hours 
Pass heavily ; but soon the night waned on, 
And the loud trumpets' blare from broken sleep 
Roused them ; a second time the thrilling blast 
Bade them be arm'd, and at the third long sound 
They ranged them in their ranks. ^"^ From man to 

man 
With pious haste hurried the confessors 
To shrive them,^'''^ lest with souls all unprepared 
They to their death might go. Dunois meantime 
Rode through the host, the shield of dignity ^''^ 
Before him borne, and in his hand he held 
The white wand of command. The open helm 
Disclosed that eye which temper'd the strong lines 
Of steady valor, to obedient awe 
Winning the will's assent. To some he spake 
Of late-earn'd glory ; others, new to war, 
He bade bethink them of the feats achieved 
When Talbot, recreant to his former fame. 
Fled from beleaguer'd Orleans. Was there one 
Whom he had knoAvn in battle ? by the hand 
Him did he take, and bid him on that day 
Summon his wonted courage, and once more 
Support his chief and comrade. Happy he 
Who caught his eye, or from the chieftain's lips 
Heard his own name ! joy more inspiriting 
Fills not the Persian's soul, when sure he deems 
That Mithra hears propitiously his prayer. 
And o'er the scattered cloud of morning pours 
A brighter ray responsive. 

Then the host 
Partook due food, this their last meal belike 
Receiving with such thoughtful doubts as make 
The soul, impatient of uncertainty. 
Rush eager to the event ; being thus prepared, 
Upon the grass the soldiers laid themselves. 
Each in his station, waiting there the sound 
Of onset, that in undiminish'd strength 
Strong, they might meet the battle ; i'^' silent some 
Pondering the chances of the coming day, 
Some whiling with a careless gayety 
The fearful pause of action. 

Thus the French 
In such array and high in confident hope 
Await tlie signal ; whilst with other thoughts, 
And ominous awe, once more the invading host 
Prepare them in the field of fight to meet 
The Prophetess. Collected in himself 
Appear'd the might of Talbot. Through the ranks 



He stalks, reminds them of their former fame, 
Their native land, their homes, the friends they 

loved. 
All the rewards of this day's victory. 
But awe had fill'd the English, and they struck 
Faintly their shields; for they who had beheld 
The hallowed banner with celestial light 
Irradiate, and the mission'd Maiden's deeds, 
Felt their hearts sink within them at the thought 
Of her near vengeance ; and the tale they told 
Roused such a tumult in the new-come troops, 
As fitted them for fear. The aged Earl 
Beheld their drooping valor, and his brow. 
Wrinkled with thought, bewray'd his inward 

doubts : 
Still he was firm, though all might fl}^ resolved 
That Talbot should retrieve his old renown. 
And end his life with glory. Yet some hope 
Inspired the veteran, as, across the plain 
Casting his eye, he mark'd the embattled strength 
Of thousands ; archers of unequalled skill, 
Brigans and pikerncn, from whose lifted points 
A fearful radiance flash'd, and young esquires. 
And high-born warriors, bright in blazon'd arms. 

Nor few, nor fameless were the English chiefs. 
In many a field victorious, he was there. 
The garter'd Fastolffe; Plungerford, and Scales, 
Men who had seen the hostile squadrons fly 
Before the arms of England ; Suffolk there. 
The haughty chieftain, tower'd ; blest had he fallen 
Ere yet a courtly minion he was mark'd 
By public hatred, and the murderer's guilt ! 
There too the son of Talbot, young in arms, 
Heir of a noble race and mighty name : 
At many a tilt and tournament had he 
Approved his skill and prowess ; confident 
In strength, and jealous of his future fame. 
His heart beat high for battle. Such array 
Of marshaird numbers fought not on the field 
Of Cressy, nor at Poictiers ; nor such force 
Led Henry to the fight of Agincourt, 
When thousands fell before him. 

Onward move 
The host of France. It was a goodly sight 
To see the embattled pomp, as with the step 
Of stateliness the barded steeds came on, — 
To see the pennons rolling their long waves 
Before the gale, and banners broad and bright ^''^ 
Tossing their blazonry, and high-plumed chiefs, 
Vidames, ^^'^ and Seneschalls^ and Chastellains, 
Gay Avith their buckler's gorgeous heraldry, 
And silken surcoats to the mid-day sun 
Glittering.isi 

And now the knights of France dismount, 
For not to brutal strength they deem'd it right 
To trust their fame and their dear country's weal; ^*^ 
Rather to manly courage, and the glow 
Of honorable thoughts, such as inspire 
Ennobling energy. Unhorsed, unspurr'd, 
Their javelins shorten'd to a wieldy length,^^^ 
They to the foe advanced. The Maid alone, 
Conspicuous on a coal-black courser, meets 
The war. They moved to battle with such sound 
As rushes o'er the vaulted firmament, 



56 



JOAN OF ARC. 



BOOK X. 



When from his seat, on the utmost verge of heaven 
That overhangs the void, the Sire of Winds, 
HraBsvelger starting,!^-^ rears his giant bulk, 
And from his eagle pinions shakes the storm. 

High on her stately steed the martial Maid 
Rode foremost of the war; her burnish'd arms 
Shone like the brook that o'er its pebbled course 
Runs glittering gayly to the noon-tide sun. 
The foaming courser, of her guiding hand 
Impatient, smote the earth, and toss'd his mane, 
And rear'd aloft with many a fro ward bound. 
Then answered to the rein with such a step, 
As, in submission, he were proud to show 
His spirit unsubdued. Slow on the air 
Waved the white plumes that shadow 'd o'er her 

helm. 
Even such, so fair, so terrible in arms, 
Pelides moved from Scyros, where, conceal'd, 
He lay obedient to his mother's fears 
A seemly damsel ; thus the youth appear'd 
Terribly graceful, when upon his neck 
Deidameia hung, and with a look 
That spake the tumult of her troubled soul^ 
Fear, anguish, and upbraiding tenderness, 
Gazed on the father of her unborn babe. 

An English knight, who, eager for renown. 
Late left his peaceful mansion, mark'd the Maid. 
Her power miraculous and portentous deeds 
He from the troops had heard incredulous. 
And scoff'd their easy fears, and vow'd that he, 
Proving the magic of this dreaded girl 
In equal battle, would dissolve the spell. 
Powerless opposed to valor. Forth he spurr'd 
Before the ranks ; she mark'd the coming foe, 
And fix'd her lance in rest, and rush'd along. 
Midway they met; fall on her buckler driven, 
Shiver'd the English spear : her better force 
Drove the brave foeman senseless from his seat. 
Headlong he fell, nor ever to the sense 
Of shame awoke ; for crowding multitudes 
Soon crush' d the helpless warrior. 

Then the Maid 
Rode through the thickest battle; fast they fell. 
Pierced by her forceful spear. Amid the troops 
Plunged her strong war-horse, by the noise of arms 
Elate and roused to rage, he tramples o'er. 
Or with the lance protended from his front,^*^^ 
Thrusts down the thronging squadrons. Where 

she turns. 
The foe tremble and die. Such ominous fear 
Seizes the traveller o'er the trackless sands. 
Who marks the dread Simoom across the waste 
Sweep its swift pestilence : to earth he falls. 
Nor dares give utterance to the inward prayer, 
Deeming tlie Genius of the desert breathes 
The purple blast of death. 

Such was the sound 
As when a tempest, mingling air and sea, 
Flies o'er the uptorn ocean : dashing high 
Their foamy heads amid the incumbent clouds, 
The madden' d billows with their deafening roar 
Drown the loud thunder's peal. In every form 
Of horror, death was there. They fall, transfix'd 



By the random arrow's point, or fierce-thrust lance, 
Or sink, all battered by the ponderous mace : 
Some from their coursers thrown, lie on the earth, 
Helpless because of arms, that weak to save, 
Lengthened the lingering agonies of death. 
But most the English fell, by their own fears 
Betray'd, for fear the evil that it dreads 
Increaseth. Even the chiefs, who many a day 
Had met the war and conquer'd, trembled now, 
Appall'd before the Maid miraculous. 
As the blood-nurtur'd monarch of the wood, 
That o'er the wilds of Afric in his strength 
Resistless ranges, when the mutinous clouds 
Burst, and the lightnings through the midnight sky 
Dart their red fires, lies fearful in his den, 
And howls in terror to the passing storm. 

But Talbot, fearless where the bravest fear'd, 
Mow'd down the hostile ranks. The chieftain stood 
Like a strong oak, amid the tempest's rage. 
That stands unharm'd, and while the forest falls 
Uprooted romid, lifts his high head aloft, 
And nods majestic to the warring wind. 
He fought, resolved to snatch the shield of death ^^ 
And shelter him from shame. The very herd 
Who fought near Talbot, though the Virgin's name 
Made their cheeks pale and drove the curdling 

blood 
Back to their hearts, caught from his daring deeds 
New force, and went like eaglets to the prey 
Beneath their mother's wing : to him they look'd, 
Their tower of strength,^^'' and follow'd where his 

sword 
Made through the foe a way. Nor did the son 
Of Talbot shame his lineage ; by his sire 
Emulous he strove, like the young lionet 
When first he bathes his murderous jaws in blood. 
They fought intrepid, though amid their ranks 
Fear and confusion triumph'd; for such dread 
Possess' d the English, as the Etruscans felt, 
When self-devoted to the infernal gods 
The awful Decius stood before the troops, 
Robed in the victim garb of sacrifice. 
And spake aloud, and call'd the shadowy powers 
To give to Rome the conquest, and receive 
Their willing prey ; then rush'd amid the foe, 
And died upon the hecatombs he slew. 

But hope inspired the assailants. Xaintrailles 

there 
Spread fear and death, and Orleans' valiant son 
Fought as when Warwick fled before his arm. 
O'er all preeminent for hardiest deeds 
Was Conrade. Where he drove his battle-axe, 
Weak was the buckler or the helm's defence. 
Hauberk, or plated mail ; through all it pierced, 
Resistless as the fork'd flash of heaven. 
The death-doom'd foe, who mark'd the coming 

chief. 
Felt such a chill run through his shivering frame, 
As the night-traveller of the Pyrenees, 
Lone and bewilder'd on his wintry way, 
When from the mountains round reverberates 
The hungry wolves' deep yell : on every side, 
Their fierce eyes gleaming as with meteor fires. 



JOAN OF ARC. 



57 



The famish'd pack come round ; the affrighted 

mule 
Snorts loud with terror, on his shuddering limbs 
The big sweat starts, convulsive pant his sides, 
Then on he gallops, wild in desperate speed. 
Him dealing death an English knight beheld, 
And spurr'd his steed to crush him : Conrade 

leap'd 
Lightly aside, and through th^ warrior's greaves 
Fix'd a deep wound : nor longer could the foe, 
Disabled thus, command his mettled horse, 
Or his rude plunge endure ; headlong he fell, 
And perish'd. In his castle hall was hung 
On high his father's shield, with many a dint 
Graced on the glorious field of Agincourt. 
His deeds the son had heard ; and when a boy, 
Listening delighted to the old man's tale, 
Plis little hand would lift the weighty spear 
In warlike pastime : he had left behind 
An infant offspring, and had fondly deem'd 
He too in age the exploits of his youth 
Should tell, and in the stripling's bosom rouse 
The fire of glory. 

Conrade the next foe 
Smote where the heaving membrane separates 
The chambers of the trunk. The dying man, 
In his lord's castle dwelt, for many a year, 
A well-beloved servant : he could sing 
Carols for Shrove-tide, or for Candlemas, 
Songs for the wassail, and when the boar's head, 
Crown'd with gay garlands and with rosemary. 
Smoked on the Christmas board : ^'^'^ he went to war 
Following the lord he loved, and saw him fall 
Beneath the arm of Conrade, and expired, 
Slain on his master's body. 

Nor the fight 
Was doubtful long. Fierce on the invading host 
Press the French troops impetuous, as of old. 
When pouring o'er his legion slaves on Greece, 
The eastern despot bridged the Hellespont, 
The rushing sea against the mighty pile 
Roll'd its full Aveight of waters ; far away 
The fearful Satrap mark'd on Asia's coasts 
The floating fragments, and with ominous fear 
Trembled for the great king. 

Still Talbot strove. 
His foot firm planted, his uplifted shield 
Fencing that breast which never yet had known 
The throb of fear. But when the warrior's eye. 
Glancing around the fight, beheld the French 
Pressing to conquest, and his heartless troops 
Striking with feebler force in backward step, 
Then o'er his cheek he felt the indignant flush 
Of shame, and loud he lifted up his voice. 
And cried, " Fly, cravens ! leave your aged chief 
Here in the front to perish ! his old limbs 
Are not like yours, so supple in the flight.^*^^ 
Go tell your countrymen how ye escaped 
When Talbot fell ! " 

In vain the warrior spake ; 
In tlie uproar of the fight his voice was lost ; 
And they, the nearest, who had heard, beheld 
The Prophetess approach, and every thought 
Was overwhelm'd in terror. But the son 
Of Talbot mark'd her thus across the plain 



Careering fierce in conquest, and the hope 

Of glory rose within him. Her to meet 

He spurr'd his horse, by one decisive deed 

Or to retrieve the battle, or to fall 

With honor. Each beneath the other's blow 

Bow'd down ; their lances shiver'd with the shock : 

To earth their coursers fell : at once they rose. 

He from the saddle-bow his falchion caught '^^^ 

Rushing to closer combat, and she bared 

The lightning of her sword. ^^^ In vain the youth 

Essay'd to pierce those arms which even the power 

Of time was weak to injure : she the while 

Through many a wound beheld her foeman's 

blood 
Ooze fast. "Yet save thyself! " the INIaiden cried. 
" Me thou canst not destroy : be timely wise. 
And live ! " He answer'd not, but lifting high 
His weapon, smote with fierce and forceful arm 
Full on the Virgin's helm : fire from her eyes 
Flash'd with the stroke : one step she back recoil'd, 
Then in his breast plunged deep the sword of death. 

Talbot beheld his full ; on the next foe. 
With rage and anguish wild, the warrior turn'd : 
His ill-directed weapon to the earth 
Drove down the unwounded Frank -. he strikes 

again. 
And through his all-in-vain imploring hands 
Cleaves the poor suppliant. On that dreadful day 
The sword of Talbot,^^- clogg'd with hostile gore, 
Made good its vaunt. Amid the heaps his arm 
Had slain, the chieftain stood and sway'd around 
His furious strokes : nor ceased he from the fight. 
Though now, discomfited, the English troops 
Fled fast, all panic-struck and spiritless. 
And mingling with the routed, FastoltTe fled, 
Fastolff'e, all fierce and haughty as he was,''*'* 
False to his former fame ; for he beheld 
The Maiden rushing onward, and such fear 
Ran through his frame, as thrills the African, 
When, grateful solace in the sultry hour. 
He rises on the buoyant billow's breast. 
And then beholds the inevitable shark 
Close on him, open-mouth'd. 

But Talbot now 
A moment paused, for bending thitherward 
He mark'd a warrior, such as well might ask 
His utmost force. Of strong and stately port 
The onward foeman moved, and bore on high 
A battle-axe, ^^^ in many a field of blood 
Known by the English chieftain. Over heaps 
Of slaughter' d, he made way, and bade the troops 
Retire from the bold Earl : then Conrade spake. 
" Vain is thy valor, Talbot ! look around. 
See where thy squadrons fly ! but thou shalt lose 
No honor, by their cowardice subdued, 
Performing well thyself the soldier's part." 

"And let them fly!" the indignant Earl ex- 
claim'd, 
" And let them fly ! and bear thou witness, chief! 
That guiltless of this day's disgrace, I fall. 
But, Frenchman ! Talbot will not tamely fall, 
Nor unrevenged." 

So saying, for the war 



58 



JOAN OF ARC 



BOOK X. 



He stood prepared : nor now with heedless rage 
The champions fought, for either knew full well 
His foeman's prowess : now they aim the blow 
Insidious, with quick change then drive the steel 
Fierce on the side exposed. The unfaithful arms 
Yield to the strong-driven edge ; the blood streams 

down 
Their batter' d mail. With swift eye Conrade 

mark'd 
The lifted buckler, and beneath impell'd 
His battle-axe ; that instant on his helm 
The sword of Talbot fell, and with the blow 
It broke. " Yet yield thee, Englishman ! " exclaim'd 
The generous Frank; " vain is this bloody strife : 
Me should' st thou conquer, little would my death 
Avail thee, weak and wounded ! " 

" Long enough 
Talbot has lived," replied the sullen chief: 
"His hour is come ; yet shalt not thou survive 
To glory in his fall ! " So, as he spake, 
He lifted from the ground a massy spear. 
And came again to battle. 

Now more fierce 
The conflict raged, for careless of himself, 
And desperate, Talbot fought. Collected still 
Was Conrade. Wheresoe'er his foeman aim'd 
The well-thrust javelin, there he swung around 
His guardian shield : the long and vain assault 
Exhausted Talbot now; foredone with toil, 
He bare his buckler low for weariness ; 
The buckler, now splinter'd with many a stroke, ^^^ 
Fell piecemeal ; from his riven arms the blood 
Stream'd fast: and now the Frenchman's battle- 
axe 
Came unresisted on the shieldless mail. 
But then he held his hand. " Urge not to death 
This fruitless contest ! " he exclaim'd : " oh chief! 
Are there not those in England who would feel 
Keen anguish at thy loss ^ a wife perchance 
Who trembles for thy safety, or a child 
Needing a father's care ! " 

Then Talbot's heart 
Smote him. " Warrior ! " he cried, " if thou dost 

think 
That life is worth preserving, hie thee hence, 
And save thyself: I loathe this useless talk." 

So saying, he address'd him to the fight, 
Impatient of existence : from their arms 
Fire flash'd, and quick they panted ; but not long 
Endured the deadly combat. With full force 
Down through his slioulder even to the chest, 
Conrade impell'd the ponderous battle-axe ; 
And at that instant underneath his shield 
Received the hostile spear. Prone fell the Earl, 
Even in his death rejoicing that no foe 
Should live to boast his fall. 

Then with faint hand 
Conrade unlaced his helm, and from his brow 
Wiping the cold dews ominous of death, 
He laid him on the earth, thence to remove. 
While the long lance hung heavy in his side. 
Powerless. As thus beside his lifeless foe 
He lay, the herald of the English Earl 
With faltering step drew near, and when he saw 



His master's arms, " Alas ! and is it you, 

My lord ? " he cried. " God pardon you your sins ! 

1 have been forty years your officer, 

And time it is I should surrender now 

The ensigns of my office ! " So he said, 

And paying thus his rite of sepulture. 

Threw o'er the slaughter'd chief his blazon'd coat.^^^ 

Then Conrade thus bespake him : " Englishman, 
Do for a dying soldier one kind act ! 
Seek for the Maid of Orleans, bid her haste 
Hither, and thou shalt gain what recompense 
It pleaseth thee to ask." 

The herald soon, 
Meeting the mission'd Virgin, told his tale. 
Trembling she hasten'd on, and when she knew 
The death-pale face of Conrade, scarce could Joan 
Lift up the expiring warrior's heavy hand, 
And press it to her heart. 

" I sent for thee. 
My friend ! " with interrupted voice he cried, 
" That I might comfort this my dying hour 
With one good deed. A fair domain is mine ; 
Let Francis and his Isabel possess 
That, mine inheritance." He paused awhile, 
Struggling for utterance ; then with breathless 

speed. 
And pale as him he mourn'd for, Francis came, 
And hung in silence o'er the blameless man, 
Even with a brother's sorrow : he pursued, 
" This, Joan, will be thy care. I have at home 
An aged mother — Francis, do thou soothe 
Her childless age. Nay, weep not for me thus : 
Sweet to the wretched is the tomb's repose ! " 

So saying, Conrade drew the javelin forth, 
And died without a groan. 

By this the scouts. 
Forerunning the king's march, upon the plain 
Of Patay had arrived, of late so gay 
With marshall'd thousands in their radiant arms, 
And streamers glittering in the noon-tide sun, 
And blazon'd shields and gay accoutrements, 
The pageantry of war ; but now defiled 
With mingled dust and blood, and broken arms. 
And mangled bodies. Soon the monarch joins 
His victor army. Round the royal flag, 
Uprear'd in conquest now, the chieftains flock, 
Proffi^ring their eager service. To his arms. 
Or wisely fearful, or by speedy force 
Compell'd, the embattled towns submit and own 
Their rightful king. Baugenci strives in vain ; 
Yenville and Mehun yield ; from Sully's wall 
Hurl'd is the banner'd lion : on they pass, 
Auxerre, and Troyes, and Chalons, ope their gates. 
And by the mission'd Maiden's rumor'd deeds 
Inspirited, the citizens of Rheims 
Feel their own strength ; against the English troops 
With patriot valor, irresistible. 
They rise, they conquer, and to their liege lord 
Present the city keys. 

The morn was fair 
When Ptheims reechoed to the busy hum 
Of multitudes, for high solemnity 
Assembled. To the holy fabric moves 



JOAN OF ARC 



59 



The long procession, through the streets bestrewn 
With flowers and laurel boughs. The courtier 

throng 
Were there, and they in Orleans, who endured 
The siege right bravely ; Gaucour, and La Hire, 
The gallant Xaintrailles, Boussac, and Chabannes, 
Alencon, and the bravest of the brave, 
The Bastard Orleans, now in hope elate, 
Soon to release from hard captivity 
His dear-beloved brother ; gallant men, 
And worthy of eternal memory. 
For they, in the most perilous times of France, 
Despair'd not of their country. By the king 
The delegated Damsel pass'd along 
Clad in her batter'd arms. She bore on high 
Her hallow'd banner to the sacred pile. 
And fix'd it on the altar, whilst her hand 
Pour'd on the monarch's head the mystic oil,'^'' 
Wafted of yore, by milk-white dove from heaven, 
(So legends say,) to Clovis when he stood 
At Rheims for baptism ; dubious since that day, 
When Tolbiac plain reek'd with his warrior's blood. 
And fierce upon their flight the Almanni prest. 
And rear'd the shout of triumph; in that hour 
Clovis invoked aloud the Christian God 
And conquer'd : waked to wonder thus, the chief 
Became love's convert, and Clotilda led 
Her husband to the font. 

The mission'd Maid 
Then placed on Charles's brow the crown of France, 
And back retiring, gazed upon the king 
One moment, quickly scanning all the past, 
Till, in a tumult of wild wonderment. 
She wept aloud. The assembled multitude 
In awful stillness witness'd ; then at once. 
As with a tempest-rushing noise of winds, 
Lifted their mingled clamors. Now the Maid 
Stood as prepared to speak, and waved her hand, 
And instant silence followed. 

" King of France! " 
She cried, " at Chinon, when my gifted eye 
Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit 
Prompted, I promised, with the sword of God, 
To drive from Orleans far the English wolves, 
And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims. 
All is accomplish'd. I have here this day 
Fulfill'd my mission, and anointed thee 
King over this great nation. Of this charge, 
Or well perform'd or carelessly, that God 
Of Whom thou boldest thine authority 
Will take account ; from Him all power derives. 
Thy duty is to fear the Lord, and rule. 
According to His word and to the laws. 
The people thus committed to thy charge : 
Theirs is to fear Him and to honor Thee, 
And with that fear and honor to obey 
In all things lawful ; both being thus alike 
By duty bound, alike restricted both 
From wilful license. If thy heart be set 
To do His will and in His ways to walk, 
1 know no limit to the happiness 
Thou may'st create. 1 do beseech thee. King ! " 
The Maid exclaim'd, and fell upon the ground, 
And clasp'd his knees, " I do beseech thee, King! 
By all the thousands that depend on thee, 



For weal or woe, — consider what thou art, 

By Whom appointed ! If thou dost oppress 

Thy people, if to aggrandize thyself [them 

Thou tear'st them from their homes, and sendest 

To slaughter, prodigal of misery ; 

If when the widow and the orphan groan 

In want and wretchedness, thou turnest thee 

To hear the music of the flatterer's tongue ; 

If, when thouhear'st of thousands who have fallen, 

Thou say'st, 'I am a King ! and fit it is 

That these should perish for me ; ' — if thy realm 

Should, through the counsels of thy government, 

Be fill'd with woe, and in thy, streets be heard 

The voice of mourning and the feeble cry 

Of asking hunger ; if in place of Law 

Iniquity prevail ; if Avarice grind 

The poor; if discipline be utterly 

Relax'd, Vice charter'd. Wickedness let loose ; 

Though in the general ruin all must share. 

Each answer for his own peculiar guilt. 

Yet at the Judgment-day, from those to whom 

The power was given, the Giver of all power 

Will call for righteous and severe account. 

Choose thou the better part, and rule the land 

In righteousness ; in righteousness thy throne 

Shall then be stablish'd, not by foreign foes 

Shaken, nor by domestic enemies. 

But guarded then by loyalty and love, 

True hearts. Good Angels, and All-seeing Heaven. 

Thus spake the Maid of Orleans, solemnly 
Accomplishing her marvellous mission here. 



NOTES 



Note 1, p. 13, col. 1. — The Bastard Orleans. 

" Lewes duke of Orleance murthered in Paris, by Jlion 
duke of Bur;?oyne, Avas owner of the castle of Coney, on the 
frontiers of Fraunce toward Arthoys, whereof he made con- 
stable the lord of Cauny, a man not so wise as his wifo was 
faire, and yet slie was not so faire, but she was as well be- 
loved of the duke of Orleance, as of her husband. Betwene 
the duke and her husband (I cannot tell who was father), she 
conceived a child, and brought furthe a prety boye called Jhon, 
whiche child beying of the age of one yere, the duke deceased, 
and not long after the mother and the lord of Cawny ended 
their lives. The next of kynne to the lord Cawny chalenged 
the inheritaunce, Avhich was worth foure thousande crounes a 
yore, alledgyng that the boye was a bastard : and the kynred 
of the mother's side, for to save her honesty, it plainly denied. 
In conclusion, this matter was in contencion before the presi- 
dentes of the parliament of Paris, and there hang in contro- 
versie till the child came to the age of eight years old. At 
whiche tyme it was demanded of hym openly whose sonne he 
was ; his frendes of his mother's side advertised hym to re- 
quire a day, to be advised of so great an answer, whiche he 
asked, and to hym it was granted. In the mean season, his 
said frendes persuaded him to claime his inheritance as sonne 
to the lorde of Cawny, Avbiche was an honorable livyng, and 
an auncient patrimony, affirming that if he said contrary, he 
not only slaundered his mother, shamed hymself, and stained 
his bloud, but also should have no livyng, nor any thing to 
take to. The scholemaster thinkyng that his disciple had 
well learned his lesson, and would rehearse it according to 
his instruccion, brought hym before the judges at the dale 
assigned, and when the question was repeted to hym again, 
he boldly answered, " My harte geveth me, and my tonge 



60 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



telleth me J that I am the sonne of the noble duke of Orleaunce, 
more glad to be his bastarde, with a meane livyng, than the 
lawful Sonne of that coward cuckolde Cawny, with his four 
thousand crownes." The judges much marvelled at his bolde 
answers, and his mother's cosyns detested hym for shamyng 
of his mother, and his father's supposed kinne rejoysed in 
gaining the patrimony and possessions. Charles duke of 
Orleaunce heryng of this judgment, took hym into his family, 
and gave hym greate offices and fees, whiche he well deserved, 
for (during his captivitie), he defended his landes, expulsed 
the Englisiimen, and in conclusion, procured his deliverance. 
— Hall,ff. 104. 

There can be no doubt that Shakespeare had this anecdote 
in his mind when he wrote the first scene wherein the bastard 
Falcoubridge is introduced. 

When the duke of Orleans was so villanously assassinated 
by order of the duke of Burgundy, the murder was thought at 
first to have been perpetrated by sir Aubert de Cauny, says 
]\Ionstrellet, (Johnes's translation, vol. i. p. 198,) from the 
great hatred he bore the duke for having carried off his wife ; 
but the truth was soon known who were the guilty persons, 
and that sir Aubert was perfectly innocent of the crime. Ma- 
rietta d'Enguien was the name of the adulteress. 

" Oil rapporte que la duchesse d^ Orleans, Valentine de Milan, 
princesse cclehre par son esprit et par son courage, ayant d la 
nouvelle de la morte sanglante de son epoux, rassembU toute sa 
maison et les principaux seigneurs de son parti, leur addressa ces 
paroles : ' Qui de vous marchera le premier pour venger la mart 
du frere de son Roy 7 ' Frappe de terreur, cliacun gardait un 
morne silence. Jndigne de voir que personne ne repondit d ce 
noble appel, le petit Jean d' Orleans (Diinois), alors hge de sex 
ans et demi, s''avanga tout d coup au milieu de Passemblde, et 
s^ecria d^une voix animee .- ' Ce sera moy, madame, etje me mon- 
streray digne d^estre son fils.'' Dcpuis ce moment, Valentine 
oubliant la naissance illegitime de ce jeune prince, avait congu 
pour lui une affection vraiment maternelle. On lui avait en- 
tendu dire au lit de la mort, et par une cspece de presentiment 
de la grandeur future de ce heros, ' QuUl lay avoit estc emble, 
et quHl nhj avoit nul de ses enfans qui fust si bien taille d venger 
la mort de so7i pere.^ Cette ardeur de vengeance Ventraina 
memo d''ahord trop loin, et c'est d pe.u pres V unique reproche 
qu'on ptdsse faire d la jeunesse de ce guerrier. 11 se vanta 
quelquefois, dans la premiere moitie de sa vie d'avoir immole de 
sa main dix mille Bourguignons aux manes de sonpere." 

Le Brun de Charmentes, t. i. 99. 



Note 2, p. 13, col. 1. — Cheered with the Trobador's sweet 
minstrelsy. 
Lorraine, according to Chaucer, was famous for its singers. 
There mightest thou se these flutours, 
Minstrallis and eke jogelours. 
That wel to singin did ther paine ; 
Some songin songis of Loraine, 
For in Loraine ther notis be 
Full svvetir than in this centre. 

Romaunt of the Rose. 
No mention is made of the Lorraine songs in the corre- 
sponding lines of the original. 

Ld cstolent lierppurs, jieutcurs, 
Et de moult d' instrumens jongleurs ; 
Les uns disoient chansons f aides, 
Les autres nottes nouvellettes. 

v. 770—3. 

Note 3, p. 13, col. 2. — Gainsaying what she sought. 

The following account of Joan of Arc is extracted from 
a history of the siege of Orleans, prise de moid mot, sans aucun 
changement de langage, d'un vieil exemplaire escrit a la main en 
parcheinin, et trouvc en la maison de ladicte ville d' Orleans. 
Tioyes. 1621. 

'■'■ Or en cc temps avoit une jeune file au pais de Lorraine, aagee 
de dix-huict ans ou environ, nommee Janne, natifue d'un paroisse 
nomme Dompre, fille d^un Laboureur nomme Jacques Tart ; qui 
jamais n'aroltfait autre chose quegarder les bestes aux champs, a 
la quelle, ainsi qu''elle disoit, avoit este revelc que Dicu vovloit 
qu'elle allast devers le Roi Charles septicsme, pour luy aider et le 
conseiller a recouvrer son royaume et ses villes et places que les 
Jinglois avoient conquises en ses pays. La quelle revelation clle 



n'osa dire sespere et mere, pource qiCellc sgavoit bien que jamais 
n'eussent consenty qu'elle yfust allee ; et le persuada tant qu'illa 
mena devers un gentelhomme nomme Messire Robert de Baudri- 
court, qui pour lors estoit Cappitaine de la ville, on chasleau de 
Vaucouleur, qui est asset prochain de la : auquel elle pria tres 
instanment quHl la fist mener devers le Ruy de France, en leur 
disant qu'il estoit tres necessaire qu''elle parlast atuy pour le bien 
de son royaume, et que elle luy feroit grand secoiirs et aide a re- 
couvrer son diet royaume, et que Dieu le vouloit ainsi, et que il 
luy avoit este rev ele par plusieursfois. Des quelles parolles il 
ne faisoit que rire et se mocquer et la reputoit incensee: toutes- 
fois elle persevera tant et si longuement quHl luy bailla un gen- 
telhomme, nomme Ville Robert, et quclque nombre de gens, les quels 
la menerent devers le Roy que pour lors estoit a Chinon." 

Note 4, p. 13, col. 2. — Of eighteen years. 

This agrees v/ith the account of her age given by Holinshed, 
who calls her " a young wench of an eighteene years old ; of 
favour was she counted likesome, of person stronglie made and 
manlie, of courage great, bardie, and stout withall; an under- 
stander of counsels though she were not at them, greet sem- 
blance of chastitie both of bodie and behaviour, the name of 
Jesus in hir mouth about all her businesses, humble, obedient, 
and fasting divers days in the weeke." — Holinshed, 600. 

De Serres speaks thus of her : "A young maiden named 
Joan of Arc, born in a village upon the Marches of Barre 
called Domremy, neere to Vaucouleurs, of the age of eighteene 
or twenty years, issued fi-om base parents, her father was 
named James of Arc, and her mother Isabel, poore country 
folkes, who had brought her up to keep their cattell. She 
said with great boldnesse that she had a revelation how to 
succour the king, how he might be able to chase the English 
from Orleance, and after that to cause the king to be crowned 
at Rheims, and to put him fully and wholly in possession of 
his realme. 

" After she had delivered this to her father, mother, and 
their neighbors, she presumed to go to the lord of Baudri- 
court, provost of Vaucouleurs ; she boldly delivered unto him, 
after an extraordinary manner, all these great mysteries, as 
much wished for of all men as not hoped for: especially com- 
ing from the mouth of a poore country maide, whom they 
might with more reason beleeve to be possessed of some mel- 
ancholy humour, than divinely inspired ; being the instrmnent 
of so many excellent remedies, in so desperat a season, after 
the vaine striving of so great and famous personages. At the 
first he mocked and reproved her, but having heard her with 
more patience, and judging by her temperate discourse and 
modest countenance that she spoke not idely, in the end he 
resolves to present her to the king for his discharge. So she 
arrives at Chinon the sixt da.y of May, attired like a man. 

" She had a modest countenance, sweet, civill, and resolute 3 
her discourse was temperate, reasonable and retired, her ac- 
tions cold, shewing great chastity. Having spoken to the 
king, or noblemen with whom she was to negociate, she 
presently retired to her lodging with an old woman that guided 
her, without vanity, affectation, babling or courtly lightnesse. 
These are the manners which the Original attributes to her." 

Edward Grimeston, the translator, calls her in the margin, 
" Joane the Virgin, or rather Witch." 

Note 5, p. 13, col. 2. — Lest he in wrath confound me. 

Then the word of the Lord came unto me, saying, " Before 
I formed thee in the belly, I knew thee ; and before thou 
camest forth out of the womb I sanctified thee, and I ordained 
thee a prophet unto the nations." 

Then said I, Ah, Lord God, behold I cannot speak, for I 
am a child. 

But the Lord said unto me. Say not, I am a child, for thou 
shalt go to all that I shall send thee, and whatsoever I com- 
mand thee, thou shalt speak. 

Thou therefore gird up thy loins, and arise, and speak unto 
them all that I command thee : be not dismayed at their faces, 
lest I confound thee before them. — Jeremiah, chap. i. 

Note 6, p. 14, col. 2. — Taught wisdom to mankind! 

But as for the mighty man, he had the earth, and the honor- 
able man dwelt in it. 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



61 



Days should speak, and multitude of years should teach 
wisdom. — Job. 

Note 7, p. 1 4, col. 2. — Riish o'er the land, and desolate, and kiU. 
" While the Ijn;,Mish and French contend for dominion, 
soverei^Tity and life itself, men's goods in France were vio- 
lently taken by the license of war, churches spoiled, men every 
where murthercd or wounded, others put to death or tortured, 
matrons ravished, maids forcibly drawn from out tiieir parents' 
arms to be dsHowered ; towns daily taken, daily spoylcd, 
daily defaced, the riches of the inhabitants carried whether the 
conquerors think good ; houses and villages round about set on 
fire, no kind of cruelty is left unpractised upon the miserable 
French, omitting many hundred kind of other calamities which 
all at once oppressed them. Add here unto that the com- 
monwealth, being destitute of the help of laws (which for the 
most part are mute in times of war and mutiny), floateth up 
and down without any anchoraie at right or justice. Neither 
was England herself void of these mischiefs, who everyday 
heard the news of her valiant children's funerals, slain in per- 
petual skirmishes and bickerings, her general wealth con- 
tinually ebbed and wained, so that the evils seemed almost 
equal, and the whole western world echoed the groans and 
sighs of either nation's quarrels, being the common argument 
of speech and compassion through Christendom." — Speed. 

Note 8, p. 15, col. 1. — there, in the hamlet Arc, 

My father's dwelling stands. 

When Montaigne saw it in 1580, the front of the house was 
covered with paintings representing the history of the Maid. 
He says, Ses desccndans furent annoblis par faveur da Roi, et 
noii^ monstrarent Ics armes que Ic Roi leur donna, qui sont d'azur 
d un' espde droite couronnee etpoignce d'or, ct deuxfleurs de lis 
d'or au cote de ladite espce ; de quoy un reccveur de Vaucotdcur 
donna un escussnn pelnt d JV/. de Caselis. Le devant de la 
maisonnette cA cite naquit est toute peinte de ses gestcs ; muij> 
Vaage en afort corrumpulapeiiiture. II ya aussi un ahre U 
long d'wie vigne qn'on nomme Vahrc de la Pucelle, qui n'a nulle 
autre chose d rcmerquer. — Voyages de J\[ontaigne, i. p. 17. 

Ce n'etait qii'une inmsonnrttc ; et cependant elie a suhsistc 
jitsqu' d nos jours, grace au icle natinnal du maire et dcs hahitans 
de Domremy, qui pendant les dernidres annees du gouverncment 
imperial, voyant qu'on refusait de leur allouer la sommenecessaire 
pour son entrctien, y suppfeercnt par une souscription volontaire ; 
taut le respect et la veneration que les vertus iiispircnt, peuvcnt 
quclqnefois prolonger la durcc dcs monumens les plus simples et 
les plus fragiles. — Le Brun de Charmettes, t. i. 244. 

It appears, however, that whatever might be the respect and 
veneration of the inhabitants for this illustrious heroine and 
mai-tyr, they allowed the cottage in which she was born to be 
villanously desecrated, very soon after their national feeling 
had been thus praised. The author, whose book was published 
only in the second year (1817) after the overthrow of the Im- 
perial Government, adds the following note to this passage : 
Dipuis Vcpoque ou ce passage a etc ecrit, il parait que les choses 
sont fort changces. On lit ce qui suit dans le J^Tarrateur de la 
Mcuse ! " Les cliamhres ov, logerent celte heroine et ses parens 
sont converties eur ctahles ', de vils animaux occupent Pemplace- 
ment du lit de Jeanne d'Arc, son armoire vermoulue renfermc des 
ustensiles d'ecurie." 

Note 9, p. 15, col. 1. — By day I drove my father's flock afield. 

" People found out a nest of miracles in her education, says 
old Fuller, that so lion-like a spirit should be bred among 
sheep like David." 

Note 10, p. 15, col, 1. — With gorse-flowers glowing, as the sun 
illumed 
Their golden glory. 

It is said that when Linnaeus was in England, he was more 
struck with the splendid appearance of the furze in blossom, 
than with any other of our native plants. — Mrs. Bray's Letters, 
i. 316. 

Note 11, p. 15, col. 2. — Death! to the happy thou art terrible ; 
But how the wretched love to think of thee, 
O thou true comforter, the friend of all 
Who have no friend beside ! 



O Death, how bitter is the remembrance of thee to a man 
that liveth at rest in his possessions, unto the man that hath 
nothing to vex him, and that hath prosperity in all things j 
yea unto him that is yet able to receive meat \ 

O Death, acceptable is thy sentence unto the needy, and 
unto him whose strength faileth, that is now in the last age, 
and is vexed with all things, and to him that dcspaireth, and 
hath lost patience ! — Ecclesiasticus, xli. 1, 2. 



Note 12, p. 16, col. 2. — Think well of this, young man! 

Dreadful indeed must have been the miseries of the French 
from vulgar plunderers, when the manners of the highest 
classes were marked by hideous grossness and vices that may 
not be uttered. 

" Of acts so ill examples are not good." 

Sir Wdliam Alexander. 
Yet it may be right to justify the saying in the text by an 
extract from the notes to Andrews's History of Great Britain. 
" Agricola quilibet, spoiisam juvenem acquisitus, ac in vicinia 
alicujus iri iiobilis et precpotentis habitaus, crudelissime vexa- 
tabur. JVempe nvnnunquatn in ejus domum irruens iste optimas, 
magncL comitante cater va,prelium ingens redemptionis exigcrelt 
ac si non protinus solveret colonus, istum miseruni in magna area 
protrudens, venustCR ac tenerm uxori sum {super ipsam arcam 
prostrato!) vim vir nobilis adferret ; voce exclamans horrenda, 
' Audine Rustice ! jamjam, super hanc arcam constuprutur 
dilccta tua sponsa ! ' atque peracto hoc scelcre ncfando relinque- 
retur {horrcseo refcrens) suffocatione expirans maritus, nisi 
magna pretio sponsa nuper vitiata liberationem ejus redime- 
ret." — J. de Paris. 

Let us add to this the detestable history of a great com- 
mander under Charles VII. of France, the bastard of Bourbon, 
who (after having committed the most execrable crimes during 
a series of years with impunity) was drowned in 1441, by tho 
constable Richemont, (a treacherous assassin himself, but a 
mirror of justice when compared to some of his contempora- 
ries,) on its being proved against him " Quod super ipsum 
maritum vi prostratum, uxori, frustrarepugnanti, vim adlulerat. 
Ensuite il avoit fait hattre et decouper le marl, tant que c'ctoit 
pitie a voir." — Mem. de Richemont. 



Note 13, p. 16, col. 2. — Tliink tliat there are such horrors. 

I translate the following anecdote of the Black Prince from 
Froissart : — 

The Prince of Wales was about a month, and not longer, 
before the city of Lymoges, and he did not assault it, but 
always continued mining. When the miners of the princo 
had finished their work, they said to him, "Sir, we will throw 
down a great part of the wall into the moat whenever it sliall 
please you, so that you may enter into the city at your case, 
without danger." These words greatly pleased the prince, 
who said to them, " I chuse that your work should be mani- 
fested to-morrow at the hour of day-break." Then the miners 
set fire to their mines the next morning as the prince had 
commanded, and overthrew a great pane of the wall, which 
filled the moat where it had fallen. The English saw all this 
very willingly, and they were there all armed and ready to 
enter into the town ; those who were on foot could enter at 
their ease, and they entered and ran to the gate and beat it to 
the earth and all the barriers also ; for there was no defence, 
and all this was done so suddenly, that the people of the town 
were not upon their guard. And then you might have seen 
the prince, the duke of Lancaster, the count of Canterbury, 
the count of Pembroke, Messire Guischart Dangle, and all the 
other chiefs and their people who entered in ; and ruffians on 
foot who were prepared to do mischief, and to run through the 
town, and to kill men and women and children, and so they 
had been commanded to do. There was a full pitiful sight, 
for men and women and children cast themselves on their knees 
before the prince and cried " mercy ! " but he was so enflamed 
with so great rage, that he heard them not ; neither man nor 
woman would he hear, but they were all put to the sword 
wherever they were found, and these people had not been 
guilty. I know not how they could have no pity upon poor 
people, wdio had never been powerful enough to do any trea- 
son. There was no heart so hard in the city of Lymoges 
which had any remembrance of God, that did not lament the 



62 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



great mischief that was there ; for more than three thousand 
men and women and children were put to death that day ; 
God has their souls, for indeed they were martyred. In en- 
tering the town a party of the English went to the palace of 
the bishop and found him there, and took him and led him 
before the prince, who looked at him with a murderous look, 
(fdonnevsemcnt,) and the best word that he could say to him 
was that his head should be cut off, and then he made him be 
taken from his presence. — I. 235. 

The crime which the people of Lymoges had committed 
was that of surrendering when they had been besieged by the 
duke of Berry, and in consequence turning French. And 
this crime was thus punished at a period when no versatility 
of conduct was thought dishonorable. The phrases tourner 
Anglois — tourner Frangois — retourner Anglois, occur repeat- 
edly in Froissart. I should add that of all the heroes of this 
period the Black Prince was the most generous and the most 
humane. 

After the English had taken the town of Montereau, the 
seigneur de Guitery, who commanded there, retired to the 
castle ; and Henry V. threatened, unless he surrendered, to 
hang eleven gentlemen, taken in the town. These poor men 
entreated the governor to comply, for the sake of saving their 
lives, letting him at the same time know how impossible it 
was that his defence could be of any avail. He was not to be 
persuaded ; and when they saw this, and knew that they must 
die, some of them requested that they might first see their 
wives and their friends. This was allowed: la y eut depiteux 
regrets mi prendre conge, says Pierre de Fanin, and on the fol- 
lowing morning they were executed as Henry had threatened. 
The governor held out for fifteen days, and then yielded by 
a capitulation which secured himself. — ( Coll. des Meinoires, 
t. V. p. 456.) 

In the whole history of these dreadful times I remember 
but one man whom the cruelty of the age had not contami- 
nated, and that was the Portugueze hero Nuno Alvares Pereira, 
a man who appears to me to have been a perfect example of 
patriotism, heroism, and every noble and lovely quality, above 
all others of any age or country. 

Atrocious, however, as these instances are, they seem as 
nothing when compared to the atrocities which the French 
exercised upon each other. When Soissons was captured by 
Charles VI. (1414) in person, " in regard to the destruction 
committed by the king's army (says Monstrellet), it cannot be 
estimated ; for after they had plundered all the inhabitants, and 
their dwellings, they despoiled the churches and monasteries. 
They even took and robbed the most part of the sacred shrines 
of many bodies of saints, which they stripped of all the pre- 
cious stones, gold and silver, together with many other jewels 
and holy things appertaining to the aforesaid churches. There 
is not a christian but would have shuddered at the atrocious 
excesses committed by the soldiery in Soissons : married 
women violated before their husbands ; young damsels in the 
presence of their parents and relatives ; holy nuns, gentle- 
women of all ranks, of whom there were many in the town ; 
all, or the greater part, were violated against their wills by 
divers nobles and others, who after having satiated their own 
brutal passions, delivered them over without mercy to their 
servants : and there is no remembrance of such disorder and 
havoc being done by christians, considering the many persons 
of high rank that were present, and who made no efforts to 
check them. There were also many gentlemen in the king's 
army who had relations in the town, as well secular as church- 
men ; but the disorder was not the less on that account." — 
Vol. iv. p. 31. 

What a national contrast is there between the manner in 
which the English and French have conducted their civil wars ! 
Even in the wars of the Fronde, when all parties were alike 
thoroughly unprincipled, cruelties were committed on both 
sides which it might have been thought nothing but the strong 
feelings of a perverted religious principle could have given 
birth to. 

Note 14, p. 16, col. 2. — Yet hangs and pulls for food. 
Holinshcd says, speaking of the siege of Roan, " If I should 
rehearse how deerelie dogs, rats, mice, and cats were sold 
within the towne, and how greedilie they were by the poore 
people eaten and devoured, and how the people dailie died 
for fault of food, and ijoung infants laie sucking in the streets 



on their mothers^ h-easts, being dead starved for hunger, the 
reader might lament their extreme miseries."— p. 566. 

Note 15, p. 17, col. 1. — The sceptre of the wicked'} 

" Do not the tears run down the widow's cheek ? and is not 
her cry against him that causeth them to fall ? 

" The Lord will not be slack till he have smitten in sunder 
the loins of the unmerciful, till he have taken away the multi- 
tude of the proud, and broken the sceptre of the unrighteous." 

— Ecclesiasticus. 

Note 16, p. 17, col. 1, — The Fountain of the Fairies. 

In the Journal of Paris in the reigns of Charles VI. and 
VII. it is asserted that the Maid of Orleans, in answer to an 
interrogatory of the doctors, whether she had ever assisted at 
the assemblies held at the Fountain of the Fairies near Dom- 
prein, round which the evil spirits dance, confessed that she had 
often repaired to a beautiful fountain in the country of Lor- 
raine, which she named the good Fountain of the Fairies of 
our Lord. — From the notes to the English version of Le Grand's 
Fabliaux. 

Note 17, p. 17, col. 2. — They love to lie and rock upon its leaves. 

Being asked whether she had ever seen any fairies, she 
answered no ; but that one of her god-mothers pretended to 
have seen some at the Fairy-tree, near the village of Dompre. 

— Rapin. 

Note 18, p. 17, col. 2. — Memory, thought, were gone. 

" In this representation which I made to place myself near 
to Christ (says St. Teresa), there would come suddenly upon 
me, without either expectation or any preparation on my part, 
such an evident feeling of the presence of God, as that I could 
by no means doubt, but that either he was within me, or else 
I all engulfed in him. This was not in the manner of a 
vision, but I think they call it Mistical Theology ; and it 
suspends the soul in such sort, that she seems to be wholly 
out of herself. The Will is in act of loving, the Memory 
seems to be in e manner lost, the understanding, in my opinion, 
discourses not ; and although it be not lost, yet it works not as 
I was saying, but remains as it were amazed to consider how 
much it understands." — Life of St. Teresa, written by herself. 

Teresa was well acquainted with the feelings of enthusiasm. 
I had, however, described the sensations of the Maid of Orleans 
before I had met with the life of the saint. 

Note 19, p. 17, col. 2. ^nd they shall perish who oppress. 

" Raise up indignation, and pour out wrath, and let them 
perish who oppress the people ! " — Ecclesiasticus, xxxvi. 



Note 20, p. 18, col. 1. — The hoarse grasshoppers their eveninc 
song 
Sung sh7-ill and ceaseless. 



The epithets shrill and hoarse will not appear incongruous 
to one who has attended to the grasshopper's chirp. Gazajus 
has characterized the sound by a word certainly accurate, in 
his tale of a grasshopper who perched upon St. Francis's 
finger, and sung the praise of God and the wonders of his own 
body in his vernacular tongue, St. Francis and all the grass- 
hoppers listening with equal edification. 

Cicada 

Canebat {ut sic effcram) cicadice. 

Pia Hilar ia Angelini Oazcei. 

Perhaps he remembered two lines in the Zanitonella of the 
Macaronic poet, 

Scntis an quantm cicigant Cigala, 
Qua mihi rumpunt cicigando testam. 

The marginal note says, Cicigare, vox cicada vel cigalcB. 

St. Francis labored much in the conversion of animals 
In the fine series of pictures representing his life, lately painted 
for the new Franciscan convent at Madrid, I recollect seeing 
him preach to a congregation of birds. Gazseus has a poem 
upon his instructing a ewe. His advice to her is somewhat 
curious : 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



63 



Fide ne arietes, neve in obvios mas .- 
Cave devovendos jlusculns altaribus 
Vel ore laceres, vcl bifurcato pede, 
Male feriatcB felis instar, proteras. 

There is another upon his converting two lambs, whose prayers 
were more acceptable to God, Marot ! says he, than your 
psalms. If the nun, who took care of them in his absence, 
was inclined to lie a-bed — 

Frater Agnus hanc bed hc& suo 

Devulus excUabat. 

O agiiejam non agne sed doctor bone! 

Note 21, p. 18, col. 1. — The memory of his prisoned years. 

The Maid declared upon her trial, that God loved the duke 
of Orleans, and that she had received more revelations con- 
cerning him, than any person living, except the king. — Rapin. 

Orleans, during his long captivity, " had learnt to court the 
fair ladies of England in their native strains." Among the 
Harleian MSS. is a collection of "love poems, roundels and 
songs," composed by the French prince during his confine- 
ment. 

NoT£ 22, p. 18, col. 2. — T/ie prisoners of tliat shameful day 
out summ''d 
Their conquerors ! 
According to Holinshed, the English army consisted of only 
15,000 men, harassed with a tedious march of a month, in 
very bad weather, through an enemy's country, and for the 
most part sick of a flux. He states the number of French at 
60,000, of whom 10,000 were slain, and 1500 of the higher 
order taken prisoners. Some historians make the dispropor- 
tion in numbers still greater. Goodwin says, that among the 
slain there were one archbishop, three dukes, six earls, ninety 
barons, fifteen hundred knights, and seven thousand esquires 
or gentlemen. 

Note 23, p. 18, col. 2. — From his hersed bojcmen hoiD the 
arrows Jleic. 

This was the usual method of marshalling the bowmen. At 
Cressy " the archers stood in manner of an herse, about two 
hundred in front and but forty in depth, which is undoubtedly 
the best way of embattling archers, especially when the enemy 
is very numerous, as at this time : for by the breadth of the 
front the extension of the enemies front is matched ; and by 
reason of the thinness in flank, the arrows do more certain 
execution, being more likely to reach home." — Barnes. 

The victory at Poictiers is chiefly attributed to the herse of 
archers. After mentioning the conduct and courage of the 
English leaders in that battle, Barnes says, " But all this 
courage had been thrown away to no purpose, had it not been 
seconded by the extraordinary gallantry of the English archers, 
who behaved themselves that day with wonderful constancy, 
alacrity, and resolution. So that by their means, in a manner, 
all the French battails received their first foil, being by the 
barbed arrows so galled and terrified, that they were easily 
opened to the men of arms." 

" Without all question, the guns which are used now-a-days 
are neither so terrible in battle, nor do such execution, nor 
work such confusion as arrows can do : for bullets being not 
seen only hurt when they hit, but arrows enrage the horse, 
and break the array, and terrify all that behold them in the 
bodies of their neighbors. Not to say that every archer can 
shoot thrice to a gunner's once, and that whole squadrons of 
bows may let fly at one time, when only one or two files of 
musqneteers can discharge at once. Also, that whereas 
guns are useless when your pikes join, because they only do 
execution point blank, the arrows which will kill at random, 
may do good service even behind your men of arms. Audit 
is notorious, that at the fiimous battle of Lepanto, the Turkish 
bows did more mischief than the Christian artillery. Besides 
It is not the least observable, that whereas the weakest may 
use guns as well as the strongest, in those days your lusty and 
tall yeomen were chosen for the bow; whose hose being fas- 
tened with one point, and their jackets long and easy to shoot 
in, they had their limbs at full liberty, so that they might 
easily draw bows of great strength, and shoot arrows of a 
yard long beside the head." — Joshua Barnes. 



Note 24, p. 18, col. 2. — To turn on the defenceless prisoners 
The cruel sicord of conquest 

During the heat of the combat, when the English had 
gained the uj)per hand, and made several prisoners, news was 
brought to king Henry that the French were attacking his 
rear, and had already captured the greater part of his baggage 
and sumpter-horses. Tiiis was indeed true, for Robinet de 
Bournonville, Rifllart de Clamasse, Ysambart d'Azincourt, 
and some other men at arms, with about six hundred peasants, 
had fallen upon and taken great part of the king's baggage, 
and a number of horses, while the guard was occupied in the 
battle. This distressed the king very much, for he saw that 
though the French army had been routed, they were collecting 
on different parts of the plain in large bodies, and he was 
afraid they would resume the battle : he therefore caused 
instant proclamation to be made by sound of trumpet, that 
every one should put his prisoners to death, to prevent them 
from aiding the enemy, should the combat be renewed. This 
caused an instantaneous and general massacre of the French 
prisoners, occasioned by the disgraceful conduct of Robinet de 
Bournonville, Ysambart d'Azincourt, and the others, who 
u'ere afterwards punished for it, and imprisoned a very long 
time by duke John of Burgundy, notwithstanding they had 
made a present to the count de Charolois of a most precious 
sword ornamented with diamonds, that had belonged to the 
king of England. They had taken this sword, with other 
rich jow(5ls, from king Henry's baggage, and had made this 
present, that in case they should at any time be called to an 
account for what they had done, the count might stand their 
friend. — Monstrelct, vol. iv. p. 180. 

When the king of England had on this Saturday begun his 
march towards Calais, many of the French returned to the 
field of battle, where the bodies had been turned over more 
than once, some to seek for their lords, and carry them to their 
own countries for burial, others to pillage what the English 
had left. King Henry's army had only taken gold, silver, 
rich dresses, helmets, and what was of value, for which reasoa 
the greater part of the armor was untouched, and on the dead 
bodies ; but it did not long remain thus, for it was very soon 
stripped off, and even the shirts and all other parts of their 
dress were carried away by the peasants of the adjoining 
villages. 

The bodies were left exposed as naked as when they came 
into the world. On the Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, 
and Wednesday, the corpses of many princes were well 
washed and raised, namely, the dukes of Brabant, Bar, and 
Alen?on, the counts de Nevers, de Blaumont, de Vaudemont> 
de Faulquemberge, the lord de Dampierre, admiral sir Charles 
d'Albreth, constable, and buried in the church of the Friars 
Minors at Hesdin. Others were carried by their servants, 
some to their own countries, and others to different churches. 
All who were recognized were taken away, and buried in the 
churches of their manors. 

When Philippe count de Charolois heard of the unfor- 
tunate and melancholy disaster of the French, he was in great 
grief; more especially for the death of his two uncles, the 
duke of Brabant and count de Nevers. Moved by compas- 
sion, he caused all tliat had remained exposed on the field of 
battle to be interred, and commissioned the abbot de Rous- 
sianville and the bailiff of Aire to have it done. They meas- 
ured out a square of twenty-five " yards, wherein were dug 
three trenches twelve feet wide, in which were buried, by an 
account kept, five thousand eight hundred men. It was not 
known how many had been carried away by their friends, nor 
what number of the wounded had died in hospitals, towns, 
villages, and even in the adjacent woods : but, as I have 
before said, it must have been very great. 

This square was consecrated as a burying-ground by the 
bishop of Guines, at the command and as procurator of Louis 
de Luxembourg, bishop of Therounne. It was surrounded 
by a strong hedge of thorns, to prevent wolves or dogs from 
entering it, and tearing up and devouring the bodies. 

In consequence of this sad event, some learned clerk of the 
realm made the following verses : 

A chief by dolorous mischance oppress'd, 

A prince who rules by arbitrary will, 
A royal house by discord sore distress'd, 

A council prejudiced and partial still, 



64 



NOTES TO JOAN OP ARC. 



Subjects by prodigaJity brought low, 

Will fill the land with beggars, well we trow. 

Nobles made noble in dame ISature's spite 
A timorous clergy fear, and truth conceal ; 

While humble commoners forego their right. 
And the harsh yoke of proud oppressioa feel : 

Thus, while the people mourn, the public woe 

Will fill the land with beggars, well we trow. 

Ah feeble woe ! whose impotent commands 
The very vassals boldly dare despise : 

Ah helpless monarch ! whose enervate hands 
And wavering counsels dare no high emprize. 

Thy hapless reign will cause our tears to flow, 

And fill the land with beggars, weU we trow. 

JoJmes's .Vonsteletj vol. iv. p. 195. 

According to Pierre de Fenin, the English did not bury 
their own dead 3 but their loss was so small that this is very 
unlikely. He says, Apres cette douloiLreuse joumiee, et que 
toutes les deux parties se furent retirees, Louns de Luxembourg, 
qui estoit Ecesque de Teroilane, fit fairs en la place ou la bataille 
avoit este donnee pliLsiuers c<taritiers, ou iljit assembler tous les 
marts «f'«n coste et d^autre ; et Id. les ft entcrrer, puis il benit la 
place, et la. ft enclore de fortes hayes tout autour, pour la 
garaiitir du bestlaL 

After the battle of Agincourt Henry lodged at ilaisoncelle ; 
le lendemain au matin il en deslogea, et alia passer tout au milieu 
des marts qui avoient este tuez en ce combat : Id s^arresta grand 
espace de temps, et tirerent ses gens encor des prisonniers hars 
du nom.bre des morts, quails emmeiierent atec eux, — ColL des 
.MerniAres. t. v. p. 334. 

Ts'oTx 25, p. 19, col. 1. — From the disastr OILS plain ofAgincourL 

Perhaps one consequence of the victory at Agincourt is not 
generally known Immediately on Ms return Henry sent his 
legates to the council of Constance : " at this councell, by the 
assent of all nations there present, it was authorised and 
ordained, that England should obtaine the name of a nation, 
and should be said one of the five nations that owe their de- 
votion to the church of Eome, which thing untill that time 
men of other nations, for envy, had delayed and letted." — 
Stove e, Elmkam. 

Note 26, p. 19, col. 1. — Hennj, as wise as brave, had back to 
England. 

Henry judged, that by fomenting the troubles of France, he 
should procure more certain and lasting advantages than by 
means of his arms. The truth is, by pushing the French 
vigorously, he ran the risk of uniting them all against him ; 
iu which case, his advantages, probably, would have been in- 
considerable ; but by granting them some respite, he gave 
them opportunity to destroy one another : therefore, contrary 
to every one's expectation, he laid aside his military aff"airs 
for near eighteen months, and betook himself entirely to ne- 
gotiation, which afforded him the prospect of less doubtful 
advantagfjs. — Rapin. 

XoTE 27, p. 19, col. 1. — For many were the warrior sons of 
Roan. 

" Yet although the armie was strong without, there lacked 
not within both bardie capteins and manfull soldiers, and as 
for people, they had more than inough : for as it is written by 
some that had good cause to know the truth, and no occasion 
to erre from the same, there were in the citie at the time of 
the siege 210,000 persons. Dailie were issues made out of 
the citie at diverse gates, sometime to the losse of the one 
partie and sometimes of the other, as chances of warre in such 
adventures happen." — Holinshed, 566. 

KoTE 28, p. 19, col. 1. — Had made them, vow before Almighty 
God. 
" The Frenchmen indeed preferring fame before worldlie 
riches and despising pleasure (the enemy to warlike prowesse), 
sware ech to other never to render or deliver the citie, while 
they might either hold sword in hand or speare in rest." 
— Holinshed, 506. 



Note 29, p. 19, col. 1. — Had made a league with Famine. 

" The king of England advertised of their hautie courages, 
determined to conquer them by famine which would not be 
tamed by weapon. \Mierefore he stopped all the passages, 
both by water and land, that no vittels could be conveied to 
the citie. He cast trenches round about the walls, and set 
them full of stakes, and defended them with archers, so tliHt 
there was left neither waie for them within to issue out, nor 
for anie that were abroad to enter in without his license. — 
The king's coosine germane and alie (the king of Portugale) 
sent a great navie of well-appointed ships unto the mouth of 
the river Seine, to stop that no French vessel should enter 
the river and passe up the same, to the aid of them witiia 
Rouen. 

" Thus was the faire citie of Rouen compassed about wi fa 
enemies, both by water and land, having neither comfort n^r 
aid of king, dolphin, or duke." — Holinshed, 566. 

Eing Henry of England marched a most powerful armv, 
accompanied by a large train of artillery and warlike stores, in 
the month of June, before the noble and potent town of Rouen, 
to prevent the uihabitants and garrison from being suppli<d 
with new corn. The van of his army arrived there at mid- 
night, that the garrison might not make any sally against 
them. The king was lodged at the Carthusian convent ; the 
duke of Gloucester was quartered before the gate of St. 
Hilaire ; the duke of Clarence at the gate of Cuen ; the earl of 
Warwick at that of ^lartinville ; the duke of Exeter and earl 
of Dorset at that of Beauvais : in front of the gate of the 
castle were the lord marshal and sir John de Cornwall. At 
the gate leading to Normandy were posted the earls of Hunt- 
ingdon, Salisbury, Kyme, and the lord Neville, son to the earl 
of Westmoreland. On the hill fronting St. Catherine's were 
others of the English barons. Before the English could fortify 
their quarters, many sallies were made on them, and several 
severe skirmishes passed on both sides. But the English, so 
soon as they could, dug deep ditches between the town and 
them, on the top of which they planted a thick hedge of 
thorns, so that they could not otherwise be annoyed than by 
cannon shot and arrows. They also built a jette on the banks 
of the Seine, about a cannon shot distant from the town, to 
which they fastened their chains, one of them half a foot under 
the water, another level with it, and a third two feet above the 
stream, so that no boats could bring provision to the town, nor 
could any escape from it that way. They likewise dug deep 
galleries of communication from one quarter to another, which 
completely sheltered those in them from cannon or other war- 
like machines. — Jlonstrelet, vol. v. p. 40. 



Note 30, p. 19, col. 2. — Desperate endurance. 

" After he had prosecuted the siege of this place for some 
time, the cardinal Ursino repaired to his camp, and endeavored 
to persuade him to moderate his terms, and agree to an equi- 
table peace : but the king's reply plainly evinced his deter- 
mination of availing himself of the present situation of public 
affairs ; ' Do you not see,' said he, ' that God has brought me 
hither, as it were by the hand? The throne of France may 
be said to be vacant ; I have a good title to that crown ; the 
whole kingdom is involved in the utmost disorder and confu- 
sion ; few are willing, and still fewer are able, to resist mc. 
Can I have a more convincing proof of the interposition of 
heaven in my favor, and that the Supreme Ruler of all things 
has decreed that I should ascend the throne of France .' " — 
Hist, of England, by Hugh Clarendon. 



Note 31, p. 19, col. 2. — Could we behold their savage Irish 
Kerns. 

" With the English sixteen hundred Irish Kernes were 
enrolled from the prior of Kilmainham ; able men, but almost 
naked ; their arms were targets, darts, and swords ; their horses 
little, and bare no saddle, yet nevertheless nimble, on which 
upon every advantage they plaied with the French, in spoiling 
the country, rifeli :g the houses, and canying away children 
with their baggage upon their cowes backs." — Speed, p. 63?. 

The king of England had ia his army numbers of Irish. -- 
greater part of whom were on foot, having only a stocking l 
shoe on one leg and foot, with the other quite naked. Tlv y 
had targets, short javelins, and a strange sort of knives. Those 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC 



65 



who were on horseback had no saddles, but rode excellently 
well on small mountain horses, and were mounted on such 
panniers as are used by the carriers of corn in pans of France. 
They were, however, miserably accoutred in comparison with 
the English, and without any arms that could much hurt the 
French whenever they might meet them. 

These Irish made frequent excursions during the siege over 
Normandy, and did infinite mischiefs, carrying back to their 
camp large booties, lliose on foot took men, and even 
children fiom the cradle, with beds and furniture, and placing 
them on cows, drove ail these things before them, for they 
were often met thus by the French. — MoiisLrelet, v. p. 42. 



Note 32, p. 19, col. 2. — Ruffians half-clothed, half-human, half 
baptized. 

" In some corners of Connaught, the people leave the right 
armes of their infants male unchristened (as they teime it), to 
the end that at any time afterwards they might give a more 
deadly and ungracious blow when they strike ; which things 
doe not only show how palpably they are carried away by tra- 
ditions obscurities, but doe also intimate how full their hearts 
be of inveterate revenge." 

The book from which this extract is taken wants the title. 
The title of the second part is, ^ Prospect of the most famous 
Parts of the World. Printed for IVdliam Humble, in Pope's 
Head Place. 1G46. 

Note 33, p. 19, col. 2. — Of Harfleur's uretched people driven 
ouL 

" Some writing of this yeelding up of Harfleur, doo in like 
Fort make mention of the distresse whereto the people, then 
expelled out of their habitations, were driven ; insomuch as 
parents with their children, yong maids, and old folke went 
out of the towne gates with heavie harts (God wot), as put to 
their present shifts to seek them a new abode." — Hulinshed, 
550. 

This act of barbnrity was perpetrated by Henry, that he 
might people the town with English inhabitants. " This 
doth Angiorum pra»lia report, saieng(not without good ground 
1 believe), as followelh : 

Turn flcntes tenera cum prole parentes 
Virgineusque chorus veteres liquere penates : 
Turn populus cunctus de portis Gallicus exit 
Moestus, inarmatus, vacuus, miser, a?ger, inopsque, 
Utque novas sedes quterat migrare coactus: 
Oppidulo belli potiuntur jure Britanni ! " — Hvlinshed. 

There is a way of telling trutn so as to convey falsehood. 
After the capture of Harfleur, Stowe says, " All the soldiers 
and inhabitants, both of the towne and towers, vere suffered to 
ffoe frcelij, unharmed, whither t'ley would.''' — 343. Henry's 
conduct was the same at Caen: he "commanded all women 
and children to bee avoyded out of the towne, and so the 
towne was inhabited of new possessors." — Stowe. 

Note 34, p. 19, col. ^. — Knelt at the altar. 

Before Henry took possession of Harfleur, he went bare- 
fooled to the church to give God thanks. — Dc Serrcs. 



Note 35, p. 19, col. 2. — In cold blood slaug-htcred. 

Henry, not satisfied with the reduction of Caen, put several 
of the inhabitants to death, who had signalized their valor in 
the defence of their liberty. — H. Clarendan. 



Note 36, p. 19, col. 2. — He g-roan'd and curs'd in bitterness of 
heart. 
After the capture of the city " Luca Italico, the vicar 
generall of the archbishoprike of Rouen, for denouncing the 
king accursed, was delivered to him and deteined in prison till 
he died." — Holinshed. Titus Livius. 



Note 37, p. 20, col. 1. — Drive back tJie miserable multitude. 

" A great number of poore sillie creatures were pnt out of 
the gates, which were by the Englishmen that kept the 
trenches beaten and driven back again to the same gates, 
9 



which they found closed and shut against them, and so they 
laie betweene the wals of the citie and the trenches of tlie 
enemies, still crieiog for help and releefe, for lack whereof 
great numbers of them dailie died." — Holinshed. 



Note 38, p. 20, col. 1. — And when we sent the herald to implore 
His mercy. 

At this period, a priest of a tolerable age, and of clear un- 
derstanding, was deputed, by those besieged in Rouen, to the 
king of France and his council. On his arrival at Paris, he 
caused to be explained, by an Augustin doctor, named Eustace 
de la Paville, in presence of the king and his ministers, the 
miserable situation of the besieged. He took for his text, 
'■'■ Dondne, qu'ul faciemusl^' a.n& harangued upon it very ably 
and eloquently. When he had finished, the priest addressed 
the king, saying, " Most excellent prince and lord, I am en- 
joined by the inhabitants of Rouen to make loud complaints 
against you, and against you duke of Burgundy, who govern 
the king, for the oppressions they suffer from the English. 
Tliey make known to you by me, that if, from want of being 
succored by you, they are forced to become subjects to the 
king of England, you will not have in all the world more bitter 
enemies ; and if they can, they will destroy you and j-our 
whole congregation." With these or with similar words did 
this priest address the king and his council. After he had 
been well received and entertained, and the duke of Burgundy 
had promised to provide succors for the town of Rouen as 
speedily as possible, he returned the best way he could to carry 
this news to the besieged. — Monstrelet, vol. v. p. 54. 

One of the deputed citizens, " showing himself more rash 
than wise, more arrogant than learned, took upon him to show 
wherein the glotie of victorie consisted; advising the king not 
to show his manhood in famishing a multitude of poore simple 
and innocent people, but rather suffer such miserable wretches 
as laie betwixt the walls of the citie and the trenches of his 
siege, to passe through the camp, that theie might get their 
living in other places ; then if he durst manfullie assault the 
place, and by force subdue it, he should win both worldlie 
fame, and merit great meed from the hands of .-^Imightie God, 
for having compassion of the poore, needie, and indigent 
people. When this orator had said, the king with a fierce 
countenance and bold spirit, reproved them for their malapert 
presumption, in that they should seeme to go about to teach 
him what belonged to the dutie of a conqueror, and therefore 
since it appeared that the same was unknown to them, he 
declared that the goddesse of bittell called IJellona had three 
handmaidens, ever of necessitie attending upon her, as Elood, 
Fire, and Famine, and whereas it laie in his choice to use 
them all three, he had appointed onelie the meekest maid of 
those three damsels to punish them of that citie till they were 
brought to reason. This answer put the French ambassador 
in a great studie, musing much at his excellent wit and hawti- 
nesse of courage." — Holinshed. 

While the court resided at Beauvais, four gentlemen and 
four citizens of Rouen were sent to lay before the king and 
council their miserable state : they told them that thousands 
of persons were already dead with hunger, within their town ; 
and that from the beginning of October, they had been forced 
to live on horses, dogs, cats, mice, and rats, and other things 
unfit for human creatures. They had nevertheless driven full 
twelve thousand poor people, men, women, and children, out 
of the place, the greater part of whom hid perished wretch- 
edly in the ditches of the town. That it had been frequently 
necessary to draw up in baskets new-born children from 
mothers who had been brought to bed in these ditches, to 
have them baptized, and they were afterwards returned to 
their mothers ; many, however, had perished without christen- 
ing — all which things were grievous and pitiful to be related. 
They then added, " To you our lord and king, and to you 
noble duke of Burgundy, the loyal inhabitants of Rouen have 
before made known their distress : they now again inform you 
how much tliey are suffering for you, to which you have not 
yet provided any remedy according to your promises. We 
are sent to you for the last time, to announce to you, on the 
part of the besieged, that if within a few days they are not 
relieved, they shall surrender themselves and their town to 
the English king, and thenceforward renounce all allegiance, 
faith, and service, which they have sworn to you." The king, 



66 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC 



duke, and council, courteously replied, that the king's forces 
were not as yet adequate to raise the siege, which tliey were 
exceedingly sorry for ; but, with God's pleasure, they should 
very soon be relieved. The deputies asked by what time ; 
the duke answered, before the fourth day after Christmas, 
They then returned to their town with difficulty, from the 
great danger of being taken by the besiegers, and related all 
that had passed. 

The besieged now suffered the greatest distress ; and it is 
impossible to recount the miseries of the common people from 
famine : it was afterward known that upwards of fifty thou- 
s;ind had perished of hunger. .Some, when they saw meat 
carried through the street, in despair, ran to seize it, and so 
doing, allowed themselves to be severely beaten, and even 
wounded. During the space of three months no provisions 
were seen in the markets, but every thing was sold secretly ; 
and what before the siege was worth a farthing, was sold for 
twenty, thirty, or even forty ; but those prices were too high 
for the common people, and hence the great mortality I have 
mentioned. — Moiistrdet, vol. v. p. 61. 



Note 39, p. 20, col. 1. 4 cry of frenzy ing anguish. 

The names of our Edwards and Henries arc usually cited 
together,, but it is disgracing the Black Prince and his father 
to mention them with Henry of Monmouth. He was a hard- 
hearted man. We have seen what was his conduct to the 
famished fugitives from Roan. The same circumstance oc- 
curred at the siege of Calais, and the difference between the 
monarchs cannot be better exemplified than in the difference 
of their conduct upon the same occasion. " When sir John 
de Vienne perceived that king Edward intended to lie long 
there, he thought to rid the town of as many useless mouths 
as he could ; and so on a Wednesday, being the 13th of Sep- 
tember, he forced out of the town more than seventeen hun- 
dred of the poorest and least necessary people, old men, 
women, and children, and shut the gates upon them : who 
being demanded, wherefore they came out of the town, an- 
swered with great lamentation, that it was because they had 
nothing to live on. Then king Edward, who was so fierce in 
battle, showed a truly royal disposition by considering the sad 
condition of these forlorn wretches ; for he not only would 
not force them back again into the town, whereby they might 
help to consume the victuals, but he gave them all a dinner 
and two pence a-piece, and leave to pass through the army 
without the least molestation: whereby he so w^rought upon 
the hearts of these poor creatures, that many of them prayed 
to God for his prosperity." — Joshua Barnes, 



Note 40, p. 20, col. 1. — JVor when the traitor yielded up our 
town. 

Roan was betrayed by its Burgundian governor Bouthellier. 
During the siege fifty thousand men perished through fatigue, 
want, and the use of unwholesome provisions. 

Note 41, p. 20, col. 1. — The gallant Blanchard died. 

Roy d'Angleterre fist coupper la teste d Allain Blanchart 
cappitaine du commun. Monstrelet, fF. cxcvii. 

Note 42, p. 20, col. 1. — There where the wicked cease. 

There the wicked cease from troubling ; and the weary be 
at rest. — Job, iii. 17. 



Note 43, p. 20, col. 2, ^pompous shade. 

Cent drapeanx funibres 
Etaloient en plein jour de pompeuses tenehres. 

Le Moyne. St. Louis. Llv. xvi. 

Note 44, p. 20, col. 2. — In the mid-day sun a dim and gloomy 
light. 

"When all things necessary were prepared for the convey- 
ance of the dead king into England, his body was laid in a 
chariot, which was drawn by four great liorses : and above 
the dead corpse, they laid a figure made of boiled hides, or 
leather, representing his person, as near to the semblance of 



him as could be devised, painted curiously to the similitude 
of a living creature ; upon whose head was set an imperial 
diademe of gold and precious stones, on his body a purple 
robe furred with ermine, and in his right hand he held a scep- 
tre royal, and in his left hand a ball of gold, with a cross 
fixed thereon. And in this manner adorned, was this figure 
laid in a bed in the said chariot, with his visage uncovered 
towards the heaven : and the coverture of his bed was red 
silke beaten with gold ; and besides that, when the body 
should passe through any good towne, a canopy of marvellous 
great value was borne over the chariot by men of great wor- 
ship. In this manner, accompanied of the king of Scots and 
of all princes, lords, and knights of his house, he was brought 
from Roane to Abville, where the corpse was set in the church 
of Saint Ulfrane. From Abville he was bronght to Hedin, 
and from thence to Monstrueil, so to Bulloigne, and so to 
Calice. In all this journey were many men about the chariot 
clothed all in white, which bare in their hands torches burning: 
after whome followed all the household servants in blacko, 
and after them came the princes, lords, and estates of the 
king's blood, adorned in vestures of mourning ; and af\er all 
this, from the said corpse the distance of two English mylos, 
followed the queene of England right honorably accompanyed. 
In this manner they entered Calice." — Stoice. 

At about a league distant followed the queen, with a numer- 
ous attendance. From Calais they embarked for Dover, and 
passing through Canterbury and Rochester, arrived at London 
on Martinmas-day. 

When the funeral approached London, fifteen bishops 
dressed in pontificalibus, several mitred abbots and church- 
men, with a multitude of persons of all ranks, came out to 
meet it. The churchmen chanted the service for the dead 
as it passed over London-bridge, through Lombard-street, to 
St. Paul's cathedral. Near the car were the relations of the 
late king, uttering loud lamentations. On the collar of the 
first horse that drew the car were emblazoned the ancient 
arms of England ; on that of the second, the arms of France 
and England quartered the same as he bore during his life- 
time; on that of the third, the arms of France simply; on 
that of the fourth horse were painted the arms of the noble 
king Arthur, whom no one could conquer : they were three 
crowns or, on a shield azure. 

When the funeral service had been royally performed in the 
cathedral, the body was carried to be interred at Westminster 
abbey with his ancestors. At this funeral, and in regard to 
every thing concerning it, greater pomp and expense were 
made than had been done for two hundred years at the inter- 
ment of any king of England ; and even now as much honor 
and reverence is daily paid to his tomb, as if it were certain 
he was a saint in Paradise. 

Thus ended the life of king Henry in the flower of his age, 
for when he died he was but forty years old. He was very 
wise and able in every business he undertook, and of a deter- 
mined character. During the seven or eight years he ruled in 
France, he made greater conquests than any of his predecessor! 
had done : it is true he was so feared by his princes and 
captains, that none dared to disobey his orders, however nearly 
related to him, more especially his English subjects. In this 
state of obedience were his subjects of France and England 
in general ; and the principal cause was, that if any person 
transgressed his ordinances, he had him instantly punished 
without favor or mercy. — Monstrelet, vol. v. p. 375. 

A noble knight of Picardy used a joking expression to his 
herald respecting king Henry, which was afterwards often 
repeated. Sir Sarrasin d' Arly, uncle to the Vidame of Amiens, 
who might be about sixty years of age, resided in the castle 
of Achere, which he had with his wife, sister to the lord 
d'Ofl^emont, near to Pas in Artois. He was laid up with the 
gout, but very eager in his inquiries after news of what was |, 
going on. One day his poursuivant, named Haurenas, of the 
same age as himself, and who had long served him, returned I 
from making the usual inquiries ; and on sir Sarrasin ques- 
tioning him and asking him if he had heard any particulars of 
the death of the king of England, he said that he had, and 
had even seen his corpse at Abbeville, in the church of St. 
Ulfran ; and then related how he was attired, nearly as has 
been before described. The knight then asked him on his 
faith if he had diligently observed him? On his answering 
that he had, " Now, on thy oath, tell me," added sir Sarrasin, 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



67 



" if he had his boots on?" "No, my lord, by my faith he 
had not." The knight then cried out, " Haurenas, my good 
fiiend, never believe me if he has not latl them in France ! " 
This expression set the company a laughing, and then they 
talked of other matters. — Monstrela, vol. v. p. '377. 



Note 45, p. 29, col. 2. — Their dangerous way. 

The governor of Vaucouleur appointed deux gcntiUhommes to 
conduct the Maid to Chinon. " Jls eurciit peine d se charger 
de cette coinmission, d cause qu'il falluit passer au tracers da 
pays ennemi ; mais elle leur dit avecfermetc qu'ils ne craignis- 
sent rien, et que surement euz et die arriceroient aupres da rui, 
sans qu'il leur arrivat rien de fdcheux. 

lis patirent, passerent par V Auxerrois sans obstacle quoiquc 
Ics Jinglois enfusscnt les inattrcs, traverserent 2)lusieurs rivieres 
d la nage, entrercnt dans les pays de la donnination da rvi, oii lr.s 
parties ennemies couroient de tou^ cotes, sans en rcncuntrer 
aacune ; arrivcrent heureusement d Chinon ovi le Roi ctoit, et 
lui donncrent avis de leur arrivce et du sitjet qui les anienvit. 
Tout lemondefut extrimementsurpris dUin si long voyage fait 
acec tant de bonfieur." — P. Daniel. 

NoTK 46, p. 20, col. 2, — The autumnal rains had beaten to the 
eartlu 

" JVtZ OallidL pvrturbatius, nil spoliatius, nil egentius esset ; 
sed neque cum milite melius agebatiir, qui tainctsi gaudebat 
prteda, interim tamen trucidebatur passim, dum utcrque rex 
civitates suxB factionis princlpes in fide retinere studeret. Igitur 
jam c<cdium satictxLs utr unique populum ccpcrat, jamque tot damna 
utrinque illata erant, ut quisque gcneratnn se opprcssum, lacera- 
tum, perditum ingemisccret, doloreque summo angerelur, dis- 
ruinperetur, cruciaretur, ac per id animi qvMmvis obstinatissimi 
adpacem inclinarentur. Simul urgebat ad hoc rcrum omnium 
inopia; passim enim agri dccastati inculti manebant, cumprm- 
sertim homines pro vitd, tucndd, non arva colore sed bello scrvirc 
necessario cogcrentiir. Ita tut urgentibus malis, neuter a pace 
abhorrcbat, sed alter ab altera earn aut pctere, vel admittere turpc 
2>utabat.^- — Polyd^re Virgil. 

The effect of this contest upon England was scarcely less 
ruinous. " [n the last year of the victorious Henry V. there 
was not a sufficient number of gentlemen left in England to 
carry on the business of civil government. 

"But if the victories of Henry were so fatal to the popula- 
tion of his country, the defeats and disasters of the succeeding 
reign were still more destructive. In the 25th year of liiis 
war, the instructions given to the cardinal of Winchester and 
other plenipotentiaries ajipointed to treat about a peace, 
authorise them to represent to those of France " that there 
haan been moo men slayne in these wars for the title and 
claime of the coroune of France, of oon nacion and other, 
than been at this daye in both landys, and so much cliristiene 
blode shed, that it is to grete a sorow and an orrour to tliink 
or here it." — Henry. Rymcr^s Fwdera. 

Note 47, p. 20, col. "Z. — Fastolfft^s better fate prevaird. 

Dunois was wounded in the battle of Herrings, or Rouvrai 
Suint-Dcnys. 

N- TE 48, p. 21, col. 1.— To die for him whom I have lived to 
serve. 

Tanneguy du Chatel had saved the life of Charles when 
1 aris was seized by the Burgundians. Lisle Adam, a man 
noted for ferocity even in that age, was admitted at midnight 
inio the city with eight hundred horse. The partisans of 
Burgundy were under arms to assist them, and a dreadful 
slaughter of the Armagnacs ensued. Du Chatel, then gov- 
ernor of the Bastile, being unable to restrain the tumult, ran 
to the Louvre, and carried away the Dauphin in his shirt, in 
order to secure him in his fortress. — Rapin. 

Note 49, p. 21, col. 1. — To reach the overhanging fruit. 

High favors like as fig-trees are 
That grow upon the sides of rocks, where they 
Who reach their fruit adventure must so far 
As to hazard their deep downfall. — Daniel. 



Note 50, p. 21, col. 1. — A banished man, Dzinois .' 

De Serres says, " The king was wonderfully discontented 
for the departure of Tanneguy de Chastel, whom he called 
father ; a man beloved, and of amiable conditions. But there 
was no remedy. He had given the chief stroke to John Bur- 
gongne. So likewise he protested without any diHiculty, to 
retire himself whithersoever his master should command 
him." 

Note 51, p. 21, col. 1. — . . . . Richanont, who down the Loire 
Sends the black carcass of his strangled foe. 

Richcmont caused De Giac to be strangled in his bed, and 
thrown into the Loire, to punish the negligence that had occa- 
sioned him to be defeated by an inferior force at Avranches. 
The constable had laid siege to St. James de Beuvron, a place 
strongly garrisoned by the English. He had been promised a 
convoy of money, wliicii De Giac, who had the management 
of the treasury, purposely detained to mortify the constable. 
Richcmont openly accused the treasurer, and revenged him- 
self thus violently. After this, he boldly declared that he 
would serve in the same manner any person whatsoever that 
should endeavor to engross the king's favor. The Camus of 
Beaulieu accepted De Giac's place, and was by the consta- 
ble's means assassinated in the king's presence. 



Note 52, p. 21, col. 1. — Whose death my arm avenged. 

" The duke of Orleans was, on a Wednesday, the feast-day 
of pope St. Clement, assassinated in Paris, about seven 
o'clock in the evening, on his return from dinner. The mur- 
der was committed by about eighteen men, who had lodged 
at an hotel having for sign the image of our Lady, near the 
Porte Barbette, and who, it was afterwards discovered, had 
for several days intended this assassination. 

On the Wednesday before mentioned, they sent one named 
Seas de Courteheuze, valet de chambre to the king, and one 
of their accomplices, to the duke of Orleans, who had gone to 
visit the queen of France at an hotel which she had lately 
purchased from Montagu, grand master of the king's house- 
hold, situated very near the Porte Barbette. She had lain in 
there of a child, which had died shortly after its birth, and 
had not then accomplished the days of her purification. 

Seas, on his seeing the duke, said, by way of deceiving him, 
" My lord, the king sends for you, and you must instantly 
hasten to him, for he has business of great importance to you 
and liim, which he must communicate to you." The duke, on 
hearing this message, was eager to obey the king's orders, 
although the monarch knew nothing of the matter, and imme- 
diately mounted his mule, attended by two esquires on one 
horse, and four or five valets on foot, who followed behind 
bearing torches ; but his other attendants made no haste to 
follow him. He had made this visit in a private manner, not- 
withstanding at this time he had within the city of Paris 
six hundred knights and esquires of his retinue, and at his 
expense. 

On his arrival at the Porte Barbette, the eighteen men, all 
well and secretly armed, were waiting for him, and were lying 
in ambush under shelter of a penthouse. The night was 
pretty dark, and as they sallied out against him, one cried out, 
" Put him to death ! " and gave him such a blow on the wrist 
with his battle-axe as severed it from his arm. 

The duke, astonished at this attack, cried out, " I am the 
duke of Orleans ! " when the assassins continuing their blows, 
answered, " You are the person we were locking for." So 
many rushed on him that he was struck off his mule, and his 
scull was split that his brains were dashed on the pavement. 
They turned him over and over, and massacred him that he 
was very soon completely dead. A young esquire, a German 
by birth, who had been his page, was murdered with him : 
seeing his master struck to the ground, he threw himself on 
his body to protect him, but in vain, and he suffered for his 
generous courage. The horse which carried the two esquires 
that preceded the duke, seeing so many armed men advance, 
began to snort, and when he passed them set out on a gallop, 
so that it was some time before he could be checked. 

When the esquires had stopped their horse, they saw their 
lord's mule following them full gallop: having caught him, 
they fancied the duke must have fallen, and were bringing it 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



back by the bridle ; but on their arrival where their lord lay, 
they were menaced by the assassins, that if they did not in- 
stantly depart they should share his fate. Seeing their lord 
had been thus basely murdered, they hastened to the hotel of 
the queen, crying out. Murder ! Those who had killed the 
duke, in their turn, bawled out, Fire ! and they had arranged 
their plan that while some were assassinating the duke, 
others were to set fire to their lodgings. Some mounted on 
horseback, and the rest on foot made off as they could, throw- 
ing behind them broken glass and sharp points of iron to 
prevent their being pursued. 

Report said that many of them went the back way to the 
hotel d'Artois, to their master the duke of Burgundy, who had 
commanded them to do this deed, as he afterwards publicly 
confessed, to inform him of the success of their murder j when 
instantly afterward they withdrew to places of safety. 

The chief of these assassins, and the conductor of the busi- 
ness, was one called Rollet d'Auctonville, a Norman, whom 
the duke of Orleans had a little before deprived of his office 
of commissioner of taxes, which the king had given to him at 
the request of the late duke of Burgundy : from that time the 
said Rollet had been considering how he could revenge him- 
self on the duke of Orleans. His other accomplices were 
William Courteheuze and Seas Courteheuze, before men- 
tioned, from the country of Guines, John de la Motte, and 
others, to the amount of eighteen. 

Within half an hour the household of the duke of Orleans, 
hearing of this horrid murder, made loud complaints, and 
with great crowds of nobles and others hastened to the fatal 
spot, where they found him lying dead in the street. His 
knights and esquires, and in general all his dependants, made 
grievous lamentations, seeing him thus wounded and dis- 
figured. With many groans they raised the body and carried 
it to the hotel of the lord de Rieux, marshal of France, which 
was hard by ; and shortly afterward the body was covered 
with a white pall, and conveyed most honorably to the 
Guillemins, where it lay, as being the nearest church to where 
the murder had been committed. 

Soon afterward the king of Sicily, and many other princes, 
knights and esquires, having heard of this foul murder of the 
only brother of the king of France, came with many tears to 
visit the body. It was put into a leaden coflrn, and the 
monks of the church, with all the late duke's household, 
watched it all night, saying prayers, and singing psalms over 
it. On the mori'ow his servants found the hand which had 
been cut off", and collected much of the brains that had been 
scattered over the street, all of which were enclosed in a 
leaden case and placed by the coffin. 

The whole of the princes who were at Paris, except the 
king and his children, namely, the king of Sicily, the dukes 
of Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, the marquis du Pont, the 
counts de Nevers, de Clermont, de Vendome, de St. Pol, de 
Dammartin, the constable of France, and several others, 
having assembled with a large body of the clergy and nobles, 
and a multitude of the citizens of Paris, went in a body to 
the church of the Guillemins. Then the principal officers of 
the late duke's household took the body and bore it out of the 
church, with a great number of lighted torches carried by the 
esquires of the defunct. On each side of the body were in 
due order, uttering groans and shedding tears, the king of 
Sicily, the dukes of Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, each 
holding a corner of the pall. After the body followed the 
other princes, the clergy and barons, according to their ranks, 
recommending his soul to his Creator; and thus they pro- 
ceeded with it to the church of the Celestines, When a most 
solemn service had been performed, the body was interred in 
a beautiful chapel he himself had founded and built. After 
the service all the princes, and others who had attended it, 
returned to their homes. — Monstrelet, vol. i. p. 192. 



Note 53, p. 21, col. 1. 



When the Burgundian faction filled 

thy streets 
With carnage. 

About four o'clock on the 12th day of June, the populace 
of Paris rose to the amount of about sixty thousand, fearing 
(as they said) that the prisoners would be set at liberty, al- 
though the new provost of Paris and other lords assured them 
to the contrary. They were armed with old mallets, hatchets, 



staves, and other disorderly weapons, and paraded through the 
streets shouting, "Long live the king and the duke of Bur- 
gundy ! " toward the different prisons in Paris, namely, the 
Palace, St. Magloire, St. Martin des Champs, the Chatelet, 
the Temple, and to other places wherein any prisoners were 
confined. They forced open all their doors, and killed Chepier 
and Chepiere, with the whole of the prisoners, to the amount 
of sixteen hundred or thereabouts, the principal of whom 
were the count de Armagnac, constable of France, master 
Henry de Marie, chancellor to the king, the bishops of Cou- 
tances, of Bayeux, of Evreux, of Senlis, of Saintes, the count 
de Grand-Pre, Raymonnet de la Guerre, the abbot de St. 
Conille de Compiegne, sir Hector de Chartres, sir Enguerrand 
de Marcoignet, Chariot Poupart, master of the king's ward- 
robe, the members of the courts of justice and of the treasury, 
and in general all they could find : among the number were 
several even of the Burgundian party confined for debt. 

In this massacre several women were killed, and left on the 
spot where they had been put to death. This cruel butchery 
lasted until ten o'clock in the morning of the following day. 
Those confined in the grand Chatelet, having arms, defended 
themselves valiantly, and slew many of the populace ; but on 
the morrow by means of fire and smoke they were conquered, 
and the mob made many of them leap from the battlements of 
the towers, when they were received on the points of the 
spears of those in the streets, and cruelly mangled. At this 
dreadful business were present the new provost of Paris, sir 
John de Luxembourg, the lord de Fosseaux, the lord de 
I'Isle-Adam, the vidame of Amiens, the lord de Chevreuse, 
the lord de Chastellus, the lord de Cohen, sir James de Har- 
court, sir Emond de Lombers, the lord d'Auxois, and others, 
to the amount of upward of a thousand combatants, armed 
and on horseback, ready to defend the murderers should there 
be any necessity. Many were shocked and astonished at such 
cruel conduct ; but they dared not say any thing except, 
" Well, my boys ! " The bodies of the constable, the chan- 
cellor, and of Raymonnet de la Guerre were stripped naked 
tied together with a cord, and dragged for three days by the 
blackguards of Paris through the streets ; the body of the 
constable had the breadth of two fingers of his skin cut off 
crosswise, like to a bend in heraldry, by way of derision : 
and they were thus publicly exposed quite naked to the sight 
of all ; on the fourth day they were dragged out of Paris 
on a hurdle, and buried with the others in a ditch called la 
Louviere. 

Notwithstanding the great lords after this took much pains 
to pacify the populace, and remonstrated with them, that they 
ought to allow the king's justice to take its regular course 
against offenders, they would not desist, but went in great 
crowds to the houses of such as had favored the Armagnacs, 
or of those whom they disliked, and killed them without 
mercy, carrying away all they could find. In these times it 
was enough if one man hated another at Paris, of whatever 
rank he might be, Burgundian or not, to say, " There goes an 
Armagnac," and he was instantly put to death without further 
inquiry being made. — Monstrelet, vol. v. p. 20. 

To add to the tribulations of these times the Parisians again 
assembled in great numbers, as they had before done, and went 
to all the prisons in Paris, broke into them, and put to death 
full three hundred prisoners, many of whom had been con- 
fined there since the last butchery. In the number of those 
murdered were sir James de Mommor, and sir Louis de 
Corail, chamberlain to the king, with many nobles and 
churchmen. They then went to the lower court of the bas- 
tille of St. Anthony, and demanded that six prisoners, whom 
they named, should be given up to them, or they would attack 
the place : in fact, they began to pull down the wall of the 
gate, when the duke of Burgundy, who lodged near the bas- 
tille, vexed to the heart at such proceedings, to avoid worse, 
ordered the prisoners to be delivered to them, if any of their 
leaders would promise that they should be conducted to the 
Chatelet prison, and suffered to be punished according to their 
deserts by the king's court of justice. Upon this they all 
departed, and by way of glossing over their promise, they led 
the prisoners near to the Chatelet, when they put them to 
death, and stripped them naked. They then divided into 
several large companies and paraded the streets of Paris, en- 
tering the houses of many who had been Armagnacs, plun- 
dering and murdering all without mercy. In like manner as 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



69 



before, when tliey met any person they disliked he wag slain 
instantly ; and their principal leader was Cappeluche, the 
lianjjnuin of the city of Paris. 

The duke of Burgundy, alarmed at these insurrections, sent 
for some of the chief citizens, with whom he lemonstrated on 
the consequences these disturbances might have. The citi- 
zens excused themselves from being any way concerned, and 
said they were much grieved to witness them : they added, 
they were all of the lowest rank, and had thus risen to i)illage 
tlie more woallhy ; and they required the duke to provide a 
remedy by em])loyiiig these men in his wars. It was then 
proclaimed, in the names of the king and the duke of Bur- 
gundy, under pain of death, that no person should tumultu- 
ously assemble, nor any more murders or pillage take place ; 
but that such as had of late risen in the insurrection should 
prepare themselves to march to the sieges of Montlehery and 
Marcoussi, now held by the king's enemies. The commonalty 
made reply, tiiat they would cheerfully do so if tliey had 
proper captains appointed to lead them. 

Within a few days, to avoid similar tumults in Paris, six 
thousand of tlie populace were sent to Montluliery under tlio 
command of tlie lord de Cohen, sir Walter de Ruppcs and sir 
Walter Kaillart, with a certain number of men at arms, and 
store of cannon and ammunition sufficient for a siege. These 
knights led them to Montlehery, where they made a sharp 
attack on the Dauphinois within the castle. 

The duke of Burgundy, after their departure, arrested 
several of their accomplices, and the principal movers of the 
late insurrection, some of whom he caused to be beheaded, 
others to be hanged or drowned in the Seine ; even their 
leader Cappeluche, the hangman, was behead(;d in the mar- 
ket-place. When news of this was carried to the Parisians 
who had been sent to Montlehery, they marched back to 
Paris to raise another rebellion, but the gates were closed 
against them, so that they were forced to return to the siege. 
Monstrclet, vol. v. p. 47. 

To what is it owing that four centuries should have made 
BO little difference in the character of the Parisians ? 



Note 54, p. 21, col. 2. — He icill retreat 

To distant Dauphiny. 

" Charles, in despair of collecting an army which should 
dare to approach the enemy's entrenchments, not only gave 
the city of Orleans for lost, but began to entertain a very dis- 
mal prospect with regard to the general state of his affairs. 
He saw that the country in which he had hitiierto, with great 
difficulty, subsisted, would be laid entirely op(;n to the inva- 
sion of a powerful and victorious enemy, and he already 
entertained thouglits of retiring with the remains of his 
forces into Lunguedoc and Dauphiny, and defending himself 
as long as possible in those remote provinces. But it was 
fortunate for this good prince, that as he lay under the do- 
minion of the fair, the women whom he consulted had the 
spirit to support his sinking resolution in this desperate ex- 
tremity. Mary of Anjou, his queen, a princess of great 
merit and prudence, vehemently opposed this measure, which 
she foresaw would discourage all his partisans, and serve as a 
general signal for deserting a prince who seemed himself to 
despair of success : his mistress too, the fair Agnes Sorel, 
who lived in entire amity with the queen, seconded all her 
remonstrances." — Hume. 

U on fait honneur d la belle Agnes Sorel, Demoiselle de Tou- 
raine, maitrcsse de ce Prince, d'avoir heaucoup contrihue a. 
V encourager en cetle occasion. On lui fait cet honneur princi- 
palenient au sujet d^un quatrain rapporte par Saint Oelais, 
Ciimrne aiant die fait par le Roi Frangois I. d V honneur de cette 
Demoiselle. 

Plus de louange et dVionneur tu merite, 
La cause etant de France recouvrer. 
Que ce que peut dedans un Cloitre ouvrer 

Clause JVonnain, ou bien dcvot Hermitc. — P. Daniel. 



NsTE 55, p. 21, col. 2. — On a May morning decked with flowers. 

Here in this first race you shall see our kings but once a 
year, the first day of May, in their chariots deckt with flowres 
and greene, and drawn by four oxen. Whoso hath occasion 
to treat with them let him seeke them in their chambers, 



amidst their delights. Let him talke of any matters of state, 
he shall be sent to the Maire. — De Serres. 

Fuller calls this race " a chain of idle kings, well linked 
together, who gave themselves over to pleasure privately, 
never coming abroad, but onely on May-day tiiey showed 
themselves to the people, riding in a chariot, adorned with 
flowers, and drawn with oxen, slow cattcl, but good enough 
fur so lazy luggage.^' — Holy Warre. 

Ces Rois hidcux en tongue larhe espessc. 

En longs checcux, ornez, presse sur presse, 

De chaisnes d'or et de carquans gravcz, 

Hants dans un char en triomphe elecez, 

Unefois Pan se feront voir en pompe 

Knflez d'' un fard qui le vulgaire trompe. — Ronsard. 



XoTE 5G, p. 21, col. 2. ^nd these long locks will not dis- 
grace thee then. 

Long hair was peculiar to the kings in the first ages of the 
French monarchy. When Fredegonda had murtiiered Clovis 
and thrown him into the river, the fishermen who found his 
body knew it by the long hair. — Mezeray. 

At a later period the custom seems to have become general. 
Pasquicr says, " lors de inun jcune aage nul n^cstuit tondu,furs 
Ics moines. Advintpar mesadrcnture que le roy Frangois pre- 
mier de ce nom, ayant este fortuitcmcnt blesse d la teste d^un 
tizon,par le capitaine Lorges, sieur de Montgoumcry, les mcdc- 
cinsfurent d'adcis de la tondre. Depuis it ne porta plus longs 
chcveux, estant le premier de nos roys, qui par un sinistre augtire 
degcncra de ccst.e venerable ancicnncte. Sur son excmple, les 
princes premierement, puis les gentilshommes, etfinalement tous 
les subjects se voulurent former, il nefutpas que les Prestres ne 
se meissent de ceste partie. Sur la plus grande partie du regne 
de Frangois premier, et dcvant, chacun portoit longue chevelure, 
et barbe ras, oti maintenant cliacun est tondu, et parte longue 
barbe." 

Note 57, p. 22, col. 1. — TViy mangled corse tcavcs to the winds 
of heaven. 

Le Viscomte de J^arbonne y peril aussi, et porta la peine de sa 
temerite, qui avoit etc une des principales causes de laperte de la 
battaille. Le due de Betfort aiant fait chcrchcr son corps, le 
fit ecarteler et pcndre d un gibet, parce qu'il passoit pour avoir 
etc complice de la mart du due de Bourgogne. — P. Daniel. 



Note 58, p. 22, col. 1. — Bretagne^s unfaithful chief 

Leagues with my foes, and Richcmont, Sec. 

Richemont has left an honorable name, though he tied a 
prime minister up in a sack and threw him into tlie river. 
For tiiis he had a royal precedent in our king John, but 
Richemont did openly what the monarch did in tlie dark, and 
there is some difference between a murderer and an execu- 
tioner, even though the executioner be a volunteer. " Jl 
merita sa grace (says Daniel), ;>ar les services qu^ilrendit au roi 
contre les Anglois, malgre ce prince mcme. Ilfut un des prin- 
cipaux autcurs de la reforme de la milice Frangoisc, qui prn- 
duisit la Iranquillitc de la France et les grands victoires dont clle 
fust suirie. L^autorite quUl avoit par sa charge de connetable, 
jointe d safcrmetc nalurcllc, lui donna moyen de tcnir la main d 
Pubserration des orddiuianccs piiblices par le roi pour la disci- 
pline militaire ; et les craiiiplcs de severite qu^ilfit d cet egard, 
luifirent donner le surnoni de jiLsticier. Etant devenu due de 
Bretagne, quclques Seigneurs de sa Cour lui conseillcrent de se 
dcmettre de sa charge de connetable, comme d''une dignite qui 
ctoit au drssnus de lui. II ne la voulut pas, et il faisoit porter 
devant lui deux epees, Vune la pointe en haut, en qualite de due 
de Bretagne, et Pautre dans le fourreau le pointe en bas, comme 
connetable de France. Son motive pour eonserver la charge de 
connetable, etoit, disoit il d''honorer dans sa vieillessc une charge 
qui Paroit honore lui-mdme dans un age moins avance. On le 
peut compter au nombre des plus grands capitaines quela France 
ait eus d son service. 11 avoit beaucoup de religion, il etoit 
liberal, aumdnier, bienfaisant, et on ne peut gueres lui reprocher 
que la hauteur et la violence, dont il usa envers les trois 
ministres." 



70 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC, 



Note 59, p. 22, col. 2. — TVell viight the English scoff. 

Yet in the preceding year 1428, the English women had 
concerned themselves somewhat curiously in the affairs of 
their rulers. " There was one Mistris Stokes with divers 
others stout women of London, of good reckoning, well-ap- 
parelled, came openly to the upper parliament, and delivered 
letters to the duke of Glocester, and to the archbishops, and 
to the other lords there present, containing matter of rebuke 
and sharp reprehension of the duke of Glocester, because he 
would not deliver his wife Jaqueline out of her grievous im- 
prisonment, being then held prisoner by the duke of Bur- 
gundy, suffering her there to remain so unkindly, and for his 
public keeping by him another adultresse, contrary to the law 
of God, and the honourable estate of matrimony." — Stowe. 



Note 60, p. 22, col. 2. — She fixed her eye on Charles. 

Of this I may say with Scudery, 

O merveille estonnante, et difficile d croire ! — 
Mais que nous rapportons sur lafoy de fHistoire. 

Alaric, L. 2. 
The matter (says De Serres) was found ridiculous both by the 
king and his councell, yet must they make some triall. The 
king takes upon him the habit of a countriman to be disguised : 
this maid (being brought into the chamber) goes directly to 
the king in this attire, and salutes him with so modest a coun- 
tenance, as if she had been bred up in court all her life. They 
telling her that she was mistaken, she assured them it was 
the king, although she had never scene him. She begins to 
deliver unto him this new charge, which, she sayes, she had 
received from the God of Heaven] so as she turned the eyes 
and minds of all men upon her." 

Ce prince prit expres ce jour-ld un habit fort simple, et se 
mSla sans distinction dans lafoule des courtizans. La file entra 
dans la chambre sans parditre aucunement etonnee, et quoiqu' 
elle ?t' eiit jamais vu le roi, elle lui addressa la parole, et lui dit 
dhin ton ferine, que Dieu Venvoyoit pour le secourir, pour fair e 
lever le siege d' Orleans, et le conduire d Reims pour y etre 
sacre. Elle Vassura que les Anglois seroient chassis du Roy- 
aume, et que s'i'Z.? ne le quittoient auplutOt, il leur en prendroit 
vial. — P. Daniel. 

Note 61, p. 22, col. 2. — Crown thee anointed king. 

The anointing was a ceremony of much political and mys- 
tical importance. " King Henry III. of England, being de- 
sirous to know what was wrought in a king by his unction, 
consulted by letter about it with that great scholler of the age 
Robert Grossetest bishop of Lincoln, who answered him 
thus : — ' Q^uod autem in fine literm vestrw nobis mandas- 
tis, videlicet quod intimaremus quid unctionis sacramentum 
videatnr adjicere regies dignitati, cum multi sint reges qui 
■nullatenus unctionis munera decorentur, noa est nostra modicita- 
tis complere hoc. Tamen non ignoramus quod regalis inunctio 
siguum est prerogatives susceptionis septiformis doni Sacratissi- 
mi Pneumatis, quod septiformi munere tenetur rex inunctus 
praeeminentius non unctis regihus omnes regias et regiminis sui 
actiones dirigere ; ut videlicet non communiter sed eminenter et 
heroice dono Timoris seprimo, et deinceps, quantum inipso est, 
sno regimini subjectos, ab omni cohibeat illicito ; dono Pietatis 
dpfeadat suhveniat et subveidrifaciat vidnm, pupillo, et genera- 
liter omni oppresso; duno Scientiae leges justas ad r eg num juste 
reirendumponat, positas observet et observari faciat, erroneas 
destrnat; dono Fortitudinis omnia regno adversantia rcpellat et 
pro salute reipublicce mortem non timeat. Adprcedicta autem 
prmcellenter agenda dono Concilii decoretur, quo artificialiter et 
scientific^ ordo hujus mundi sensibilis edocetur ; deinde dono Li- 
te-ilectus, quo caetm .Angelici ordo dinoscitur. Tandem verd 
done Sapienti«e, quo ad dilucidam cognitionem Dei pcrlingitur, 
ut ad exemplar ordinis mundi et ordinis angelici secundum leges 
ccternas in ceterna Dei rations descriptas, quibus regit unive^si- 
talem creaturce, rempublicam sibi subjectam ordinabilit.er regat 
tandem et ipse. Adjicit igitur regice dignitati unctionis sacra- 
mentum quod rex unctus prm cceteris in sno genere debet, ut 
prmtactum est, ex septiformi Spirit us munere, in omnibus sids 
regiminis actibus, virtutibus divinis et heroicis pollere.'''' 

" And some other have conceived this anointing of such 
gQjcacy, that, as in baptisme all former sinnes are washt away, 



so also by this unction, as we see in that of Polyeuctus pa- 
triarch of Constantinople, who doubted not but that the 
emperor John Tzimisces was cleerd, before Heaven, of the 
death of Phocas, thro' his being anointed emperor." 

Sclden^s Titles of Honor. 

The legend of the Ampulla made this ceremony peculiarly 
important in France, I quote tlie miracle from Desmarests. 
Clovis is on his knees waiting to be anointed by St. Remigius. 

Cependant le prelat attend les huiles saintes. 

Un Diacre les parte, el fait un vain effort ; 

La foule impenetrable empesckc son abord. 

Du Pontife sacre la douce impatience, 

Des mains et de la voix veut en vain qu^il s' avance. 

JSTul ne pent diviser, par la force des bras, 

De tant de corps pressez Vimmobile ramus. 

Le prince humble, d genoux, languissoit dans rattente, 

Jllors qu^une clarte paroist plus eclatante, 

Esteiiit tons autres fcux par sa vive spleudeur, 

Et repand dans le temple une divine odeur. 

Dans un air lumineux une Colombe vole, 

En son bee de coral tenant unefiole. 

Elle apporte au prelat ce vase precieux, 

Plein d' un baume sacre, rare present des Cieux. — Clovis. 

Guillermus Brito says that the devil brake the viol of oil 
which Remigius held in his hand ready to anoint Clovis, and 
that the oil being so spilt, he obtained by prayer a supply of it 
from heaven. — Selden. 

Note 62, p. 22, col. 2. — TJie doctors of theology. 

Ces paroles ainsi par elle dictes,lafist le roy remener hono- 
rablement en son logis, et assemble son grand conscil, au quel 
furent plusieurs prelats, chevaliers, escuyers et chefs de guerre, 
avecques aucuns docteurs en theologie en loix et en decret, qui 
tons ensemble adviserent qu^elle seroit interrogue par les doc- 
teurs, pour essaycr si en elle se trouveroit evidente raison de 
pouvnir accomplir ce qu'elle disoit. Mais les docteurs la trove- 
rent de tant honneste contenance, et tant sage en ses paroles, que 
leur revelation faicte, on en tient tres grand conte. 

Diverses interrogations luy furent faictes par plusieurs doc- 
teurs et autres gens de grand estat, a quoy elle respondit moult 
bien, etpar especial a un docteur Jacobin, qui luy dist, que si 
Dieu vouloit que les Jinglois s^en allassent, qu^il ne falloit point 
de armes ; a quoy elle respondit, qu'elle ne vouloit que peu de 
gens qui combatlroient, et Dieu donneroit la victoire. 

History of the Siege of Orleans. Troyes, 1621. 

In the Oesta Joanna Qallicm of Valerandus Varanius, one of 
the counsellors makes a speech of seventy lines upon tlie 
wickedness of women, mentioning Helen, Beersheba, Semir- 
amis, Dalilah, Messalina, &c., as examples. The council are 
influenced by his opinion, and the Maid, to proA'eher mission, 
challenges any one of them to a single combat. 
Qim me stultitici, quel me levitate notandam 
Creditis o patres? armis siforsitan, inquit, 
Apta minus videar, stricto procwi-ere ferro 
Annuite ; hmc nostri sint prima pericula martis. 
Si cuique vis tanta animo, descendat in eequcB 
Planiciem pugna ; mihi si victoria cedat 
Credite viclrici ; noster si vicerit hostis 
Compede vincta abeam, et cunctis simfabula sceclis. 



Note 63, p. 23, col. 2. — St. Agnes' Chapel. 

Hanc virginem contigit pascendo pecora in sacello quodam 
vilissimo, ad declinandampluviam obdormire ; quo in tempore 
visa est se in somiiis a Deo, qui se iUi ostenderat, admoneri. 
Jacobus Philippus Bergomensis de claris mulieribus. 

Joanna Oallica Puella, dum oves pascit, tempestate coacta in 
proximum sacellum confugit, ibi obdormiens liberandts OaUiee 
mandatum divinitus accepit, — Bonfinius. 

HeroincB nobilissimce Joanvce Dare LotheringcB vulgo Aurelia- 
nensis Puellce historia. Author e Joanne Hordal serenissimi 
ducis Lotharingm consiliario. Ponti-Mussi. 1612, 



Note 64, p. 23, col. 2. — .... Saint Agnes stood 
Before mine eyes, such and so beautiful 
fds when, amid the house of wickedness, 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



71 



The Power whom with suchfitrvent love she served 
VeiVd her with glory. 

Insanus judex earn nudain ad lupanar pertrahi jussit. Jit ubi 
beata virgo vcstibus exuta est, atatim criiie solulo, tantam 
capillis densitatem ejus diviiia gratia concessit, ut vielius illorum 
fmbriis, quain vestibus tecta videratar. Introgressa quidem 
Jlgnes turpitudinis locum, Angelum Domini prteparatum 
invenit .• earn vioz tanto lutnine perfudil, ut prm magnitudine 
splendoris, a nemine conspici posset. 

The exclamation of St. Agnes at the stake should not be 
omitted here. " Then Agnes, in the midst of the flames, 
stretching out her hands, prayed unto tlie Lord, saying, ' I 
bless thee, O Almighty Father! wlio perinittest me to come 
unto thee fearless evim in the flames. For behold ! what I 
have believed, I see ; what I have hoped, I possess ; what I 
have desired, I embrace. Therefore I confess thee with 
my lips, I desire thee with my heart, with my inmost 
entrails ; I come to thee, the living and the true God ! " 
The whole passage, as it stands in the Acta Sanctorum, is very 
fine. Tunc Vicarius Aspasius nomine, jussit in conspectu om- 
nium ignem copiosum accendi, et inmedium earn praicepit jactari 
fiammarum. Q_uod cumfuisset impletum, statim in duas partes 
divistB suntfianimo', et hinc atque iliinc seditiosos populos exure- 
bant, ipsam autein B. Agnen pcnitus in nullo contingcbat incen- 
dium. Eo magis hoc non virlutibus divinis, sed vialeficiis 
deputantes, dabant fremitus inter se popuU, et injinitos clamores 
ad calum. Tunc B. Agnes expendcns manus suas in medio 
ignis his verbis orationem fudit ad Dominum .- Omnipotcns, 
adorande, colende, tremende, Pater Domini nostri Jcsu Christi, 
henedico te quia per jilium tuum unigenitum evasi minas homi- 
num impiorum et spurcitias diaboli impolltita transivi. Ecce et 
nunc per Spiritum Sanctum rore cwlesti perfusa sum ; focus 
juxt&memoritur,jlamma dividitur, et ardor incendii hujus ad 
eos a quibus minis tr atur , rcfunditur. Benedico te pater omni- 
potens, qui etiam per flannnas, intrepidam me ad te venire 
permittis. Ecce jam quod credidi video, ijuod speravi jam 
teneo, quod concupivi complector. Te igitur labiis confiteor, 
te corde, te totis visceribus concupisco. Ecce ad te venio 
vivum et verum Deum ! 

Acta Sanct. torn, ii, p. 352, Jan. 21. 
Vita S. Agnetis. Auct. S. Ambrosio. 

They have a legend in Cornwall that St. Agnes " escai)ed 
out of the prison at Rome, and taking shipping, landed at St 
riran Arwothall, from whence she travelled on foot to what 
is now her own parish. But being several times tempted by 
the Devil on her way, as often as she turned about to rebuke 
him, she turned him into a stone, and indeed there are still 
to be seen on the Downs, between St. Tiran and St. Agnes, 
several large moor stones, pitched on end, in a straight line, 
about a quarter of a mile distant one from the other, doubtless 
put there on some remarkable account." There lived then 
in that part of tlie country a famous Wrath or Giant, by name 
Bolster, of that ilk. He got hold of the Saint, and obliged her 
to gather up the stones on his domain ; she carried them in 
three apron-fulls to the top of the hill, and made with them 
three great heaps, from which the hill is now called, some- 
times Came Breanich, sometimes St. Agnes' Beacon. At last 
this Giant or Wrath attempted to seduce her ; she pretended 
to yield, provided he would till a hole which she showed him 
with his blood: he agreed to this, not knowing that the hole 
opened into the sea 3 she thus cunningly bled him to death, 
and then tumbled him over the clilf. This they still call the 
Wrath^s Hole. It is on the top of the cliff, not far from St. 
Agnes' chapel and well ; and, enlarging as it goes downward, 
ojiens into a cave fretted-in by the sea, and, from the nature 
of the stone, streaked all over with bright red streaks like 
blood. After this she lived some time here, and then died, 
having first built her chapel and her well. The water of this 
well is excellent ; and the pavement, they tell you, is colored 
with her own blood, and the more you rub it, the more it 
shows, — such being, indeed, the nature of the stone. She 
likewise left the mark of her foot on a rock, not fir from it, 
still called St. Agnes' foot, which they tell you will fit a foot 
of any size ; and indeed it is large enough so to do. These 
monkish stories caused a great resort here in former days, and 
many cures are pretended to have been done by the water of 
this well, so blest by her miraculous blood." — Polwhele^s 
History of Cornwall, i. 17G-7. — N. 



St. Agnes, St. Catharine, and St. Margaret, were the saints 
more particularly reverenced by the Maid of Orleans. 

Note G5, p. 24 col. 1. — Was silence to my soul 
Through the scene are faintly heard 
Sounds that are silence to the mind. 

Charles Lloyd. 

Note 66, p. 26, col. 1. — Effaced tlie hauberlc's honorable marks. 

Afin d'empecher les impressions que ce treillis de fcr dcvait 
aisser sur la pcau, ou avait soin de se matelasser en dessous. 
Malgre ces precautions ccpendant il en laissait encore; ccs mar- 
ques s^ippcllaicnt camois, et on les faisait disparaltre par le 
bain. — Le Grand. 

Note 67, p. 2G, col 1. — T7icnbow''d her to the sword of mar- 
tyrdom. 

Such is the legend of St. Katharine, princess of Alexandria, 
whose story has been pictured upon sign-posts and in churches, 
but whose memory has been preserved in this country longer 
by the ale-house than by the altar. The most extravagant 
periiaps of Dryden's plays is upon this subject. In the first 
edition, I had, ignorantly, represented Katharine as dying 
upon the wheel, and the description of her sufterings was far 
too minute. Dryden has committed the last fault in a far 
greater degree ; the old martyrologies particularize no cruelties 
more revolting to the reader than he has detailed in the speech 
of Maximin when he orders her to execution. 

From a passage in the Jerusalem Conquistada it should seem 
that St. Katharine was miraculously betrothed to her heavenly 
spouse. As the crusaders approach Jerusalem, they visit tha 
holy places on their way j 

Qual visita el lugar con llanto tierno, 
Donde la hermosa virgen Caterina 

Se desposo con el Esposo eterno, 
La Angelica Rachel siendo madrina ; 

Aqucl Esposo, que el nevado invierno 
Se cubrio con escarcha matutina, 

El que tiene los ojos de palomas 

Y del labio de lirio vierte aromas. — Lope de Vega. 

The marginal note adds La Virgen fue Madrina en los despo- 
rios de Caterina y Christo. 

Of St. Margaret, the other favorite Saint of the Maid, I 
find recorded by Bergomensis, that she called the pagan 
Pra^fect an impudent dog, that she was thrown into a dungeon, 
where a horrible dragon swallowed her, that she crossed her- 
self, upon which the dragon immediately burst and she came 
out safe, and that she saw the devil standing in the corner 
like a black man, and seized him and tlirew him down. 

Absurd as this legend is, it once occasioned a very extra- 
ordinary murder. A young Lombard, after hearing it, prayed 
so earnestly for an opportunity of fighting with the devil like 
St. IMargaret, that he went into the fields in full expectation 
that liis desire would be gratified. A hideous old dumb 
woman came by : be mistook her for the tempter ; her in- 
articulate noises confirmed him in this opinion, and he knocked 
her tlown and trampled upon her. The poor wretch died ot 
her bruises ; but a miracle was wrought to save her murderer, 
in consideration that his madness was a pious madness, and 
before she died, she spoke to excuse the mistake. This tale 
is told in that strange collection of ludicrous stories upon re- 
ligious subjects, the Pia Hilaria. The authority referred to 
is Petr. Rausani Hist. lib. 35. 



Note 68, p. 26, col. 2. — 77ie sacred sword. 

Puella petiit gladiiim, qtiem dlvinitus uti aiebat, erat facta 
certiur in templo div(B Cutherinm in Turonihus, inter antiqua 
donaria pendere. Jlliratus Carolus, gladium inquiri, ac inven- 
tum protinus PuellcE a ffi rri jussit. — Polydore Virgil. 

Roland, or rather Orlando, for it is Ariosto who has im- 
mortalized him, was buried with Durindana at his side, and 
his horn Olifant at his feet. Charlemain also had his good 
sword Jnyeuse buried with him. He was placed in his sep- 
ulchre on a golden throne, crowned and habited in his inj 



72 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



perial robes, tliough a cilice was next his skin ; one hand held 
a globe of gold, the other rested on the Gospels, which were 
lying on his knees. His shield and sceptre were hung op- 
posite to him, on the side of tlie sepulchre, which was filled 
with perfumes and spices, and then closed. Tizuna was buried 
with the Cid, no living man being worthy to wield that sword 
with which the Campeador, even after death, had triumphed 5 
and which had been miraculously half drawn from the scabbard 
to avenge the insult oiFered by a Jew to his corpse. 



NOTI 



p. 26, col. 2. — Tliey partook the feast. 



Cette cercmonie che7 les grands s^annongait au son du, cor, ou 
au son d'uiie cloche; coutume qui subsiste encore dans lescouvcns 
et les maisons opulentes, pour announcer le convert et le diner. 
Apres le service des viandes, c'est-d-dire, apris ce que nous ap- 
pellons entrees, rdti et entremets, on sortait de table pour se laver 
les mains une secondefois, comme chez le Rumains de quiparait 
itre venii cet usage. Les dumestiqaes desservaient pendant ce 
tents ; Us enlevaient une drs nappes et appurtaient les cunfitares 
{qu'on namiiiait epices) et les viiis composes. Ji ce moment, fait 
pour la gaiete, commengaient les deals plaisans ctjoyeuxprupos, 
car dans ce bon vienc terns on aimait beaucoup de rire. C^etait 
alors que les menetricrs venoient reciter leurs fabliaux, lorsqu'on 
admcttait leur presence. — Le Grand. 

Note 70, p. 26, col. 2. — Or luscious withmethegUn mingled rich. 
11 y avail plusiears sortes de ces vins prepares qu^on servait 
apres les viandes. 1, Les Vins cuits, qui sont encore en usage 
dans quelques provinces, et qui out conserve le viSme nom. 2. 
Ceux auxqaels on ajoutait le sue de quelque fruit, tels que le 
More, /ait avec du jus de miire. 3. Ceux qu'on assaisonnait 
avec da mlel, comme le Nectar, le Mcdon, 8fc. 4, Ceux ouPon 
faisait infuser des plantes raedicinales ou aromatiques, et qui 
prenaient leur nom de ces plantes, Vins d'Absinthe, de Myrthe, 
d'Aloes, &c. Le Roman de Flonmont les appelle Vins herbez. 
5. Enfin ceux dans lesquels, outre le miel, il entrait des epices. 
On appellait ces dernicrs du nom general de Pimens. Cetoient 
les pliLs estimes de tons. JVos auteurs n''enparlent qu'avec delices. 
Jl e\it manqui quelque chose d une fite ou a un repas, si on n'y 
eiit point servi du Piment ; et Pan on donnait meme aux moines 
dans les couvens d certains jours de Vannee. — Le Grand. 



Note 71, p. 26, col. 2. — , 



Of Cornwall. 



the youth 



Sir Tristram du Lyones 
Note 72, p. 27, col. 1. — 
Sir Balin le Sauvage. 



and he who struck 

The dolorous stroke. 



Note 73, p. 27. col. 1. - 
Ariosto. 



• Like that divinest Tuscan. 



Note 74, p. 27, col. 2. — Thou canst not with thy golden belt 
put on 
An honorable name. 

Du proverbe Bonne renommee vaut mieux que ceinture doree. 

Lisant un arrest ancien qui est encorcspour le jourd'huy insere 
aux registres du Chastelct de Paris, j'estimay qu'en ce proverbe 
il y avoit une notable sentence, et une longue ancienncte tout en- 
semble. Car par arrest qui est du 28 de Jain 1420, il est po7-te 
en term.es erpres que deffcnses sont faites a toutes femmes a.mou- 
reuses, files de joye, et paillardes de nc porter robbes a collets ren- 
versez, queues, ne eeintures dorees, boutonniers d leurs chaperons, 
sur peine de confiscation et amende, et que les huissicrs de parle- 
vtent, commissaires et sergents du Chastelet qui les trouveroient, 
eussent d les mencr prisonnieres. 

Au surplus {je diraij cecy en passant) d la mienne volonte que 
ceux qui donnerent cest arrest eussent tourne la chance, et que non 
seulement ces eeintures dorees, ains en toutes autres dorures, et 
affliquets, ils eussent fait deffences d toutes femmes d''honneur 
d'emporter, sur peine d'estre declarees putains ; car il nhj auroit 
point plus prompt moyen que cestuy, pour bannier le superfluite 
et bombance des dames. — Pasquier, 



Note 75, p. 28, col. 1. — I knew myself. 

Hmc igif.ur Janna Pulcella virgo, cum magnam gloriam in 
armis esset adepta, et regnum Francorum magnd. ex parte dcper- 
ditum, e manibus Anglorum pugnando eripuisset, in suh florcnte 
aitate constituta, non solum se morituram, sed et genus suae mor- 
tis cunctis praedixit. — Bergomensis. 

Note 76, p. 28, col. 1. — There is a path. 

There is a path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vul- 
ture's eye hath not seen : the lion's whelps have not trodden 
it, nor the fierce lion passed by it. — Job, xxviii. 7, 8. 



Note 77, p. 28, col. 1. ^s they did hear the loud alarum bell. 

" In sooth the estate of France was then most miserable. 
There appeared nothing but a horrible face, confusion, poverty, 
desolation, solitarinesse and feare. The lean and bare la- 
bourers in the country did terrifie even theeves themselves, 
who had nothing left them to spoile but the carkasses of these 
poore miserable creatures, wandering up and down like ghostes 
drawne out of their graves. The least farmes and hamlets 
were fortified by these robbers, English, Bourguegnons and 
French, every one striving to do his worst : all men of w^ar 
were well agreed to spoile the countryman and merchant. 
Even the cattell, accustomed to the larume bell, the signe of the 
enemy's approach, would run home of themselves without any 
guide by this accustomed misery.'" 

This is the perfect description of those times, taken out of 
the lamentations of our ancestors, set down in the original, 
says De Serres. But amidst this horrible calamity, God did 
comfort both the king and realme, for about the end of the 
yeere, he gave Charles a goodly sonne by queen Mary his 
wife." 

Note 78, p. 28, col. 2. — Was as a pilgrim. 
O my people, hear my word : make you ready to the battle, 
and in those evils, be even as pilgrims upon the earth. —1 
2 Esdras, xvi. 40. 



Note 79, p. 28, col. 2. — Cast the weak nature off! 

Let go from thee mortal thoughts, cast away the burdens of 
man, put off now the weak nature, 

And set aside the thoughts that are most heavy unto thee, 
and haste thee to flee from these times. — 2 Esdras, xiv. 14, 15. 

Note 80, p. 29, col. 2. — Worthy a happier, not a better love. 
Digna minus misero, non meliore viro. — Ovid. 



Note 81, p. 29, col. 2. ^nd I must put away all mortal 

thoughts. 
— 2 Esdras, xiv. 14. 



Note 82, p. 31, col. 1. — Ruin rush'd round us. 

" To succeed in the siege of Orleans, the English first se- 
cured the neighboring places, which might otherwise have 
annoyed the besiegers. The months of August and September 
were spent in this work. During that space they took Mehun, 
Baugenci, Gergeau, Clery, Sully, Jenville, and some other 
smnll towns, and at last appeared before Orleans on the 12th 
of October." — Rapin. 

Note 83, p. 31, col. 2 Soon saddened Orleans. 

" The French king used every expedient to supply the city 
with a garrison and provisions, and enable it to maintain a 
long and obstinate siege. The lord of Gaucour, a brave and 
experienced captain, was appointed governor. Many officers 
of distinction threw themselves into the place. The troops 
which they conducted were inured to war, and were deter- 
mined to make the most obstinate resistance : and even the 
inhabitants, disciplined by the long continuance of hostilities, 
were well qualified in their own defence, to second the efl^orts 
of the most veteran forces. The eyes of all Europe were 
turned towards this scene ; where, it was reasonably sup- 
posed, the French were to make their last stand for maintain- 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



73 



ing the independence of their iiionarcliy, and tlie rigiits of their 
sovereign." — Hume. 

Note 84, p. 31, col. 2. — The Sire Cliapclle. 

This title was not discriminately used by the French. 
Chapelle is sometimes styled le sire, and sometimes gcntil- 
homme de Bcaiisse, by Daniel. The same title was applied to 
the Almighty, and to princes ; and Selden observes from 
Pasquier, " these ancient barons affected rather to be stiled 
by the name of sire than baron, and the baron of Coucy 
carried to that purpose this rithme in his device : 

Je ne suis roy ne prince aussi, 
Je suis le sire de Coucy.'' 



Note 85, p. 31, col. 2. — Can never wield the crvdfiz that hilts 
His hallowed sword. 

"At the creation of a knight of Rhodes a sword, with a 
cross for the hilt, was delivered to him in token that his valor 
must defend religion. No bastard could be a knight hospi- 
taller, from whose order that of Rhodes was formed, except 
a bastard to a prince, there being iionor in that dishonor, 
as there is light in the very spots of tlie moon." 

Fuller's Historic of the Holy Warre. 



Not 
Alen^on. 



E 86, p. 31, col. 2. 6.nd that young duke. 



Note 87, p. 31, col. 2. — La Hire, the merriest man. 

" In the late warres in France between king Henry the fifth 
of England and Charles the seventh of France, the French 
armie being in distresse, one captain La Hire, a Frenchman, 
was sent to declare unto the said Frencii king the estate and 
affaires of the warre, and how for want of victuals, money, 
and other necessaries, the French had lost divers tovvncs and 
battailes to the English. The French king being disposed to 
use his captaine familiarly, shewed him such thinges as him- 
self was delighted in, as his buildings, his banquets, faire 
ladies, &c., and then asked the captaine how hoe liked them ; 
' Trust me, sir,' quoth the captaine, speaking his mind freely, 
* I did never know any prince that more dcligiited himself 
with his losses, than you doe with yours.' " — Stowe. 

' La Hire trouva ung chapelain auqucl il dit qti'il lay donnast 
hastivement Vabsolution .- et le chapelain luy dit qii'il confcssast 
ses pcsches. La Hire luy respondit qu'-il n'auroit pas loisir, car 
ilfalloit promptement frapper sur Prnncmy, et qn'il avoit faict ce 
que gens de guerre ont accoustumc de faire. Et lors La Hire fit 
sa priere d, Dieu en disani en son Gascon, les mains joinctes : — 
' Dicu,je teprie que tu faces aujourd'huy pour La Hire autant 
que tu vouldrois que La Hire fist pour toy, se il estoit Dicu, et 
que tu fusses La Hire.' — Et il cuidoil trcs bicn prier ct dire. 

Chronique sans titre. Le Brun de Charmettrs, t. i. p. 102, 

There is an English epitaph, borrowed from these words 
of the French captain. 



Note 88, p. 31, col. 2. — the suburbs lay 

One ample rui?i. 

" They pulled down all the most considerable buildings in 
the suburbs, and among the rest twelve churches and several 
monasteries ; tliat the English might not make use of thera in 
carrying on the siege." — Rnpin. Monstrelet. 



Note 89, p. 32, col. 1. — JVo more the merry viol's note teas 
heard. 

The instrument wliich most frequently served for an accom- 
paniment to the harp, and which disputed the preeminence 
with it in the early times of music in France, was the viol ; 
and indeed, when reduced to four strings, and stript of the 
frets with which viols of all kinds seem to have been furnished 
till the 16th century, it still holds the first place among treble 
instruments, under the denomination of violin. 

The viol played with a bow, and wholly different from the 
vielle, whose tones are produced by the friction of a wheel, 
which indeed performs the part of a bow, was very early in 
favor with the inhabitants of France. 

Bumey's History of Music. 
10 



Note 90, p. 32, col. 1. — Call'd on Saint Aignan's name. 

St. Aignan was the tutelary saint of Orleans. He had mi- 
raculously been chosen bishop of that city when Attila besieged 
it. " Comme les citoyens effrayez eurent recours a leur prelat, 
luy, sans se saucier, pour le salut de sicns, sortit de la ville et 
parla a Attila. Mais ne I' ay ant pu flcchir, il se mit en prier es, 
ft faire des processions, et porter par les rues les reliqucs des 
saints. Un prestre s'etant mocque, disant, qtie cela n'aroit da 
rein profite aux autres villes, tomba roide mort sur la place, por~ 
tant : pur ce moycn la peine de son insolcnte tcmerite. Apres 
toutes ches choses, il commanda aux habitans de voir si le sccours 
n'arrivoit point ; ayant etc repondu que non , il se rcmet en prieres, 
et puis leur fait mesme cornmundcmcnt : mais n'appercevant point 
encore de secours, pour la troisieme fois il se prosteriia a tcrre, 
les ycux et I'esprit vers Ic Ciel. Se sentant exauce, il fait mon- 
ter a la guerite, et luy rapporte-t-on que Von ne voyoit ricn si non 
une grosse nucc de poussiere, il assuere que c'etoit le sccours 
d'^tius et de Teudo Roy des Goths, lesquels tardans a se mon- 
trer a I'armee d' Attila, S. Aignan fat divinement transporte en 
leur camp, et les advcrtit que tout estoit perdu, s'ilsattcndoicnt au 
lendcmain. lis parurent uussi-tost, ct forccrcnt Attila de lever 
si hativement le siege, que plusicurs des siens se noyerent dans la 
Loire, d'autres s'entretuerent avec regret d'avuir perdu la ville. 
Et non contens de cette victoire, le poursuivirent si vivement avec 
le Roy Merouee, qui se vint joindre a eux, qu'ils le dcfirent en 
battaille rangee pres de Chtilons, jonchant lacampagne de 180,000 
cadavrcs." 

Le nouveau Parterre des fleurs des vies des Saiiits. Par P. 
Ribadeneira, Andre du Val et Jean Baudoin. Lyons, 1666. 



Note 91, p. 32, col. 2. — the treaty ratified 

At Troyes. 

" By the treaty of Troyes, Charles was to remain in quiet 
possession of the royal dignity and revenues. After his death 
the crown, with all its rights and dominions, devolved to Henry 
and his heirs. The imbecility of Charles was so great that he 
could not appear in public, so that the queen and Burgundy 
swore for him." — Rapin. 



Note 92, p. 33, col. 1. — Salisbury, their watchful chief. 
"The besiegers received succors in the very beginning of 
the siege ; but the earl of Salisbury, who considered this en- 
terprise as a decisive action for the king his master, and his 
own reputation, omitted nothing to deprive the besieged of that 
advantage. He run up round the city sixty forts. How great 
soever this work might be, nothing could divert him from it, 
since the success of the siege entirely depended upon it. In 
vain would he have pursued his attack, if the enemies could 
continually introduce fresh supplies. Besides, the season, now 
far advanced, suggested to him, tliat he would be forced to pass 
tlie winter in the camp, and during that time be liable to many 
insults. Among the sixty forts, there were six much stronger 
than the rest, upon the six principal avenues of the city. 
The French could before with ease introduce convoys into tho 
place, and had made frequent use of that advantage. But 
after these foils were built, it was with extreme difficulty that 
they could, now and then, give some assistance to the be- 
sieged. Upon these six redoubts the general erected batteries, 
which thundered against the walls." — Rapin. 



Note 93, p. 33, col. 1. — The six great avenues meet in the 
midst. 
Rheims had six principal streets meeting thus in one centre, 
where the cathedral stood. 



Au centre de la ville, entre six avenues, 
S'eleve un sacre temple a la hauteur des : 



Chapelain. 



Note 94, p. 33, col. I. — Possessed the Toumelles. 
" The bulwark of the Toumelles being much shaken by tho 
besiegers' cannon, and the besieged thinking it proper to set 
it on fire, the English extinguished the flames, and lodged 
themselves in that post. At the same time they became 
masters of the tower on the bridge, from whence the whole 
city could be viewed." — Rapin. 



74 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC 



Note 95, p. 33, col. 2. — The ponderous stone with hideous crash 
Came like an earthquake. 

Les bombardes vomissaient des boulets de pierre, dent quel- 
quesuns pesaient jasqii' d cent seize livres. Ces masses effray- 
antes, lancees d la maniere de nos bombes, produisaierd en tom- 
bant sur les edifices, Veffet de la foudre. — Le Brun de Char- 
mettes, i. p. 122. 

Note 96, p. 33, col. ^.— The wild-fire balls hiss'd through the 
midnight sky. 
Drayton enumerates these among the English preoarations 
for war : 

" The engineer provided the petard 
To break the strong portcullies, and the balls 
Of wild-fire devised to throw from for 
To burn to ground their palaces and halls." 

And at the siege of Harfleur he says, 

" Their brazen slings send in the wild-fire balls." 

" Balls of consuming wild-fire 
That lickt men up hke lightning, have I laughed at, 
And tost 'em back again like children's trifles." 

B. and F. ; The Mad Lover. 

" I do command that particular care be had, advising the 
gunners to have half butts with water and vinegar, as is ac- 
customed, with bonnets and old sails, and wet mantels to de- 
fend fire, that as often is thrown. 

" Every ship shall carry two boats lading of stones, to throw 
to profit in the time of fight on the deck, forecastle or tops, 
according to his burden. 

" That the wild-fire be reparted to the people most expert, 
that we have for the use thereof, at due time ; for that if it be 
not overseen, giving charge thereof to those that do understand 
it, and such as, we know, can tell how to use it 3 otherwise 
it may happen to great danger." 

Orders set down by the duke of Medina to be 
observed in the voyage toward England. 

Harl. Misc. vol. i. 
" Some were preparing to toss balls of wild-fire, as if the sea 
had been their tennis-court." 

Deliverance of certain Christians from the Turks. 

Harl. Misc. vol. i. 

Note 97, p. 33, col. 2. — Poisonous pollution. 

Thus at the siege of Thin sur 1' Escault. " Ceulx de lost leur 
gectoient par leur engins chevauh mors et autres bestes mortes et 
puantes, pour les empuantir, dont ih estoient la dedans en moult 
grant destresse. Car lair estoit fort et chault ainsi comrne en 
plein este, et de ce furent plus constrains que de nulle autre chose. 
Si considerent finablement cntre eulx que celle messaise ih ne 
pourroient longuement endurer ne souffrir, tant leur estoit la 
punaisie abhominable." — Froissart, 1. 38. 

This was an evil which sometimes annoyed the besieging 
array. At Dan ^^ pour la puantise des bestes que Ion tuoit en 
lost, et des chevaulx qui estoient mors, lair estoit tout corrumpu, 
dont moult de chevaliers et escuyers en estoient malades et melen- 
colieux, et sey alloient les plu^ieurs, refreschir a Bruges et ail- 
lews pour eviter ce mauvais air." — Froissart, 1. 175. 



Note 98, p. 33, col. 2. — Crowded in unwholesome vaults 
At Thin sur P Escault, " La fist le due charier grant foison 
d''engins de Cambray et de Douay, et en y eut six moult grans, le 
due les fist lever devant la forteresse. Lesqlz engins gectoient 
nuyt et jour grosses pierres et mangonneaulx qui abatoient les 
combles et le hault des lours des chambres et des salles. Et en 
contraignoient les gens du Chastel par cest assault tresdure- 
ment. Et si nosient les compaignons qid le gardoient demourer 
en chambres ncn sales quilt eussent, mais en caves ct en celiers." 
— Froissart, 1. 38. 

Note 99, p. 33, col. 2. — Eager to mark the carrion crow 
for food. 

Scudery has a most ingenious idea of the effects of famine : 
during the blockade of Rome by the Goths, ho makes the 
inhabitants first eat one another, and then eat themselves. 



La rage se meslant d leurs douleurs extremes. 

Us se mangent Pun I'autre, ils se mangent eux-mesmes. 

Marie. 
Fuller expresses the want of food pithily. " The siege 
grew long, and victuals short." 



Note 100, p. 33, col. 2. — When in the Sun the Angel of the 
Lord. 

And I saw an Angel standing in the sun ; and he cried with 
a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of 
heaven, Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper 
of the great God: 

That ye may eat the flesh of kings, and the flesh of captains, 
and the flesh of mighty men, and the flesh of horses, and of 
them that sit on them. — Revelation, xix. 17, 18. 

A similar passage occurs in Ezekiel. 

And thou, son of man, thus saith the Lord God, Speak unto 
every feathered fowl, and to every beast of the field. As- 
semble yourselves, and come ; gather yourselves on every side 
to my sacrifice that I do sacrifice for you, even a great sacri- 
fice upon the mountains of Israel, that ye may eat flesh and 
drink blood. 

Ye shall eat the flesh of the mighty, and drink the blood of 
the princes of the earth, of rams, of lambs, and of goats, of 
bullocks, all of them fallings of Bashan. 

And ye shall eat fat till ye be full, and drink blood till ye 
be drunken, of my sacrifice which I have sacrificed for you. 

Thus ye shall be filled at my table with horses and chariots, 
with mighty men, and with all men of war, saith the Lord 
God. — Ezekiel, xxxix. 17, &c. 



Note 101, p. 34, col. 2. — Prevent the pang of famine. 

Fuller calls this " resolving rather to lose their lives by 
wholesale on the point of the sword, than to retail them out 
by famine." 

Note 102, p. 35, col. 1. ds when the Mexicans. 

" It was the belief of the Mexicans, that at the conclusion 
of one of their centuries the sun and earth would be destroyed. 
On the last night of every century they extinguished all their 
fires, covered the faces of the women and children, and ex- 
pected the end of the world. The kindling of the sacred fire 
on the mountain of Huixachtla was believed an omen of their 
safety." — Clavigero. 

Note 103, p. 36, col. 1. — The veins were full. 
<t>airig Ktv yviuiv viv oaov a-Qevos eXXmneveiv 
At di OL (j}6r\KavTi Kar' avx^va TravruOev ives, 
Kat TToAtcd TTcp eovTf TO Se aOevoi aliop aSag. 

Theocritus. 

Note 104, p. 36, col. 1. — His silence threatened. 
Son silence menace. — Le Moyne. 



Note 105, p. 36, col. 1. — see the fire 

Consume him. 

Reasons for burning a trumpeter. 

" The letter she sent to Suffolk was received with scorn, 
and the trumpeter that brought it commanded to be burnt, 
against the law of nations, saith a French * author, but erro- 
neously, for his coming was not warranted by the authority of 
any lawful prince, but from a private maid, how highly soever 
self-pretended, who had neither estate to keep, nor commis- 
sion to send a trumpeter." — Fuller^s Profane State. 

Note 106, p. 36, col. 2. — In sight of Orleans and the Maiden^s 
host. 

De Serres says, " The trumpeter was ready to be burnt in 
the sight of the besieged." 

Note 107, p. 36, col. 2. — Ms he that puts it off. 

Let not him that girdeth on his harness boast himself, as he 
that putteth it off. — 1 Kings, xx. 11. 

* De Serres. 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



75 



Note 108, p. 36, col. 2. 4s when Ckederles comes 

''Aripclfluminis Habjs veiwnus ad Qoukiirthotj ; hide Choron; 
post in The Ke ThioL Hie viulta didiciinus a monachis Tur- 
eicis, quos Dervis vacant, qui eo loco insignem habcnt adem, de 
hcroe qaodain Chederle summa corporis atqae animi furtttudine, 
qucm eundem ftiissc cum nostro D. Qcorgio fahulantur ; eadcm- 
que Hit ascribunt quie huic nostri; nimirum vasti ct horrendi 
draconis ccede servasse expositam virg-inem. Ad Iubc alia ad- 
jiciant multa, et quec libitum est, comminiscuntur, ilium per 
longinqnas oras peregrinari solitum, ad jluvium. postremo per- 
vcnisse, cujiis aqua bibcntibus priEstarent hnmortalitatcm. Qui 
quidem fluvius, in qua parte tcrrarum sit, non dicunt; nisi for- 
tassis in Utopia. coUocari debet : tantum affirmant ilium magnis 
tenebris, mull&quc caligine obductum latere ; neque cuiquam 
vwrtalium post Chcderlcni, uti ilium vidcrct, contigisse. Chedcr- 
lem vero ipsu7n mortis Icgibas solutum, hue illuc in equo prcc- 
stantissimo, qui similiter ejusdcm aqiioi haustu mortalitatem 
exuerit, divagari, gaudentem prceliis, adcsse in bello melioribus, 
aut iis qui ejus opem imploravcrint, cujuscunque tandem sint 
religionis." — Busbequius. 

The Persians say, that Alexander coming to understand, 
that in the mountain of Kaf there was a great cave, very 
black and dark, wherein ran the water of immortality, would 
needs take a journey thither. But heing afraid to lose his 
way in the cave, and considering with himself that he had 
committed a great oversight in leaving the more aged in cities 
and fortified places, and keeping about his person only young 
people, such as were not able to advise him, he ordered to be 
brought to him some old man, whose counsel he might follow 
in the adventure ho was then upon. There were in the whole 
army but two brothers, named Chidder and Elias, who had 
brought their father along with them, and this good old man 
bade his sons go and tell Alexander, that to go through with 
the design he had undertaken, his only way were to take a 
mare that had a colt at her heels, and to ride upon her into 
the cave, and leave the colt at the entrance of it, and the 
mare would infallibly bring him back again to the same place 
without any trouble. Alexander thought the advice so good, 
that he would not take any other person with him in that 
journey but those two brothers, leaving the rest of his retinue 
at the entrance of the cave. He advanced so far that he 
came to a gate, so well polished, that notwithstanding the 
great darkness, it gave light enough to let him see there was 
a bird fastened thereto. The bird asked Alexander what he 
would have ? He made answer that he looked for the water 
of immortality. The bird asked him, what was done in the 
world.' Mischief enough, replies Alexander, since there is 
no vice or sin but reigns there. Whereupon the bird getting 
loose and flying away, the gate opened and Alexander saw an 
Angel sitting, with a trumpet in his hand, holding it as if he 
were going to put it to his mouth. Alexander asked him his 
name. The Angel made answer his name was Raphael, and 
that he only staid for a command from God to blow the trum- 
pet and to call the dead to judgment. Which having said, 
he asks Alexander who he was .'' I am Alexander, replied he, 
and I seek the water of immortality. The Angel gave him 
a stone, and said to him, go thy wayes, and look for another 
stone of the same weight with this, and then thou shalt find 
immortality. Whereupon Alexander asked how long he had 
to live. The angel said to him, till such time as the heaven 
and the earth which encompass thee be turned to iron. Alex- 
ander, being come out of the cave, sought a long time, and not 
meeting with any stone just of the same weight with the 
other, he put one into the balance which he thought came 
very near it, and finding but very little difference, he added 
thereto a little earth, which made the scales even ; it being 
God's intention to shew Alexander thereby, that he was not 
to expect immortality till he himself were put into the earth. 
At last Alexander having one day a fall off his horse in the 
barren ground of Ghur, they laid him upon the coat he wore 
over his armour, and covered him with his buckler to keep off 
the heat of the sim. Then he began to comprehend the 
propliecy of the Angel, and was satisfied the hour of his 
de:ith w,is at hand ; accordingly he died. 

They add to this fable, that the two brothers Chiddar and 
Elias drunk of the water of immortality, and that they are 
still living but invisible, Elias upon the earth, and Chidder in 
the water ; wherein tJie latter hath so great power, that those 



who are in danger of being destroyed by water, if they ear- 
nestly pray, vowing an offering to him, and firmly believing 
that he can relieve them, shall escape the danger. 

Ambassador'' s Travels. 
Khidir and Elias occupy a distinguished place in the legion 
of prophets. The name of the first signifies verdant, alluding 
to the power which he possessed of producing, wherever ho 
trod, the most beautiful and enchanting verdure. These two 
are regarded as the protectors and tutelary gods of travel- 
lers ; the former upon the sea, the latter upon the land; and 
they are thought to be incessantly employed in promoting 
these salutary objects. In their rapid and uniform courses, 
they are believed to meet once a year at Mina, in the environs 
of Mecca, the day on which the pilgrims are assembled. 

Z)' Ohsson''s History of the Othoman Empire. 

Note 109, p. 37, col. 1.— The siourds that late flashed to the 
evening sun. 

Now does the day grow blacker than before. 
The swords that glistered late, in puri)le gore 
Now all distain'd, their former brightnesse lose. 

Maifs Edward HI. 
And again, Book 7. 

The glittering swords that shone so bright of late 
Are quickly all distain'd with purjile gore. 

Note 110, p. 37, col. 2. — Of blessed Mary vowed avow of 
peace. 

11 advint a luy ct a toute sa gent, estant devant Chartres, qui 
moult humiUa et brise son courage ; car cntcndis que ces traicteurs 
Frangois cdloient ct preschuient ledit ruy et son conseil, et encores 
nulle response agrcable nen avoient cue. Une orage une tempeste 
et une fouldre si grande et si horrible descendit du cid en lost du 
roy Danglctcrre quil sembloit proprement que le siecle deust finer. 
Cur il cheoit si grosses pierres que cllcs tuoyent hommes et 
chevaulz, et en furent Ics plus hardis toiLs esbahis. Adoncques 
regarda le roy Danglctcrre devers leglise de JVostre Dame de 
Cliartres, et se voua et rendit devotement a JVostre Dame, ct 
promist, et confcssa sicomme il dist depuis queil se accorderoit a 
la pair. — Froissart. 

But while he lodged there (before Chartres), his army mak- 
ing a horrible spoile of the whole country, there chanced an 
occasion, as the work of Heaven, which suddenly quailed his 
ambitious design to ruin France : for behold a horrible and 
extraordinary tempest of haile, thunder, and lightning, fell 
with such violence as many horses and men in the army 
perished, as if that God had stretched forth his hand from 
heaven to stay his course. — Dc Serrcs. 

Note 111, p. 38, col. 1. — Deep through the sky the hollow 
thunders rolPd. 

The circumstance of the Maid's entering Orleans at mid- 
night in a storm of thunder and lightning is historically true. 

"The Englishmen perceiving that thei within could not 
long continue for faute of vitaile and pouder, kcpte not theii 
watche so diligently as thei wer accustomed, nor scoured not 
the countrey environed as thei before had ordained. Whiche 
negligence the citezens shut in perceiving, sent worde thereof 
to the French capitaines, which with Pucclle in the dedde 
tyme of the nighte, and in a greatc rayne and tliundre, with all 
their vitaile and artilery entered into the citie." 

Hall,ff. 127. 

Shakespear also notices this storm. Striking as the circum- 
stance is, Chapelain has omitted it. 



Note 112, p. 38, col. 1. — Strong were the English forts. 

The patience and perseverance of a besieging army in those 
ages appear almost incredible to us now. The camp of Fer- 
dinand before Granada swelled into a city. Edward III. 
made a market town before Calais. Upon the captain's 
refusal to surrender, says Barnes, " he began to entrench 
himself strongly about the city, setting his own tent directly 
against the chief gates at which he intended to enter ; then he 
placed bastions between the town and the river, and set out 
regular streets, and reared up decent buildings of strong 



76 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC, 



timber between tho trenches, which he covered with thatch, 
reed, broom and skins. Thus he encompassed the whole 
town of Calais, from Risban on the northwest side to Cour- 
gaine on the northeast, all along by Sangate, at Port and 
Fort de Nicolay, commonly by the English called Newland- 
bridge, down by Hammes, Cologne and Marke ; so that his 
camp looked like a spacious city, and was usually by stran- 
gers, that came thither to market, called New Calais, For 
this prince's reputation for justice was so great, that to his 
markets (which he held in his camp twice every week, viz. 
on Tuesdays and Saturdays for flesh, fish, bread, wine and 
ale, with cloth and all other necessaries,) there came not only 
his friends and allies from England, Flanders and Aquitain, 
but even many of king Philip's subjects and confederates 
conveyed thither their cattle and other commodities to be 
sold." 

Note 113, p. 38, col. 2. — Entering with his eye. 
JVunc lentus, celsis adstans in colliius, intrat 
Urbem oculis, discitque locos caussasque locorum. 

Silius Italicus, xii. 567. 

Note 114, p. 38, col. 2. — Defiled and un)-epair''d. 

Mjecere madentes, 
Slctit erant, chjpeos ; nee quisquam spicula tersit, 
JVec laudavit equum, nitidce nee cassidis altam 
Compsit adornavitque jubam. Statins. 



Note 115, p. 39, col. 2. — Parthenopceus. 

Ipsam, Mcenalid, puerum eum vidit in umhrd,, 
Dianam, tenero signantem- gramina passu, 
Ignovisse ferunt comiti, Dictceaque tela 
Ipsam, et Amyclceas humeris aptasse pliaretras. 

tmdet nemorum, titulumque nocentem. 

Sanguinis Immani pudor est nescire sagittas. 

Statius, IV. 



256. 



Note 116, p. 39, col. 2. — Oladdisdale. 

Gladdisdale must be the sir William Glansdale of Shakes- 
pear. Stowe calls him William Gladesdale. 

It is proper to remark that I have introduced no fictitious 
names among the killed. They may all be found in the 
various histories. 

Note 117, p. 39, col. 2.— TJie balista. 

JSTeque enim solis excussa lacertis 
Lancea, sed tenso balista turbine rapta, 
Haud unum contenta latus transire, qiiiescit ; 
Sed pandens perque arma viam, perque ossa, relictd, 
Morte fagit : superest tela post vulnera cursus. 

Lucan. III. 
Vegetius says, that the balista discharged darts with such 
rapidity and violence, that nothing could resist their force. 
This engine was used particularly to discliarge darts of a sur- 
prising length and weight, and often many small ones together. 
Its form was not unlike that of a broken bow ; it had two 
arms, but straight and not curved like those of a cross-bow, of 
which the whole acting force consists in bending the bow. 
That of tho balista as well as of the catapulta, lies in its 
cords. — Rollin. 

Note 118, p. 39, col. 2. — Where by the bayle's embattled wall. 

The bayle or lists was a space on the outside of the ditc-i 
surrounded by strong palisades, and sometimes by a low em- 
battled wall. In the attack of fortresses, as the range of the 
machines then in use did not exceed the distance of four stadia, 
the besiegers did not carry on their approaches by means of 
trenches, but begun their operations above ground, with the 
attack of the bayle or lists, where many feats of chivalry were 
performed by the knights and men at arms, who considered 
the assault of that work as particularly belonging to them, the 
weight of their armor preventing them from scaling the walls. 
As this part was attacked by the knights and men at arms, it 
was also defended by those of the same rank in the place, 
whence many single combats were fought here. This was 
at the first investing of the place. — Grose. 



Note 119, p. 39, col. 2. — Ji rude coat of mail, 

Unhosed, unhooded, as of lowly line. 

In France, only persons of a certain estate, called unfiefde 
hauber, were permitted to wear a hauberk, which was the ar- 
mor of a knight. Esquires might only wear a simple coat 
of mail, without the hood and hose. Had this aristocratic dis- 
tinction consisted in the ornamental part of the arms alone, 
it would not have been objectionable. In the enlightened 
and free states of Greece, every soldier was well provided with 
defensive arms. In Rome, a civic wreath was the reward of 
him who should save the life of a citizen. But to use the 
words of Dr. Gillies, " the miserable peasants of moderir 
Europe are exposed without defence as without remorse, by 
the ambition of men, whom the Greeks would have stjled 
tyrants." 

Note 120, p. 39, col. 3. — 77^6 rude-featured helm. 
The burgonet, which represented the shape of the head and 
features. 

Note 121, p. 



col. 2, — On his crown-crested helm. 



Earls and dukes frequently wore their coronets on the 
crests of their helmets. At the battle of Agincourt Henry 
wore " a bright helmet, whereupon was set a crowne of gold, 
repleate with pearle and precious stones, marvellous rich." — 
Stowe. 

Note 122, p. 39, col. 2. — jlud against the iron fence beneath. | 
A breastplate was sometimes worn under the hauberk. 



Note 123, p. 40, col. 1. — .... Conrade, with an active bound, \ 
Sprung on Hie battlements. 

The nature of this barrier lias been explained in a previous 
note. The possibility of leaping upon it is exemplified in the 
following adventure, which is characteristic of tlie period in 
which it happened, (1370.) 

" At that time there was done an extraordinary feat of arma 
by a Scotch knight, named sir John Assueton, being one of 
those men of arms of Scotland, who iiad now entered king 
Edward's pay. This man left his rank with his spear in his 
hand, his page riding behind him, and went towards the bar- 
riers of Noyon, where he alighted, saying, ' Here hold my 
horse, and stir not from hence ; ' and so he came to the bar- 
riers. There were there at that time sir John de Roye, and 
sir Lancelot de Lorris, with ten or twelve more, who all won- 
dered what this kniglit designed to do. He for his part being 
close at the barriers said unto them, ' Gentlemen, I am come 
hither to visit you, and because I see you will not come forth 
of your barriers to me, I will come in to you, if I may, and 
prove my knighthood against you. Win me if you can.' 
And with that Ire leaped over the bars, and began to lay 
about him like a lion, he at them and they at him ; so that he 
alone fought thus against them all for near the space of an 
hour, and liurt several of them. And all the while those of 
tlie town beheld with much delight from tlie walls and their 
garret windows his great, activity, strength and courage ; but 
they offered not to do him any linrt, as they might very easily 
liave done, if they liad been minded to cast stones or darts at 
him; but the French knights charged them to the contrary, 
saying ' how they should let them alone to deal with him.' 
When matters had continued thus about an hour, the Scotch 
page came to the barriers with his master's horse in his 
hand, and said in his language, ' Sir, pray come away, it is 
high time for you to leave off now ; for the army is marched 
off out of sight.' The knight heard his man, and then gave 
two or three terrible strokes about him to clear the way, and 
so, armed as he was, he leaped back again over the barriers 
and mounted his horse, having not received any hurt ; and 
turning to the Frenchmen, said, ' Adieu, sirs ! I thank you 
for my diversion.' And with that he rode after his man 
upon the spur towards the army." — Joshua Barnes, p. 801. 

Note 124, p. 40, col. 1. — The iron weight swung high. 

Le massue est un baton gros comme le bras, ayant d Pun de 

ses bouts une forte courroie pour tenir Varme et Pempicher de 

glisser, etd Pautre trois chatnons defer, auxq^uels pendunboulet 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



77 



pesant huit licrcs. II n'lj a ;ws- d'hommc aujourd^hui capable 
de manicr une telle arme. — Lc Orund. 

The arms of the Medici ftiniily " are romantically referred 
to Averardo de Medici, a commander under Charlemagne, 
•who for his valor in destroying the gigantic plunderer Mu- 
gello, by whom tlie surrounding country was laid waste, was 
honored with the privilege of bearing for his arms six ■palle 
or balls, as characteristic of the iron balls that hung from 
the mace of his fierce antagonist, the impression of which 
remained on his shield." — Roscoe. 

Scudery enumerates the mace among the instruments of 
war, in a passage whose concluding line may vie with any 
bathos of sir Richard Blackmore. 

La confusement frappent de toutes parts 
Pierres, piques, espietiz, masses, flcches ct dards, 
Lances etjavclots, sabres et marteaux d^armes, 
Dangereuses instruments des <ruerriercs alarmes. — Marie. 



Note 125, p. 40, col. 2. — There was aportal in the English fort, 
Which opened on the wall. 

Vitruvius observes, in treating upon fortified walls, that 
near the towers the walls should be cut within-side the 
breadth of the tower, and that the ways broke in this manner 
should only be joined and continued by beams laid upon the 
two extremities, without being made fast with iron ; that in 
case the enemy should make himself master of any part of 
the wall, the besieged might remove this wooden bridge, and 
thereby prevent his passage to the other parts of the wall 
and into the towers. — Rollin. 

The precaution recommended by Vitruvius had not been 
observed in tlie construction of the English walls. On each 
side of every tower, a small door opened upon the wall ; and 
the garrison of one tower are rcjjrescnted in the poem as fly- 
ing by this way from one to shelter themselves in the other. 
With the enterprising spirit and the defensive arms of chival- 
ry, the subsequent events will not be found to exceed 
probability. 

Note 12G, p. 40, col. 2. — J\rot ovcrbrow\l by jutting- parapet. 

The machicolation : a projection over the gate-way of a 
town or castle, contrived for letting full great weights, scald- 
ing water, &c. on the heads of any assailants who might have 
got close to the gate. " Machecollare, or machecoulare," 
says Coke, " is to make a warlike device over a gate or other 
passage like to a grate, through which scalding water, or pon- 
derous or offensive things may be cast upon the assaylants." 



Note 127, p. 41, col. 1. — Plucking from the shield the severed 
head. 
He threw it back. 
I have met with one instance in English history, and only 
one, of throwing the spear after the manner of the ancients. 
It is in Stowe's chronicle. " 1442. The 30th of January, a 
challenge was done in Smithfield within lists, before the king ; 
the one sir Philip de Beawse of Arragon, a knight, and the 
other an esquire of the king's house called Jolui Ausley or 
Astley. These comming to the fielde, tooke their tents, and 
there was the knight's sonne made kniglit by the king, and so 
brought again to his father's tent. Then the heralds of 
armes called tiiem by name to doe their battel, and so they 
came both all armed, with their weapons ; the knight came 
with his sword drawn, and the es([uire with his speare. The 
esquire cast his speare against the knight, but the knight 
avoiding it with his sword, cast it to the ground. Then the 
esquire took his axe and went against the knight suddenly, 
on whom he stroke many strokes, hard and sore upon his 
basenet, and on his hand, and made him loose and let fall his 
axe to the ground, and brast up his limbes three times, and 
caught his dagger and would have smitten him in tlie face, 
for to have slaine him in the field ; and then the king cried 
hoo, and so they were departed and went to their tents, and 
the king dubbed John Astley knight for his valiant torney, 
and the knight of Arragon offered his armes at Windsor." 



Note 128, p. 41, col. 1. — Full on the corselet of a meaner man. 
The corselet was chiefly worn by pikemen. 



Note 129, p. 42, col. 1. — .d harlot! — an adulteress! 

This woman, who is always respectably named in French 
history, had her punishment both in herself and in her child. 

" This fair Agnes had been five years in the service of the 
queen, during which she had enjoyed all the pleasures of life, 
in wearing rich clothes, furred robes, golden chains, and pre- 
cious stones ; and it was commonly reported that the king 
often visited her, and maintained her in a state of concu- 
binage, for the people are more inclined to speak ill than well 
of their superiors. 

" The affection the king showed her was as much for her 
gaiety of temper, pleasing manners, and agreeable conversa- 
tion, as for iicr beauty. She was so beautiful that she was 
called the Fairest of the Fair, and the Lady of Beauty, as 
well on account of her personal charms, as because the king 
had given her for life the castle of Beaute near Paris. Slie 
was very charitable, and most liberal in her alms, which she 
distributed among such churches as were out of repair, and 
to beggars. It is true that Agnes had a daughter who lived 
but a short time, which she said was the king's, and gave it 
to him as the proper father ; but the king always excused 
himself as not having any claim to it. She may indeed have 
called in help, for the matter was variously talkftd of. 

"At length she was seized with a bowel complaint, and 
was a long time ill, during which she was very contrite, and 
sincerely repented of her sins. She often remembered Mary 
Magdalene, who had been a great sinner, and devoutly in- 
voked God and the virgin Mary to her aid like a true catholic : 
after she had received the sacraments, she called for her book 
of prayers, in which she had written with her own hand the 
verses of St. Bernard to repeat them. She then made many 
gifts (wliich were put down in writing, that her executors 
might fulfil them, with the other articles of her will), which 
including alms and the payment of her servants might amount 
to nearly sixty thousand crowns. 

" Her executors were Jacques Cceur, councellor and master 
of the wardrobe to the king, master Robert Poictevin phy- 
sician, and master Stephen Chevalier treasurer to the king, 
who was to take the lead in the fulfilment of her will should 
it be his gracious pleasure. 

" The fair Agnes, perceiving that she was daily growing 
weaker, said to the lord de la Trimouille, the lady of the 
seneschal of Poitou, and one of the king's equerries called 
Gouffier, in the presence of all her damsels, that our fragile 
life was but a stinking ordure. 

" She then required that her confessor would give her abso- 
lution from all her sins and Avickedness, conformable to an 
absolution, which was, as she said, at Loches, which the con- 
fessor on her assurance complied with. After this she uttered 
a loud shriek, and called on the mercy of God and the support 
of the blessed virgin Mary, and gave up the ghost on Monday 
the 9th dny of February, in the year 1449, about six o'clock 
in the afternoon. Her body was opened, and her heart in- 
terred in the church of the said abbey, to which she had been 
a most liberal benefactress ; and her body was conveyed with 
many honors to Loches, where it was interred in the col- 
legiate church of our Lady, to which also she had made many 
handsome donations and several foundations. May God 
have mercy on her soul, and admit it into Paradise." 

Monstrelct, vol. ix. p. 97. 

On the 13th day of June, the seneschal of Normandy, count 
of Maulevrier, and son to the late sir Pierre de Breze, killed 
at the battle of Montlehery, went to the village of Romiers, 
near Dourdan, which belonged to him, for the sake of hunt- 
ing. He took with him his lady, the princess Charlotte of 
France, natural daughter of the late king Charles the VII. 
by Agnes Sorel. After the chace, when they were returned 
to Romiers to sup and lodge, the seneschal retired to a single- 
bedded room for the night ; his lady retired also to another 
chamber, when moved by her disorderly passions (as the hus- 
band said) she called to her a gentleman from Poitou, named 
Pierre de la Vegne, who was head huntsman to the seneschal, 
and made him lie with her. This was told to the seneschal 
by the master of his household, called Pierre I'Apothicaire j 
when he instantly arose, and taking his sword, broke open the 
door of the chamber where his lady and the huntsman were 
in bed. The huntsman started up in his shirt, and the senes- 
chal gave him first a severe blow with his sword on the head. 



78 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC, 



and then thrust it through his hody, and killed him on the 
spot. This done, he went into an adjoining room where his 
children lay, and finding his wife hid under the coverlid of 
their hed, dragged her thence by the arm along the ground, 
and struck her between the shoulders with his sword. On 
her raising herself on her knees he ran his sword through her 
breast, and she fell down dead. He sent her body for inter- 
ment to the abbey of Coulens, where her obsequies were 
performed, and he caused the huntsman to be buried in the 
garden of the house wherein he had been killed. — Monstrelet, 
vol. ii. p. 233. 



Note 130, p. 42, col. 1. 



■ and would that I had lived 

In those old times. 

Mr/K£r' EireiT wtpsiXov eyoi TTe^iiTTOiai (isrsivai 
Av6paaiv, a\X rj npoade Oavnv rj Eneira yeveadai. 
Nvv yap Srj yevos sari ai^iqpcov oSenor rjpap 
Havaovrac Kanarci) /cat oi^vog, wSe ri vvKnop, 
<^0£ipoixevoL. Kesiod, 

Note 131, p. 42, col. '2,.— Then was that nolle heart of 
Douglas 'pierced. 
The heart of Bruce was, by his own dying will, intrusted 
to Douglas to bear it to Jerusalem. This is one of the finest 
stories in the whole age of chivalrous history. Douglas 
inshrined the heart in a golden case, and wore it round his 
neck ; he landed in Spain on his way, and stopped to assist the 
Castillians against the Moors, — probably during the siege of 
Algeziras. There, in the heat of action, he took the heart from 
his neck, and cast it into the thick of the enemy, exclaiming, 
as Barbour has it, 

" Now pass thou forth before 
As thou wast wont in fight to be, 
And I shall follow or else die." 
In this action he perished, and from that time the bloody 
heart has been borne by the family. 



Note 132, p. 44, col. 1. — the shield 

Pillowed the helmed head. 

11 n''est rien de si doux, pour des cceurs pleins de gloire, 
Que la paisible nuit qui suit line victoire, 
Dvrmir sur un trophee, est un charmant repos, 
Et le champ de battaile est le lict d^un heros. 

Scudery. Alaric. 
The night after a battle is certainly more agreeable than the 
night before one. A soldier may use his shield for a pillow, 
but he must be very ingenious to sleep upon a trophy. 



Note 133, p. 44, col. 1. — Gazing with such a look as though 
she fear'' d 
Tlie thing she sought. 



With a dumb silence seeming that it fears 
The thing it went about to effectuate. 



Daniel. 



Note 134, p. 44, col. 2. — One loose lock 

Plaifd o'er his cheek's black paleness. 

" JSToire pasleur." 

Le Mojjne. St. Louis. Liv. xvi. 



Note 135, p. 45, col. 1. — The barbican. 

Next the bayle was the ditch, foss, graff, or mote : generally 
where it could be a wet one, and pretty deep. The passage 
over it was by a draw-bridge, covered by an advance work 
called a barbican. The barbican was sometimes beyond the 
ditch that covered the draw-bridge, and in towns and large 
fortresses had frequently a ditch and draw-bridge of its own. 

Orose. 



walls or rampart, which were always defended by an embat- 
tled or crenellated parapet. — Orose, 

The fortifications of the middle ages differed in this respect 
from those of the ancients. When the besiegers had gained 
the summit of the wall, the descent on the other side was safe 
and easy. But " the ancients did not generally support their 
walls on the inside with earth in the manner of the talus or 
slope, which made the attacks more dangerous. For though 
the enemy had gained some footing upon them, he could not 
assure himself of taking the city. It was necessary to get 
down, and to make use of some of the ladders by which he 
had mounted ; and that descent exposed the soldier to very 
great danger." — Rollin. 

Note 137, p. 45, col. 1. — Behind the guardian pavais fenced. 

The pavais, or pavache, was a large shield, or rather a port- 
able mantlet, capable of covering a man from head to foot, 
and probably of sufficient thickness to resist the missive 
weapons then in use. These were in sieges carried by ser- 
vants, whose business it was to cover their masters with them, 
whilst they, with their bows and arrows, shot at the enemy 
on the ramparts. As this must have been a service of danger, 
it was that perhaps which made the office of scutifer honora- 
ble. The pavais was rectangular at the bottom, but rounded 
off above : it was sometimes supported by props. — Orose. 



Note 138, p. 45, col. 1. — With all their mangonels. 
Mangonel is a term comprehending all the smaller engines. 



Note 139, p. 45, col. 1. — Tortoises 

The tortoise was a machine composed of very strong and 
solid timber work. The height of it to its highest beam, 
which sustained the roof, was twelve feet. The base was 
square, and each of its fronts twenty-five feet. It was 
covered with a kind of quilted mattress made of raw hides, 
and prepared with different drugs to prevent its being set on 
fire by combustibles. This heavy machine was supported 
upon four wheels, or perhaps upon eight. It was called tor- 
toise from its serving as a very strong covering and defence 
against the enormous weights thrown down on it ; those under 
it being safe in the same manner as a tortoise under his shell. 
It was used both to fill up tlie fosse, and for sapping. It may 
not be improper to add, that it is believed, so enormous a 
weight could not be moved from place to place on wheels, and 
that it was pushed forward on rollers. Under these wheels 
or rollers, the way was laid with strong planks to facilitate 
its motion, and prevent its sinking into the ground, from 
whence it would have been very difficult to have removed it. 
The ancients have observed that the roof had a thicker cover- 
ing, of hides, hurdles, sea-weed, &c. than the sides, as it was 
exposed to much greater shocks from the weights thrown upon 
it by the besieged. It had a door in front, which was drawn 
up by a chain as far as was necessary, and covered the soldiers 
at work in filling up the fosse with fascines. — Rollin. 

This is the tortoise of the ancients, but that of the middle 
ages differed from it in nothing material. 



Note 140, p. 45, col. 2. 4 dreadful train. 

" The besiegers having carried the bayle, brought up their 
machines and established themselves in the counterscarp, 
began under cover of their cats, sows, or tortoises, to drain 
the ditch, if a wet one, and also to fill it up with hurdles and 
fascines, and level it for the passage of their movable towers. 
Whilst this was doing, the archers, attended by young men 
carrying shields (pavoises), attempted with their arrows to 
drive the besieged from the towers and ramparts, being them- 
selves covered by tliese portable mantlets. The garrison on 
their part essayed by the discharge of machines, cross and long 
bows, to keep tlie enemy at a distance." — Orose. 



Note 141, p. 45, col. 2. 



Note 136, p. 45, col. 1. — Tlie embattled wall. 
The outermost walls enclosing towns or fortresses were 
commonly perpendicular, or had a very small external talus. 
They were flanked by semi-circular, polygonal, or square 
towers,. commonly about forty or fifty yards distant from eacli ! The cross-bow was for some time laid aside in obedience 
other. Within were steps to mount the terre-pleine of the I to a decree of the second Lateran council held in 1139. ^^ .dr- 



■ He bore an arbalist himself, 

Ji weapon for its sure destructiveness 
Abominated once. 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



79 



tem illam mortiferam et Deo odibilcm ballistariorum adcersus 
christianos et cathoUcos cxerccre de cmtcro sub anathemate pro- 
AJftcmMA." This weapon was again introduced into our armies 
by Richard I., who being slain with a quarrel sliot from one 
of them, at the siege of the castle of Chaluz in Normandy, it 
was considered as a judgment from heaven inflicted upon liim 
for his impiety. Guillaume le Breton, relating the death of 
this king, puts the following into the mouth of Atropos : 
Hac volo, non alia Richardicm morte perire, 
Ut qui Fraiicigenis ballistm primitus usum 
Tradidit, ipse sui rem primitus experiatur, 
Quemque alios docuit in se vim sentiat artis. 

Grose. 



Note 142, p. 45, col. 2. — . . . wlio kneeling- by the trebuchct. 
Charged its long sling with death. 

From the trebuchet they discharged many stones at once by 
a sling. It acted by means of a great weiglit fastened to the 
short arm of a lever, which being let fall, raised the end of tlie 
long arm with a great velocity A man is represented kneel- 
ing to load one of these in an ivory carving, supposed to be of 
the age of Edward II. — Grose. 

Note 143, p. 45, col. 2. — He in the groove the feather'd 
quarrel placed. 

Cluarrels, or carreaux, were so called from their Jieuds, 
which were square pyramids of iron. 

Note 144, p. 4G, col. 1. — some the watery fence . . . . 

Drain painful. 

The tortoises, &c. and movable towers having reached the 
walls, the besiegers under them either began to mine, or batter 
them with tiie ram. They also established batteries of balis- 
tas and mangonels on the counterscarp. Tliese were opposed 
by tliose of the enemy. 



Note 145, p. 46, col. 1. — Or charging with huge stones the 
murderous sling. 

The matafunda. 



Note 146, p. 46, col. 1. — or in the espringal 

Fix the brass-winged arrows. 

The espringal threw large darts called muchcttm, sometimes 
winged with brass instead of feathers. Procopius says that 
because feathers could not be put to the large darts discharged 
from the balista, the ancients used pieces of wood six inches 
thick, which had the same effect. 



Note 147, p. 46, col. 1. 



- Jl ponderous stone from some huge 
martinet. 

Le Icndemain vindrent deux maistres engingneurs au due de 
JVormandie, qui dirent que, si on leur vouloit livrer boys et ou- 
vriers, ih feroient quatre eschauffaulx et haulx que on meneroit 
aux murs du chastel, et seroient si haulz q'lz siirmonteroient les 
murs. Le due commanda q^lz lefeissent, et fst prendre tous les 
charpentiers du pays, et payer largement. Si furent faitt ces 
quatre eschauffaulx en quatre grosses nefz, mais on y mist longue- 
ment et cousterent grans deniers. Si y fist on les gens entrcr 
q'a ceulx du chastel devoient combatlre. Quant ilz eurcnt passe 
la moitie de la riviere, ceulx du chastel desclinquerent quatre mar- 
tinet! qHz avoient faitz nouvellement pour remcdier contre lesditz 
eschauffaulx. Ces quatre rnartinetz gettoient si grosses pierres et 
si souvent sur ses eschauffaulx qUz furent Men tost froissez tant 
que les gensdarmes et ceulx que les conduisoient ne se peurent de- 
dans garantir. Si se retirercnt arriere le plus tost quilz peurent. 
Et aingois q^lzf assent oultre la riviere lung des eschauffaulx fut 
enfondre aufons deleaue. — Froissart, I.ff. 82. 

Note 148, p. 46, col. 1. 6. moving tower the men of Orleans 

wheel. 

The following extract from the History of Edward III. by 
Joshua Barnes contains a full account of these moving towers. 
«' Now the earl of Darby had layn before Reule more than 



nine weeks, in which time he had made two vast belfroys or 
bastilles of massy timber, with three stages or floors ; each of 
the belfroys running on four huge wheels, bound about with 
thick hoops of iron ; and the sides and other parts that any 
ways respected the town were covered with raw hides, thick 
laid, to defend the engines from fire and shot. In every one of 
tliese stages were placed an hundred archers, and between the 
two bastilles, there were two hundred men with pickaxes and 
mattocks. From these six stages six hundred archers shot so 
fiercely all altogether, that no man could appear at his defence 
without a suflicient punishment : so that the belfroys being 
brought upon wheels by the strength of men over a part of the 
ditch, which was purposely made plain and level by the faggots 
and earth and stones cast upon them, the two hundred pioneers 
plyed their work so well under tiie protection of these engines, 
that they made a considerable breach through the walls of the 
town." 

Note 149, p. 46, col. 1. Archers, through the opening, shot 

their shafts. 

The archers and cross-bowmen from the upper stories in the 
movable towers essayed to drive away the garrison from the 
parapets, and on a proper opportunity to let fall a bridge, by 
that means to enter the town. In the bottom story was often 
a large ram. — Grose. 



Note 150, p. 46, col. 2. 



■ And from the arbalist the fire-tipt 
dart 
Shot burning through the sky. 

Against the movable tower there were many modes of 
defence. The cliief was to break up the ground over which it 
was to pass, or by undermining it to overthrow it. Attempts 
were likewise made to set it on fire, to prevent which it was 
covered with raw hides, or coated over with alum. — Grose. 



Note 151, p. 46, col. 2. — On the ramparts lowered from 
above 
The bridge reclines. 

These bridges are described by Eollin in the account of the 
moving towers which he gives from Vogetius : — " The moving 
towers are made of an assemblage of beams and strong planks, 
not unlike a house. To secure them against the fires thrown 
by the besieged, they are covered with raw hides, or with 
pieces of cloth made of hair. Their height is in proportion to 
their base. They are sometimes thirty feet square, and some- 
times forty or fifty. They are higher than the walls or even 
towers of the city. They are supported upon several wheels 
according to mechanic principles, by the means of which the 
machine is easily made to move, how great soever it may be. 
The town is in great danger if this tower can approach the 
walls ; for it has stairs from one story to another, and includes 
different methods of attack. At bottom it has a ram to batter 
the wall, and on the middle story a draw-bridge, made of two 
beams witli rails of basket-work, which lets down easily upon 
the wall of a city, when within the reach of it. The besiegers 
pass upon this bridge, to make themselves masters of the wall. 
Upon the higher stories are soldiers armed with partisans and 
missive weapons, who keep a perpetual discharge upon the 
works. When affairs are in this posture, a place seldom held 
out long. For what can they hope who have nothing to con- 
fide in but the height of their ramparts, when they see others 
suddenly appear which command them.'' " 

The towers or belfreys of modern times rarely exceeded 
three or four stages or stories. 



Note 152, p. 47, col. 1. 



the brass-winged darts 

Wliirl as they pierce the victim. 

These darts were called viretons, from their whirling about 
in the air. 

Note 153, p. 47, col. 1. — Corineus. 
" And here, with leave bespoken to recite a grand fable, 
though dignified by our best poets, while Brutus on a certain 
festival day, solemnly kept on that shore where he first landed, 
was with the people in great jollity and mirth, a crew of these 
savages breaking in among them, began on the sudden another 



80 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC 



sort of game than at such a meeting was expected. But at 
length by many hands overcome, Goemagog the hugest, in 
height twelve cubits, is reserved alive, that with him Corineus 
who desired nothing more, might try his strength; whom in 
a wrestle the giant catching aloft, with a terrible hugg broke 
three of his ribs : nevertheless Corineus enraged heaving him 
up by main force, and on his shoulders bearing him to the next 
high rock, threio him headlong all shattered into the sea, and left 
his name on the cliff, called ever since Langoemagog, which 
is to say, the giant's leap." — Milto7i''s Hist, of England. 

The expression brute vastness is taken from the same work 
of Milton, where he relates the death of Morindus. "Well 
fitted to such a beastial cruelty was his end ; for hearing of a 
huge monster that from the Irish sea infested the coast, and in 
the pride of his strength foolishly attempting to set manly 
valor against a brute vastness, when his weapons were all 
in vain, by that horrible mouth he was catched up and de- 
voured." 

Note 154, p. 47, col. 2. — This is a favor, 

" The tournelles adjoining to the bridge was kept by Gla- 
cidas (one of the most resolute captains among the English,) 
having well encouraged his men to defend themselves and to 
fight for their lives. 

" The skirmish begins at nine of the clock in the morning, 
and the ladders are planted. A storm of English arrows fails 
upon our men with such violence as they recoiled. ' How 
now ! ' saith the Virgin, ' have we begun so well to end so ill ? 
let us charge ! they are our own, seeing God is on our side ! ' 
so every one recovering his forces, flocks about the Virgin. 
The English double the storm upon the thickest of the troops. 
The Virgin fighting in the foremost ranks and encouraging 
her men to do well was shot through the arm with an arrow ; 
she, nothing amazed, takes the arrow in one hand and her 
sword in the other, ' This is a favor ! ' says she, ' let us go 
on I they cannot escape the hand of GOD ! ' " 

Chapelain has dilated this exclamation of the Maid into a 
(idiculous speech. 

Qiioy ! valeureux Guerriers, quoy ! dans vostre avantage 

Uii pen de sang perdu voiisfait perdre courage ! 

Pour moy,je le repute a supreme bonheur, 

Et dans ce petit malje trouve un grand honneur ; 

Le succes, bien qu^heureuz, ii'eust en rien dVionnoi-able, 

Si le Ciel n^eust permis un coup si favorable ; 

Vous n'en verrez pas mains vos bras victorieux, 

J^en verray seulement man nom plus glorieux. — L. III. 



Note 155, p. 47, col. 2. — Olacidas. 

I can make nothing English of this name. Monstrellet 
calls him Clacedas and Clasendas. Daniel says the principal 
leaders of the English were Suffolk, Talbot, Scales, Fastolffe, 
et un nomme Olacidas ou Clacidas, dont le inerite supplcant a 
la naissanne, Vavoit fait parvenir aux premieres charges de 
Varmee. 

The importance attached to a second name is well exempli- 
fied by an extract in Selden, relating to " the creation of 
Robert earle of Glocester natural sonne to king Henry I. The 
king having speech with Mabile the sole daughter and heire 
of Robert Fitz Hayman lord of Glocester, told her (as it is re- 
ported in an old English rithmical story attributed to one 
Robert of Glocester,) that 

— he seold his sone to her spousing avonge. 

This maid was ther agen, and withsaid it long. 

The king of sought her suithe ynou, so that atten ende 

Mabile him answered, as gode maide and hende, 

Syre, heo sede, well ichot, tliat your hert op me is, 

More vor mine eritage than vor my sulve iwis. 

So vair eritage as ich abbe, it were me grete shame, 

Vor to abbe an louerd, bote he had an tuoname. 

Sir Roberd le Fitz Haim my faders name was, 

And that ne might noght be his that of his kunne noght 

nas. 
Therefore, syre, vor Godes love, ne let me non mon owe. 
Bote he abbe an tuoname war thoru he be yknowe. 
Damaysale, quoth the king, thou seist well in this cas. 
Sir Roberd le Fitz Haim thy faders name was ; 
And as vayr name lie shall abbe, gif me him may byse 



Sir Roberd le Fitz Roy is name shall be. 

Sire, quoth this maid tho, that is vayr name 

As woo seith all his life and of great fame. 

Ac wat shold his sone bote thanne and other that of him come, 

Sone might hii bote noght thereof nameth gone. 

The king understood that the maid ne sede non outrage, 

And that Gloucestre was chief of byre eritage. 

Damaseile he syde tho, thi louerd shall abbe a name 

Vor him and vor his heirs vayr without blame. 

Vor Roberd earle of Gloucestre is name shall be and yis, 

Vor he shall be earle of Gloucestre and his heirs ywis. 

Sire, quoth this maid tho, well liketh me this, 

In this forme ichole that all my thyng be his. 

Thus was earle of Gloucestre first ymade there 

As this Roberd of all thulke that long byvore were, 

This was enleve hundred yeare, and in the ninth yeer right 

After that ure louerd was in his moder alygt." 

Seidell's Titles of Honor. 

Note 156, p. 48, col. 1. — Seeking the inner court. 
On entering the outer gate, the next part that presented 
itself was the outer ballium or bailey, separated from the inner 
ballium by a strong embattled wall and towered gate. 



Note 157, p. 48, col. 2. — T7ie engines shutcer'd their sheets of 
liquid fire. 

When the Black Prince attacked the castle of Romorantin, 
" there was slain hard by him an English esquire named Jacob 
Bernard, wliereat the prince was so displeased, that he took 
his most solemn oath, and svvare by his father's soul not to 
leave the siege, till he had the castle and all within at his 
mercy. Then the assault was renewed much hotter than ever, 
till at last the prince saw there was no likelihood of prevailing 
that way. Wherefore presently he gave order to raise certain 
engines, wherewith they cast combustible matter enflamed 
after the manner of wild fire into the base court so fast, and 
in such quantities, that at last the whole court seemed to be 
one huge fire. Whereupon the excessive heat prevailed so, 
that it took hold of tlie roof of a great tower, which was 
covered with reed, and so began to spread over all the castle. 
Now therefore when these valiant captains within saw, that 
of necessity they must either submit entirely to the prince's 
courtesy, or perish by the most merciless of elements, they 
all together came down and yielded themselves absolutely to 
his grace." — Joshua Barnes. 



Note 158, p. 49, col. 1. — T7ie orijiamme of death. 
The oriflamme was a standard erected to denote that no 
quarter would be given. It is said to have been of red silk, 
adorned and beaten with very broad and fair lilies of gold, and 
bordered about with gold and vermilion. Le Moyne has 
given it a suitable escort : 

Ensuite Poriflamme ardent et lumineuse, 
Marche sur un grand char, dont la forme est affreuse. 
Quatre enormes dragons d'un or ombre ecaillez, 
Et de pourpre, d'azur, et de vert emaillez, 
Dans quclque occasion que le besoin le parte, 
Luyfont une pompeuse et formidable escorte 
Uans leur ierribles yeux des grenas arrondis, 
De leur feu, de leur sang, font peur aux plus hardis, 
Et si cefeuparoist allumer leur audace, 
Aussi paroist ce sang animer leur menace, 
Le char roulant sous eux, il semble au roulement, 
QuHl lesfasse voler avecque sifflement ; 
Et de lapoudre, en Pair, il sefait desfumees 
A leur bouches du vent et du bruit animees. 
Philip is said by some historians to have erected the ori- 
flamme at Cressy, where Edward in return raised up his burn- 
ing dragon, the English signal for no quarter. The oriflamme 
was originally used only in wars against the Infidels, for it 
was a sacred banner, and believed to have been sent from 
Heaven. 

Note 159, p. 49, col. 2. — The toioer, the bridge, and all its 
multitudes. 
Sunk with a mighty crash. 
At this woman's voice amidst the sound of war, the combat 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



81 



grows very hot. Our men, greatly encouraged by the Virgin, 
run headlong to the bastion and force a point thereof j then 
fire and stones rain so violjntly, a« the English being amazed, 
forsake their defences : some arc si .in upon the place, some 
throw themselves down headlong, and fly to the tower upon 
the bridge. In the end this brave Glacidas abandons this 
quarter, and retires into the base couit upon the bridge, and 
after him a great number of his soldiers. The bridge gre;itly 
shaken with artillery, tryed by fire, and overch irged with the 
weight of this multitude, sinks into the water with a fearful 
cry, carrying all this multitude with it. — De Serves. 

This circumstance has been magnified into a miracle. 
" The French, for tiie most part, draw the institution of the 
order of St. Michael principally from a purpose that Charles 
had to make it, after the apparition of the archangel upon Or- 
leans bridge, as the tutchry angell of France assisting against 
the English in 1428." — ScWezi'^ Tales of Honor. 

The expressions are somewhat curious in the patent of this 
crdre de Monsieur St. Michael Arckange. Louis XI. insti- 
tuted it " d la n-loire et louange de Dicu nostrc createur tout 
puissant, et reverence de la glo7~ieuse vierge Marie, d Phonneur 
et reverence de St. Michael, premier chevalier, qui par la 
querelle de Dieu, battailc contre Vancien enemy de Vkumain 
lignage, et lejit tresbucher de del.'" 

Note ] 60, p. 49, col. 2. — the ascending flames 

Blaze up. 

Les dictes bastiles et fortresses furent prestemejit arses et de- 
molies jusques en terre, affin que nulles gens de guerre de qucl- 
conquc pays quili soient ne si peussent jilus loger. 

Monstrellet, II. f. 43. 



Note 161, p. 49, col. 



Silence itself icas dreadful. 



Un cry, que le besoin ou la pcur fait jctter, 
Et les airs agites les peuvent agiler. 
Une haleine, un sousper et mesne le silence 
. J2ux chefs, comme aux soldatc font perdre V assurance. 

Chapclain, L. ix. 

Note IG2, p. 50, col. 1. — . . . . the proud prelate, that blood- 
guilLy man, 
TVlio, trembling for the churches ill- 
got wealth. 
Bade our Fifth Henry claim the 
crown of France. 

But the first terrible Moid in England given generally to all 
Orders, was in the Lay Parliament, as it is called, which did 
wholly fVicclifize, kept in the twelfth year of king Henry the 
Fourth, wherein the JVobles and Commons assembled, signified 
to the King, that the temporal possessions ofjlhbots. Priors, Sec. 
lewdly spent within the Realm, would suffice to find and 
sustain 150 Earls, 1500 Knights, 6200 Esquires, 100 Hospitals, 
more than there were. But this motion was maul'd with the 
kiiig^s own hand, who dasli'd it, personnlly interposing Himself 
contrary to that character, which the jealous Clergy had con- 
ceived of Him, that coming to the Crown He would be a great 
enemy to the Church. But though Henry Plantagcnct Duke 
of Lancaster was no friend to the Clergie, percliance to ingra- 
tiate himself with the people, yet the same -ffe«)-(/ king of £H(r- 
land. His interest being altered, to strengthen Him with the 
considerable power of the Clergy, proved a Patron yea a 
Champion to defend them. However we may say, that now 
the Axe is laid to the root of the tree of Abbeys ; and tliis stroke 
for the present, though it was so far from hurting the body, that 
it scarce pierced the bark thereof, yet bare attempts in such 
matters are important, as putting into people^ s heads a fea- 
sibility of the project formerly conceived altogether imjiossible. 

Few years after, namely, in the second year of king Hairy 
the Fifth, another shrewd thrust was made at Enghsh Abbeys, 
but it was finely and cleverly put aside by that skilful State- 
Fencer Henry Chichesly Archbishop of Canterbury. For the 
former Bill acrainst Abbeys, in full Parliament was revived, 
when the Archbishop minded king Henry of his undoubted 
Title to the fair and flourishing kingdom of France. Hereat, 
that king who was a spark in Himself, was enflamed to that 
design by this Prelate's persuasion ; and his native courage 
11 



ran fiercely on the project, especially when clapt on with 
conscience and encouragement from a church-man in the law- 
fulness thereof. An undertaking of those vast dimensions, 
that the greatest covetousness might spread, and highest am- 
"bition reach itself within the bounds thereof. If to promote 
this project, the Abbeys advanced not only large and liberal, 
but vast and incredible sums of money, it is no wonder if they 
were contented to have their nails pared close to the quick 
thereby to save their fingers. Over goes king Henry into 
France, with many martial spirits attending him, so that put- 
ting the king upon the seeking of a new Crown, kept the Ab- 
bots' old Mitres upon their heads ; and Monasteries tottering 
at this timo, were (thank a politic Archbishop) refixed on the 
firm foundations, thougli this proved rat'ner a reprieve than a 
pardon unto them. -— Fidlcr''s Church History, B. 6, p. 302. 

The archbishop of Bourges explained to the king, in the 
hall of the bishop of Winchester, and in the presence of the 
dukes of Clarence, Bedford and Gloucester, brothers to the 
king, and of the lords of the council, clergy, chivalry and 
populace, the objects of his embassy. The archbishop spoke 
first in Latin, and then in the AValloon language, so eloquently 
and wisely, that both English and French who heard him 
were greatly surprised. At the conclusion of his harangue 
he made oflers to the king of a large sum of ready money on 
his marriage with the princess Catherine, but on condition 
that he would disband the army he had collected at Southamp- 
ton, and at the adjacent seaports, to invade France ; and that 
by these means an eternal peace would be established between 
the two kingdoms. 

The assembly broke up when the archbishop had ended his 
speech, and the French ambassadors were kindly entertained 
at dinner by the king, who then appointed a day for them to 
receive his answer to their propositions by the mouth of the 
archbishop of Canterbury. 

In the course of the archbishop's speech, in which be replied, 
article by article, to what the archbishop of Bourges had 
ofi'ered, he added to some and passed over others of them, so 
that he was sharply interrupted by the archbishop of Bourges, 
who exclaimed, " I did not say so, but such were my words." 
The conclusion, however, was, that unless the king of Franco 
would give, as a marriage-portion with his daughter, the 
duchies of Acquitaine, of A'ormandy, of Anjou, of Tours, the 
counties of Ponthieu, Maine and Poitou, and every other part 
that had formerly belonged to the English monarchs, the king 
would not desist from liis intended invasion of Franco, but 
would despoil tlie whole of that kingdom which had been un- 
justly detamed from him ; and that he should depend on his 
sword for the accomplishment of the above, and for depriving 
king Charles of his crown. 

The king avowed what the archbishop had said, and added, 
that tlius, with God's aid, he would act ; and promised it on 
the word of a king. The archbishop of Bourges then, accord- 
ing to the custom in France, demanded permission to speak, 
and said, " O king ! how canst thou, consistently with honor 
and justice, thus wish to detiirone and iniquitously destroy 
the most Christian king of the French, our very dear lord and 
most excellent of all the kings in Christendom ? O king ! with 
all due reverence and respect, dost thou think that he has 
offered by me such extent of territory, and so large a sum of 
money with his daughter in marriage, through any fear of thee, 
thy subjects or allies ? By no means ; but, moved by pity and 
his love of peace, he has made these ofl^ers to avoid the shedding 
of innocent blood, and that Christian people may not he over- 
whelmed in the miseries of war ; for whenever thou shalt 
make thy promised attempt he will call upon God, the blessed 
Virgin, and on all the saints, making his appeal to them for 
the justice of his cause ; and with their aid, and the support 
of his loyal subjects and faithful allies, thou wilt be driven 
out of his dominions, or thou wilt be made prisoner, or thou 
wilt there suffisr death by orders of that just king whose am- 
bassadors we are. 

" We have now only to intreat of thee that thou wouldst 
have us safely conducted out of thy realm ; and that thou 
wouldst write to our said king, under thy hand and seal, the 
answer which thou hast given to us." 

The king kindly granted their request ; and the ambassa- 
dors, having received handsome presents, returned by way of 
Dover to Calais and thence to Paris. 

Monstrelet, vol. iv. p. 129. 



82 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



Within a few days after the expiration of the truce, king 
Henry, whose preparations were now completed, sent one of 
his heralds, called Glocester, to Paris, to deliver letters to the 
king, of which the contents were as follows. 

"To the very noble prince Charles, our cousin and adver- 
sary of France, Henry, by the grace of God, king of England 
and of France. To give to every one what is their due, is a 
work of inspiration and wise council, very noble prince, our 
cousin and adversary. Tiic noble kingdoms of England and 
France were formerly united, now they are divided. At that 
time it was customary for each person to exalt his name by 
glorious victories, and by this single virtue to extol the honor 
of God, to whom holhiess l)e]ongs, and to give peace to his 
church, by subjecting in battle the enemies of the public weal ; 
but alas I good faith among kindred and brotherly love have 
been perverted, and Lot persecutes Abraham by human im- 
putation, and Dissention, the mother of Anger, has been 
raised from the dead. 

"We, however, appeal to the sovereign Judge, who is 
neither swayed by prayers nor gifts from doing right, that we 
have, from pure affection, done every thing in our power to 
preserve the peace 5 and we must now rely on the sword for 
regaining what is justly our heritage, and those rights which 
have from old time belonged to us ; and we feel such assurance 
in our courage, that we will fight till death in the cause of 
justice. 

" The written law in the book of Deuteronomy ordains, 
that before any person commences an attack on a city he shall 
first offer terms of peace ; and although violence has detained 
from us our rightful inheritances, charity, however, induces us 
to attempt, by fair means, their recovery; for should justice 
be denied us, we may then resort to arms 

" And to avoid having our conscience affected by this mat- 
ter, we make our personal request to you, and exhort you, by 
the bowels of Jesus Christ, to follow the dictates of his evan- 
gelical doctrine. Friend, restore what thou owest, for such 
is the will of God to prevent the effusion of the blood of man, 
who was created in his likeness. Such restitution of rights, 
cruelly torn from us, and which we have so frequently de- 
manded by our ambassadors, will be agreeable to the supreme 
God, and secure peace on earth. 

" From our love of peace we were inclined to refuse fifty 
thousand golden crowns lately offered us ; for being more 
desirous of peace than riches, we have preferred enjoying the, 
patrimony left us by our venerable ancestors, with our very 
dear cousin Catherine, your noble daughter, to iniquitously 
multiplying our treasures, and thus disgracing the honor of 
our crown, which God forbid ! 

" Given under our privy seal, in our castle of Southampton, 
the 5th day of the month of August." 

Monstrelet, vol. iv. p. 137. 

NoTR 163, p. 50, col. 1. — Sure that holy hermit spake 

The Mmlghtifs bidding. 

While Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an houest hermit 
unknown to him, came and told him the great evils he brought 
upon Christendom by his unjust ambition, who usurped the 
kingdom of France, against all manner of right, and contrary 
to the will of God; wherefore in his holy name he threatened 
him with a severe and sudden punishment, if he desisted not 
from his enterprise. Henry took this exhortation either as an 
idly whitnsey, or a suggestion of the Dauphin's, and was but 
the more confirmed in his design. But the blow soon followed 
the threatening; for within some few months after, he was 
smitten in the fundament with a strange and incurable disease. 

Meieray. 

Note 164, p. 50, col. 1. — they thought 

The spirits of the mothers and their babes 
Famish''d at Roan sat on the clouds of 
night. 

■ Reseraverat antrum 

Tartareus Rector pallens, utque arma nefanda 
Spectarent, caperentque sui solatia fati, 
Invisas illuc Libyes emiserat umbras ; 
Undique cnnsedere arvis, nigr&que corontt, 
Injecire diem, versatilis umbra Jugurthce, 



Annibalis scBvi Manes, captique Syphacis^ -' 

Q,ai nunc cversas secum Carthaginis arces 
Jgnovere Deis, postquam feralia campi 
Prcelia Thapsiaci, et Laiios videre furores. 

Supplementum Lucani, Lib. HI. 
I am not conscious of having imitated these lines ; but 1 
would not lose the opportunity of quoting so fine a passage 
from Thomas May, an author to whom I owe some obligations, 
and who is not remembered as his merits deserve. May him- 
self has imitated Valerius Flaccus in this passage, though he 
has greatly surpassed him. 

Et pater orattes ccesorum Tartarus umbras, 
J^ube cava, tandem ad meritce spectacula pugnce 
Einittit ; summi nigrescunt cuLmina montis. 



Note 165, p. 50, col. 1 — nor aught avails 

Manunassisted Against infernal powers 
To dare the conjiict. 

To some, says Speed, it may appear more honorable to our 
nation, that they were not to be expelled by a human power, 
but by a divine, extraordinarily revealing itself. 



Note 166, p. 50, col. 2. — By their numbers now made bold in 
fear. 
JSTecpavidum murmur; consensu audacia c.revit, 
Tantaque turba metu pcenarum solvit ab omni. 

May, Sup. Lucani. 



Note 167, p. 50, col. 2. — Joy ran through all the troops. 

In Rymer's Foedera are two proclamations, one " contra 
capitaneos et soldarios ter givers antes, incantationibus Puellm 
terrificatos i" the other, '^ defugitivis ab exercitu quos terri- 
culamenta Puellce exanimavcrant, arcstandis.^' 



Note 168, p. 50, col. 2.— The social bowl. 
Ronsard remarks, 

Rien n^est meilleur pour Vhomme soulager 

Apres le mal, que le boire et manger. — Franciado. 



Note 169, p. 51, col. 2 — Ji casquetel. 
A lighter kind of helmet. 



Note 170, p. 51, col. 2. — Hung from her neck the shield. 

The shield was often worn thus. " Among the Frenchmen 
there was a young lusty esquire of Gascoigne, named William 
Marchant, who came out among the foremost into the field, 
well mounted, his shield about his neck, and his spear in his 
hand." — Barnes. 

This is frequently alluded to in romance. " Then the knight 
of the burning sword stept forward, and lifting up his arm as 
if he would strike Cynocephal on the top of his head, seized 
with his left hand on the shield, which he pulled to him with 
so much strength, that plucking it from his neck he brought 
him to the ground." — Amadis de Greece. 

Sometimes the shield was laced to the shoulder. 
The shield of the middle ages must not be confounded with 
that of the ancients. The knight might easily bear his small 
shield around his neck ; but the Grecian warrior stood pro- 
tecting his thighs and his legs, his breast also and his shoulders 
with the body of his broad shield. 

Mripovg re Kvriixag re kuto) Km arspva Kai co/iovi 
AaniSos evpeirjs yaarpi KaXvipancvos. — Tyrtceus. 
But the most convenient shields were used by — 
Ce2ix qu^on voit demeurer dans les lies Alandes, 
Qui portent pour pavois, des escailles si grandes. 
Que lors quHlfaut camper, le soldat qui s^en sert 
En fait comme une hutte, et s^y met d convert, — Alaric. 

Note 171, p. 52, col. 1. 4n annet. 

The armet or chapelle de fer was an iron hat, occasionally 
put on by knights when they retired from the heat of the 
battle to take breath, and at times when they could not with 
propriety go unarmed. 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



83 



Note 172, p. 53, col. 1. — Flz^d their last kisses on their armed 
hands. 
Scd contra (Enotria pubes 
JVon ullas voces ducis aut prccccpta requirit. 
Sat matres stimulant, natiqae, et cara supinas 
Tendentum palmas lacrimantiaquc ora parentum. 
Ostentant parvos, vagitaque incita pulsant 
Corda viriim, armatis injigunt oscula dcztris. 

Sdius Italicus, xii. 587. 



Note 173, p. 54, col, 2. — He brake a sullen smile. 

" She sternly shook her dewy locks, and brake 
A melanclioly smile." — Qaarles. 



Note 174, p. 55, col. 1. — then on the herald 

Ji robe rich-furred and broidcr^d he bestow''d. 

When the armies of England and France lay in the plain 
between Vironfosse and Flemenguere, 1339, Edward sent to 
demand a day of battle of the French king. " An herald of 
the duke of Gueldres, being well skilled in tiie French tongue, 
was sent on this errand : he rode forth till he came to the 
French host, where being admitted before the king and his 
council, he spake aloud these words, 'Sir, the king of England 
is here hard by in the fields, and desires to fight you power 
against power ; and if you please to appoint him a day he will 
not tail to meet you upon the word of a king.' This message 
being thus delivered, king Philip yielded cither to give or 
take battle two days after, and in token of his acceptance of 
the news, richly rewarded the herald wilh furred gowns, and 
other gifts bestowed on him, as well by himself as others, the 
princes and lords of his host, and so dismissed him again." — 
Barnes, 

Note 175, p. 55, col. 1. — and at the third long sound 

Thcij ranged them in their ranks. 

Every man was warned to rise from sleep at the first sound 
of the trumpet ; at the second to arm without delay, and at 
the third to take horse in his due place under the colors. — 
Barnes. 

Note 176, p. 55, col. 1. — To shrive them. 

Religious ceremonies seem to have preceded all settled en- 
gagements at this period. On the night before the battle of 
Cressy, " King Edward made a supper in his royal pavilion for 
all his chief barons, lords and captains : at which he appeared 
wonderful chearful and pleasant, to the great encour;igement 
of his people. But when they were all dismissed to their 
several quarters, the king himself retired into his private ora- 
tory, and came before the altar, and there prostrated himself 
to almighty God and devoutly prayed, 'That of his infinite 
goodness he would vouchsafe to look down on the justice of 
his cause, and remember his unfeigned endeavors for a recon- 
cilement, although they had all been rendered frustrate by his 
enemies : that if he should be brought to a battle the next day, 
it would please him of his great mercy to grant him the vic- 
tory, as his trust was only in him, and in the right which he 
l;ad given him.' Being thus armed with faith, about midnight 
he laid himself upon a pallet or mattress to take a little re- 
pose ; but he arose again betimes and heard mass, with his 
son the young prince, and received absolution, and the body 
and blood of his Redeemer, as did the prince also, and most 
of the lords and others who were so disposed." — Barnes. 

Thus also before the battle of Agincourt " after prayers and 
supplications of the king, his priests and people, done with 
great devotion, the king of England in the morning very early 
Bet forth his hosts in array." — Stowe. 



Note 177, p. 55, col. 1. — The shield of dignity. 

The roundel. A shield too weak for service, which was 
borne before the general of an army. 



Note 178, p. 55, col. 1. — that in undiminished strength 

Strong, they might meet the battle. 

The conduct of the English on the morning of the battle of 
Cressy is followed in the text. " All things being thus order- 
ed, every lord and captain under his own banner and pennon, 



and the ranks duly settled, the valourous young king mounted 
on a lusty white hobby, and with a white wand in his hand, 
rode between his two marshalls from rank to rank, and from 
one battalia unto another, exhorting and encouraging every 
man that day to defend and maintain his rigiit and honour : and 
this he did with so chearful a countenance, and wilh such 
sweet and obliging words, that even the most faint-hearted 
of the army were sufficiently assured thereby. By that time 
the English were thus prepared, it was nine o'clock in the 
morning, and then the king commanded them all to take their 
refreshment of meat and drink, which being done, with small 
disturbance they all repaired to tixeir colours again, and then 
laid themselves in their order upon the dry and warm grass, 
with their bows and helmets by their side, to be more fresh 
and vigorous upon the approach of the enemy." — Barnes. 

The English before the battle of Agincourt " fell prostrate 
to the ground, and committed themselves to God, every of 
them tooke in his mouth a little piece of earth, in remem- 
brance that they were mortall and made of earth, as also in 
remembrance of the holy communion." — Stowe. 

Note 179, p. 55, col. 2. — Tlie pennons rolling their long waves 
Before the gale, and banners broad and bright. 

The pennon was long, ending in two points, the banner 
stiuare. " Un seigneur nectoit banneret ct ne pouvoit porter la 
baanicre quarrce, que lors quUl pouvoit entrctenir a ses depais 
un certain nonibre de chevaliers et dTxuyers, avec leur suite a 
la guerre .- jusques-la son etendard avoit deux queues oufanons, 
et quand it devenoit plus puissant, son souverain coupoit lui- 
mcme les fanons de sou etendard, pour le rendre quarrc." — 
Tressan. 

An incident before the battle of Najara exemplifies this. 
" As the two armies approached near together, the prince 
went over a little hill, in the descending whereof he saw 
plainly his enemies marching toward him : wherefore when 
the whole army was come over this mountain, he commanded 
that there they should make an halt, and so fit themselves for 
fight. At that instant the lord John Chandos brought his 
ensign folded up, and ofl:ered it to the prince, saying, ' Sir, 
here is my guidon ; I request your highness to display it 
abroad, and to give me leave to raise it this day as my banner ; 
for 1 thank God and your highness, I have lands and posses- 
sions sufficient to maintain it withall.' Then tiie prince took 
the pennon, and iiaving cut oflTtiie tail, made it a S(]uare ban- 
ner, and this done, both he and king Don Pedro for the greater " 
honour, holding it between their hands displayed it abroad, it 
being Or, a sharp pile Gules : and then the prince delivered 
it unto tiie lord Chandos again, saying, ' Sir John, behold liere 
is your banner. God send you much joy and honour with it.' 
And thus being made a knight banneret, the lord Chandos 
returned to the head of his men, and said, ' Here, gentlemen, 
behold my banner and yours 1 Take and keep it, to your 
honour and mine ! ' And so tliey took it with a shout, and 
said by the grace of God and St. George they would defend 
it to the best of their powers. But the banner remained in 
the hands of a gallant English esquire named William Alles- 
try, who bore it all that day, and acquitted himself in the ser- 
vice right honourably." — Barnes, 



Note 180, p. 55, col. 2. — Vidames. 

This title frequently occurs in the French Chronicles ; it 
was peculiar to France, " the vidame or vicedominus being to 
the bishop in his temporals as the vicecomes or vicount an- 
ciently to the earle, in his judicials." — Peter Heyhjn. 



Note 181, p. 55, col. 2. — And silken surcoais to the mid-day 
sun 
Olitlering. 

Joshua Barnes seems to have been greatly impressed with 
the splendor of such a spectacle. "It was a glorious and 
ravishing sight, no doubt," says he, " to behold these two 
armies standing thus regularly embattled in the field, their 
banners and standards waving in the wind, their proud horses 
barded, and kings, lords, knights, and esquires richly armed, 
and all shining in their surcoats of satin and embroidery.'* 

Thus also at Poictiers, " there you might have beheld a moat 



84 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



beautiful sight of fair harness, of shining steel, feathered 
crests of glittering helmets, and the rich embroidery of silken 
surcoats of arms, together with golden standards, banners and 
pennons gloriously moving in the air." 

And at Na>jara " the sun being now risen, it was a ravishing 
sight to behold the armies, and the sun reflecting from their 
bright steel and shining armour. For in those days the cav- 
ahy were generally armed in mail or polished steel at all 
points, and besides that, the nobility wore over their armour 
rich surcoats of silk and satin embroidery, whereon was curi- 
ously sticht or beaten, the arms of their house, whether in 
colour or metal." 



Note 182, p. 55, col. 2. 



For not to brutal strength they 

deemed it right 
To trust their country's weal. 

JVos ancestres, etnotamment du temps de la guerre des Anglois, 
en combats solcmnels etjournees assignees, se mettoient la phis- 
part du temp tons d pied ; pour ne se fier d autre chose qu'd 
leur force propre et vigueur de leur courage et de leur memhres, 
de chose si chere que Vhonneur et la vie. — Montaigne, Liv. i. 
C.48. 

In the battle of Patay, Monstrellet says, " les Frangois 
■moult de pres mirent pied d terre, et descendlrent la plus grand 
partie de leur chevaulx.'" 

In El Cavallero Dcterminado, an allegorical romance trans- 
lated from the French of Olivier de la Marche by Hernando 
de Acuna, Barcelona, 1565, this custom is referred to by Un- 
derstanding, when giving the knight directions for his combat 
with Atropoa. 

En esto es mi parecer 

Que en cavallo no tejies ; 
For lo qual has de entender 

Que de ninguno confies 
Tu lymosna y Men hater. 



Note 183, p. 55, col. 2. — Their javelins shorten'd to a wieldy 
length. 

Thus at Poictiers, " the three battails being all ready ranged 
in the field, and every lord in his due place under his own 
banner, command was given that all men should put off their 
spurs, and cut their spears to five foot length, as most com- 
modious for such who had left their horses." — Barnes. 



had on his chafron a long sharp pike of Steele, and as the two 
champions coaped together, the same horse thrust his pike 
into the nostrills of the bastard's horse, so that for verypaine, 
he mounted so high that he fell on the one side with his mas- 
ter." — Stowe. 

This weapon is mentioned by Lope de Vega, and by an old i 
Scotch poet. 

Unicomia el cavallo parecia 

Con elfaerte pyramide delante, 
Que en medio del hogal resplandecia 
Como sifuera punta de diamante. 

Jerusalen Conquistada, 1. 10. 

His horse in fyne sandel was trapped to the hele, 
And, in his cheveron biforne, 
Stode, as an unicorne, 

Als sharp as a thorne, ' 

An aulas of stele. 

Sir Qawan and Sir Oalaron. 

Florisel found this part of his horse's armour of good ser- 
vice, when in the combat of eighteen against eighteen, he en- 
countered the king of the Scythians, geant demesure ; il che- 
vauchoit un grand animal de sonpays, duquel nous ne sgavons 
le nom : aussi etoit-il tant corpulent et memhru, qu''on n^eust 
sgeu fournir roussin qui Veustpeu porter. The first encounter 
fut tres belle jouste d voir, et aujoindre des corps mourut treize ^ 
chevaux, compris V animal du Roy de Scythie, qui fut si lour de- 
ment recontre par le destrier de Florisel, portant bardes de fcr, 
et line poincte aceree sur le chanfrain qu'ilfourra si avantparmy 
lesjlanci de ceste grosse beste, quHl atterrace avec les autrcs, et 
lajambe de son maistre dessouz. — Jlmadis, L. x. ff. 51, 52. 

The Abyssinians use it at this day ; Bruce says it is a very 
troublesome useless piece of their armor. 



Note 184, p. 56, col. 1. 

HrcBsvelger vacatur 

Qui sedet in extremitate cceli, 

Gigas exuvias amictus aquilce : 

Ex ejus alis 

Ferunt venire ventum 

Omnes super homines. — Vafthrudnismal. 

Where the Heaven's remotest bound 
With darkness is encompassed round, 
There Hrtesvelger sits and swings 
The tempest from his eagle wings. 
Tlic Edda of Scemund, translated by Amos Cottle. 

Among the idols of Aitutaki, (one of the Hervey Islands,) 
sent home among other trophies of the same kind to the Mis- 
sionary Museum, is the God of Thunder, Taau. The natives 
used to believe that when Taau was flying abroad, Thunder 
was produced by the flapping of his wings. — Williams's Mis- 
sionary Entciprises in the South Sea Islands, p. 109. 

At the promontory of Malea on the ruins of the Temple of 
Apollo, there is a chapel built to the honor of Michael the 
archangel. Here we could not but laugh at the foolish super- 
stition of the sailors, who say, when the wind blows from that 
place, that it is occasioned by the violent motion of Michael's 
wings, because forsooth, he is painted with wings. And for 
that reason, when they sail by Michael they pray to him that 
he may hold his wings still. — Baumgarten. 



Note 185, p. 56, col. 1. —Or with the lance protended from his 
front. 

In a combat fought in Smithfield, 1467, between the lord 
Scales and the bastard of Burgoyne, "the lord Scales' horse 



Note 186, p. 56, col. 2 To snatch the shield of death. 

Thus did Juba catch up the shield of death to defend him- 
self from ignominy. — Cleopatra. 



Note 187, p. 56, col. 2. — Tlieir tower of strength. 
Slairep yap /xiv nvpyov ev o(j)Oa'\ixoiaiv opoyaiv.— Tyrtceus. 

Quarles has made this expression somewhat ludicrous by 
calling Samson 

Great army of men, the wonder of whose power 
Gives thee the title of a walking tower. 



Note 188, p. 57, col. 1. 



.... and when the boar's head . 
Smoked on the Christmas board. 



Two carols for this occasion are preserved in Mr. Ritson's 
valuable collection of Ancient Songs. The first of these, here 
alluded to, is as follows : 

Caput apri defero 
Reddens laudes domino. 

The bore's heed in hand bring I 
With garlands gay and rosemary, 
I pray you all synge merely 
Qui estis in convivio. 

The bore's heed I understande 
Is the chefe servyce in this lande, 
Loke where ever it be fande 
Servite cum cantico. 

Be gladde lordes bothe more and lasse 
For this nath ordeyned our stewarde, 
To chere you all this christmasse 
The bore's heed with mustarde. 

When Henry II. had his eldest son crowned as fellow with 
him in the kingdom, upon the day of coronation, king Henry, 
the father, served his son at the table as sewer, bringing up 
the bore's head with trumpets before it, according to the man 
ner j whereupon (according to the old adage, 

Immutant mores homines cum dantur honores) 

the young man conceiving a pride in his heart, beheld the 
standers-by with a more stately countenance than he had been ^ 
wont. The archbishop of York who sat by him, marking big 



NOTES TO JOAN OF ARC. 



85 



behaviour, turiiod unto liiui and said, " Bo glad, my good son, 
there is not another prince in the world tiiat liath such a sewer 
at his t;ible." To this tlio new king answered as it were dis- 
dainfully thus : " Why doest thou marvel at that ? my father 
in doing it Ihinketh it not more than becometh him, he being 
born of princely blood only on the mother's side, serveth me 
that am a king born, having both a king to my father and a 
queen to my mother." Thus the young man of an evil and 
perverse nature, was puffed up in pride by his father's unseemly 
doings. 

But the king his father hearing his talk was very sorrowful 
in his mind, and said to the arclibishop softly in his ear, " It 
repenteth me, it repenteth me, my lord, that I have thus ad- 
vanced the boy." For ho guessed hereby what a one he would 
prove afterward, that shewed himself so disobedient and for- 
ward already. — Jloliiishcd. 

Note 189, p. 57, col. 1. — his old limhs 

Jire not like youm so supple in the flight. 

Tovs Sc jraXaiOTcpovg, (liv ovketi yovvar' £Xa<ppa, 
Mr] KaraXenToi/Tei (l>tvycTt tovs } epaiovi. 

AiaxQov yiip 6rj tovto jiera vrponaxoKri- ncTOvra, 
Keiadai irpoade veoiv avSpa naXapoTcpov, 

nSn XcvKOV exovra Kupr], noXiov re yivtiov, 

Qvp.ov aiTOTTveiovT' aXKipov ev Kovirj. — TyrtceiLS. 



Note 190, p. 57, col. 2. — He from the saddle-low his falchion 
caught. 

In the combat between Francus and Phouerc, Ronsard says — 

— de la main leurs coutclas trouvercnt 
Bicn aiguisez qui de Pardon pendoyent. 
On this passage the commentator observes, " Vautheur arme 
ees deux chevaliers d la mode de nos gendarmes Fran(^oL>; la 
lance en la main^ la coutelace ou la mace d Pardon, et Pespe eau 
caste. 
Thus Desmarests says of the troops of Clovis — 

A tous pend de P argon, d leur mode guerrierre, 
Et la hache tranchante, et la masse meurtriere. 

And when Clovis, on foot and without a weapon, hears the 
shrieks of a woman, he sees his horse, 

Jette Pail s^ir Pargon, et void luire sa hache. 

Lope de Vega speaks of the sword being carried in the same 
manner, when he describes Don Juan do Aguila as — 
desatando del argon la espada. 



Note 191, p. 57, col. 2. — , 



. . . she bared 
The lightning of her sword. 



Desnudo el rayo de la ardiente espada. 

Jerusalen Conquistada. 

Note 192, p. 57, col. 2. — The sword of Talbot. 

Talbot's sword, says Camden, was found in the river of Dor- 
don, and sold by a peasant to an armorer of Bourdeaux, with 
this incription. 

Sum Talboti, M. Till. C. XLIII. 
Pro vincere inimicos meos. 

But pardon the Latin, for it was not his, but his camping 
chaplain's. — A sword with bad Latin upon it, but good steel 
within it, says Fuller. 

It was not uncommon to bear a motto upon the sword. 
Lope de Vega describes that of Aguilar as bearing inlaid in 
gold, a verse of the psalms. It was, he says, 

Masfamosa quefue de hombre cenida, 
Para ocasiones del honor guardada, 

Y en ultima defensa de la vida, 
Y desde cuya guarnicion dorada 

Hasta la punta la canal brunida 



Tenia cscrito de David un verso. 
JVielado de oro en el azcro terso. 

Jerusalen Conquistada. 

Note 193, p. 57, col. 2. — Fastulffe, all fierce and haughty as 
he was. 

In the Paston letters, published by BIr. Fenn, Fastolffe ap- 
pears in a very unfavorable liglit. Henry AVindsor writes 
thus of him, " hit is not unknown that cruelle and vengible he 
hath byn ever, and for the most part with oute pite and mercy 
I can no more, but vade et corripe earn, for truly he cannot 
bryng about his matiers in this word (world) for the word is 
not for him. I supi)ose it wolnot chaunge yett be likelenes, 
but i beseche you sir help not to amend hym onely, but every 
other man yf ye kno any mo mysse disposed." 

The order of the garter was taken from Fastolffe for his 
conduct at Patay. He suffered a more material loss in the 
money he expended in the service of the state. In 1453, 
4083/. 15. 7. were due to him for costs and charges during his 
services in France, " whereof the sayd Fastolffe hath had 
nouther payement nor assignation." So he complains. 



Note 104, p. 57 , col. 2. — Battle-axe. 

In a battle between the Burgundians and Dauphinois near 
Abl)evillo (1421) jMonstrellet especially notices the conduct 
of John Villain, who had that day been made a knighl. He 
was a nobleman from Flanders, very tail, and of great bodily 
strength, and was mounted on a good horse, holding a battle- 
axe in both hands Thus he puslied into the thickest part of 
the battle, and throwing the bridle on his horse's neck, gave 
such blows on all sides with his battle-axe, that whoever was 
struck was instantly unhorsed and wounded past recovery. 
In this way he met Poton de Xaintrailles, who, after the 
battle was over, declared the wonders he did, and that he got 
out of his reach as fast as he could. — Vol. v. p. 294. 



Note 195, p. 58, col. 1. — The buckler, now splintered with many 
a stroke. 

Uccu dcs chevaliers etait ordinairement un bouclier de forme 
d peu pres triangulaire, large par le haut pour couvrir le corps, 
et se terminant en pointe par le bas, afin d^itre mains lourd. On 
Ics faisait de bois qiPon recouvrait avcc du cuir bouilli, avec des 
nerfs ou autrcs matiercs dures, mais jamais de fer ou d^acier. 
Seulciucnt il etait permis, pour les empdchcr d^ctre coupes trap 
aiscment par les epces, cPy mettre un cercle d^or, d^argent, ou 
defer, qui les entourdt. — Le Grand. 



Note 196, p. 53, col. 2. — Threw o^er the slaughtered chief his 
blazon'd coat. 

This fact is mentioned in Andrews's History of England. 
I have merely versified the original expressions. " The herald 
of Talbot sought out his body among the slain. ' Alas, my 
lord, and is it you ! I pray God pardon you all your misdoings. 
I have been your officer of arms forty years and more : it is 
time that I should surrender to you the ensigns of my office.' 
Thus saying, with the tears gushing from his eyes, he threw 
his coat of arms over the corpse, thus performing one of tho 
ancient rites of sepulture." 



Note 197, p. 59, col. 1. — Poured on the monarcWs head the 
mystic oil. 
" The Frenchmen wonderfully reverence this oyle ; and at 
the coronation of their kings, fetch it from the church where 
it is kept, -with great solemnity. For it is brought (saith 
Sleiden in his Commentaries) by the prior sitting on a white 
ambling palfrey, and attended by his monkes ; the archbishop 
of the town (Rheims) and such bishops as are present, going 
to the church door to meet it, and leaving for it with the 
prior some gage, and the king, when it is by the archbishop 
brought to the altar, bowing himself before it with great 
reverence." — Peter Heylyn. 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



m)t Tluiou of t^t JMaitf of ©trUatis. 



In the first edition of Joan of Arc this Vision 
formed the ninth book, allegorical machinery 
having been introduced throughout the poem 
as originally written. All that remained of 
such machinery was expunged in the second 
edition, and the Vision was then struck out, as 
no longer according with the general design. 



THE FIRST BOOK. 

Orleans was hush'd in sleep. Stretch'd on her 

couch 
The delegated Maiden lay; with toil 
Exhausted, and sore anguish, soon she closed 
Her heavy eyelids ; not reposing then, 
For busy phantasy in other scenes 
Awaken'd : whether that superior powers, 
By wise permission, prompt the midnight dream, 
Instructing best the passive faculty ; ^ 
Or that the soul, escaped its fleshly clog, 
Flies free, and soars amid the invisible world, 
And all things are that seem.^ 

Along a moor, 
Barren, and wide, and drear, and desolate. 
She roam'd, a wanderer through the cheerless night. 
Far through the silence of the unbroken plain 
The bittern's boom was heard ; hoarse, heavy, deep. 
It made accordant music to the scene. 
Black clouds, driven fast before the stormy wind, 
Bwept shadowing ; through their broken folds the 

moon 
Struggled at times with transitory ray, 
And made the moving darkness visible. 
And now arrived beside a fenny lake 
She stands, amid whose stagnate waters, hoarse 
The long reeds rustled to the gale of night. 
A time-worn bark receives the Maid, impell'd 
By powers unseen ; then did the moon display 
Where through the crazy vessel's yawning side 
The muddy waters oozed. A Woman guides. 
And spreads the sailbefore the wind, which moan' d 
As melancholy mournful to her ear. 
As ever by a dungeon'd wretch was heard 
Howling at evening round his prison towers. 
Wan was the pilot's countenance, her eyes 
Hollow, and her sunk cheeks were furrow'd deep, 
Channell'd by tears ; a few gray locks hung down 
Beneath her hood ; and through the Maiden's veins 
Chill crept the blood, when, as the night-breeze 

pass'd. 
Lifting her tatter'd mantle, coil'd around 
She saw a serpent gnawing at her heart. 



The plumelessbats with short, shrill note flit by, 
And the night-raven's scream came fitfully, 
Borne on the hollow blast. Eager the Maid 
Look'd to the shore, and now upun the bank 
Leapt, joyful to escape, yet trembling still 
In recollection. 

There, a mouldering pile 
Stretch'd its wide ruins, o'er the plain below 
Casting a gloomy shade, save where the moon 
Shone through its fretted windows : the dark yew, 
Withering with age, branch'd there its naked roots, 
And there the melancholy cypress rear'd 
Its head ; the earth was heaved with many a mound, 
And here and there a half-demolish' d tomb. 

And now, amid the ruin's darkest shade, 
The Virgin's eye beheld where pale blue flames 
Rose wavering, now just gleaming from the earth, 
And now in darkness drown 'd. An aged man 
Sate near, seated on what in long-past days 
Had been some sculptured monument, now fallen 
And half-obscured by moss, and gather'd heaps 
Of wither 'd yew-leaves and earth-mouldering bones. 
His eye was large and ray less, and fix'd full 
Upon the Maid ; the tomb-fires on his face 
Shed a blue light; his face was of the hue 
Of death ; his limbs were mantled in a shroud. 
Then with a deep heart-terrifying voice, 
Exclaim'd the spectre ; ^' Welcome to these realms. 
These regions of Despair, O thou whose steps 
Sorrow hath guided to my sad abodes ! 
Welcome to my drear empire, to this gloom 
Eternal, to this everlasting night. 
Where never morning darts the enlivening ray, 
Where never shines the sun, but all is dark, 
Dark as the bosom of their gloomy King." 

So saying, he arose, and drawing on. 
Her to the abbey's inner ruin led. 
Resisting not his guidance. Through the roof ^ 
Once fretted and emblazed, but broken now 
In part, elsewhere all open to the sky. 
The moon-beams enter'd, checker'd here, and here 
With unimpeded light. The ivy twined 
R,ound the dismantled columns; imaged forms 
Of saints and warlike chiefs, moss-canker'd now 
And mutilate, lay strown upon the ground. 
With crumbled fragments, crucifixes fallen, 
And rusted trophies. Meantime overhead 
Roar'd the loud blast, and from the tower the owl 
Scream'd as the tempest shook her secret nest. 
He, silent, led her on, and often paused. 
And pointed, that her eye might contemplate 
At leisure the drear scene. 

He dragg'd Jier on 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



87 



Through a low iron door, down broken stairs ; 
Then a cold horror through the Maiden's frame 
Crept, for she stood amid a vault, and saw. 
By the sepulchral lamp's dim, glaring light, 
The fragments of the dead. 

" Look here ! " he cried, 
" Damsel, look here ! survey this house of death ; 
O, soon to tenant it ; soon to increase 
These trophies of mortality — for hence 
Is no return. Gaze here ; behold this skull, 
These eyeless sockets, and these unflesh'd jaws. 
That with their ghastly grinning seem to mock 
Thy perishable charms ; for thus thy cheek 
Must moulder. Childof grief ! shrinks not thy soul, 
Viewing these horrors ? trembles not thy heart 
At the dread thought that here its life's-blood soon 
Shall stagnate, and the finely-fibred frame. 
Now warm in life and feeling, mingle soon 
With the cold clod.? thing horrible to think, — 
Yet in thought only, for reality 
Is none of suffering here ; here all is peace ; 
No nerve will throb to anguish in the grave. 
Dreadful it is to think of losing life. 
But having lost, knowledge of loss is not. 
Therefore no ill. Oh, wherefore then delay 
To end all ills at once .'' " 

So spake Despair. 
The vaulted roof echoed his hollow voice. 
And all again was silence. Quick her heart 
Panted. He placed a dagger in her hand. 
And cried again, " Oh, wherefore then delay ! 
One blow, and rest forever ! " On the fiend 
Dark scowl'd the Virgin with indignant eye, 
And threw tlie dagger down. He next his heart 
Replaced the murderous steel, and drew the Maid 
Along the downward vault. 

The damp earth gave 
A dim sound as they pass'd : the tainted air 
Was cold, and heavy with unwholesome dews. 
" Behold ! " the fiend exclaim'd, " how loathsomely 
The fleshly remnant of mortality 
Moulders to clay! " then fixing his broad eye 
Full on her face, he pointed where a corpse 
Lay livid; she beheld with horrent look 
The spectacle abhorr'd by living man. 

" Look here ! " Despair pursued ; " this loathsome 
mass 
Was once as lovely, and as full of life 
As, Damsel, thou art now. Those deep-sunk eyes 
Once beam'd the mild light of intelligence, 
And where thou seestthe pamper' d flesh- worm trail, 
Once the white bosom heaved. She fondly thought 
That at the hallow'd altar, soon the priest 
Should bless her coming union, and the torch 
Its joyful lustre o'er the hall of joy, 
Cast on her nuptial evening : earth to earth 
That priest consigned her, for her lover went 
By glory lured to w^ar, and perish'd there ; 
Nor she endured to live. Ha ! fades thy cheek.'' 
Dost thou then. Maiden, tremble at the tale ? 
Look here ! behold the youthful paramour ! 
The self-devoted hero I " 

Fearfully [face 



Of Theodore. In thoughts unspeakable. 
Convulsed with horror, o'er her face she clasp'd 
Her cold, damp hands. " Shrink not," the phantom 

cried ; 
" Gaze on ! " and unrelentingly he grasp'd 
Her quivering arm : " this lifeless, mouldering claj', 
As well thou know'st, was warm with all the glow 
Of youth and love ; this is the hand that cleft 
Proud Salisbury's crest, now motionless in death, 
Unable to protect the ravaged frame 
From the foul offspring of mortality 
That feed on heroes. Though long years were thine, 
Yet never more would life reanimate 
This slaughter'd youth; slaughter'd for thee! for 

thou 
Didst lead him to the battle from his home. 
Where else he had survived to good old age : 
In thy defence he died : strike then ! destroy 
Remorse with life." 

The Maid stood motionless, 
And, wistless what she did, with trembling hand 
Received the dagger. Starting then, she cried, 
" Avaunt, Despair ! Eternal Wisdom deals 
Or peace to man, or misery, for his good 
Alike design'd ; and shall the creature cry, 
' Why hast thou done this ? ' and with impious pride 
Destroy the life God gave ? " 

The fiend rejoin'd, 
" And thou dost deem it impious to destroy 
The life God gave ? What, Maiden, is the lot 
Assign'd to mortal man ? born but to drag. 
Through life's long pilgrimage, the wearying load 
Of being; care-corroded at the heart; 
Assail'd by all the numerous train of ills 
That flesh inherits ; till at length worn out, 
This is his consummation ! — Think again! 
What, Maiden, canst thou hope from lengthen'd life. 
But lengthen'd sorrow ? If protracted long. 
Till on the bed of death thy feeble limbs 
Stretch out their languid length, oh, think what 

thoughts. 
What agonizing feelings, in that hour. 
Assail the sinking heart ! slow beats the pulse, 
Dim grows the eye, and clammy drops bedew 
Tlie shuddering frame ; then in its mightiest force, 
Mightiest in impotence, the love of life 
Seizes the throbbing heart ; the faltering lips 
Pour out the impious prayer tliat fain would change 
The Unchangeable's decree ; surrounding friends 
Sob round the sufferer, wet his cheek with tears, 
And all he loved in life imbitters death, 

" Such, Maiden, are the pangs that wait the 
hour 
Of easiest dissolution ! yet weak man 
Resolves, in timid piety, to live ; 
And veiling Fear in Superstition's garb, 
He calls her Resignation ! 

" Coward wretch ! 
Fond coward, thus to make his reason war 
Against his reason ! Insect as he is, 
This sport of chance, this being of a day, 
Whose whole existence the next cloud may blast, 
Believes himself the care of heavenly powers j 
That God regards man, miserable man. 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. book i. 

The earth might cover thee. In that last hour, 
When thy bruis'd breast shall heave beneath the 

chains 
That link thee to the stake, a spectacle 
For the brute multitude, and thou shalt hear 
Mockery more painful than the circling flames 
Which then consume thee ; wilt thou not in vain 
Then wish my friendly aid ? then wish thine ear 
Had drank my words of comfort ? that thy hand 
Had grasp' d the dagger, and in death preserved 
Insulted modesty ? " 

Her glowing cheek 
Blush' d crimson; her wide eye on vacancy 
Was fix'd ; her breath short panted. The cold fiend, 
Grasping her hand, exclaim'd, "Too timid Maid, 
So long repugnant to the healing aid 
My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold 
The allotted length of life." 

He stamp'd the earth, 
And dragging a huge coffin as his car. 
Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foul 
Than ever palsied in her wildest dream 
Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair 
Seized on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still, 
And placed her in the seat, and on they pass'd 
Adown the deep descent. A meteor light 
Shot from the demons, as they dragged along 
The unwelcome load, and mark'd their brethren 

feast 
On carcasses. 

Below, the vault dilates 
Its ample bulk. " Look here ! " — Despair addrest 
The shuddering Virgin ; " see the dome of Death ! " 
It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid 
The entrails of the earth, as though to form 
A grave for all mankind : no eye could reach 
Its distant bounds. There, throned in darkness, 

dwelt 
The unseen power of Death. 

Here stopt the Gouls, 
Reaching the destined spot. The fiend stept out, 
And from the coffin as he led the Maid, 
Exclaim'd, " Where mortal never stood before, 
Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; 
Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, 
And learn to know thy friend." 

She answer'd not. 
Observing where the Fates their several tasks 
Plied ceaseless. "Mark how long the shortest web 
Allow'd to man ! " he cried ; " observe how soon, 
Twined round yon never-resting wheel, they change 
Their snowy hue, darkening through many a shade. 
Till Atropos relentless shuts the shears." 



And preaching thus of power and providence, 
Will crush the reptile that may cross his path ! 

" Fool that thou art I the Being that permits 
Existence, gives to man the worthless boon ; 
A goodly gift to those who, fortune-blest. 
Bask in the sunshine of prosperity. 
And such do well to keep it. But to one 
Sick ?,t the heart with misery, and sore 
With many a hard, unmerited affliction, 
It is a hair that chains to wretchedness 
The slave who dares not burst it ! 

" Thinkest thou, 
The parent, if his child should unrecall'd 
Return and fall upon his neck, and cry, 
' Oh ! the wide world is comfortless, and full 
Of fleeting joys and heart-consuming cares; 
I can be only happy in my home 
With thee — my friend! — my father!' Thinkest 

thou. 
That he would thrust him as an outcast forth .' 
Oh ! he would clasp the truant to his heart. 
And love the trespass." 

Whilst he spake, his eye 
Dwelt on the Maiden's cheek, and read her soul 
Struggling within. In trembling doubt she stood, 
Even as a wretch, whose famish'd entrails crave 
Supply, before him sees the poison'd food 
In greedy horror. 

Yet, not silent long, 
"Eloquent tempter, cease ! " the Maiden cried; 
" What though affliction be my portion here, 
Thinkest thou I do not feel high thoughts of joy. 
Of heart-ennobling joy, when I look back 
Upon a life of duty well perform'd, 
Then lift mine eyes to heaven, and there in faith 
Know my reward.'' — I grant, were this life all, 
Was there no morning to the tomb's long night, 
If man did mingle with the senseless clod. 
Himself as senseless, then wert thou indeed 
A wise and friendly comforter ! — But, fiend, 
There is a morning to the tomb's long night, 
A dawn of glory, a reward in heaven. 
He shall not gain who never merited. 
If thou didst know the worth of one good deed 
In life's last hour, thou wouldst not bid me lose 
The precious privilege, while life endures 
To do my Father's will. A mighty task 
Is mine, — a glorious call. France looks to me 
For her deliverance. 

" Maiden, thou hast done 
Thy mission here," the unbaffled fiend replied : 
" The foes are fled from Orleans : thou, perchance 
Exulting in the pride of victory, 
Forgettest him who perish'd : yet albeit 
Thy harden'd heart forget the gallant youth. 
That hour allotted canst thou not escape. 
That dreadful hour, when contumely and shame 
Shall sojourn in thy dungeon. Wretched Maid ! 
Destined to drain the cup of bitterness, 
Even to its dregs, — England's inhuman chiefs 
Shall scoff" thy sorrows, blacken thy pure fame, 
Wit-wanton it with lewd barbarity, 
And force such burning blushes to the cheek 
Of virgin modesty, that thou shalt wish 



Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, 
Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn'd snow, 
Or as the spotless lily of the vale. 
Was never one beyond the little span 
Of infancy untainted; few there were 
But lightly tinged : more of deep crimson hue. 
Or deeper sable dyed.^ Two Genii stood, 
Still as the web of being was drawn forth. 
Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn. 
The one unsparing dash'd the bitter drops 
Of woe ; and as he dash'd, his dark-brown brow 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



89 



Relax'd to a hard smile. The milder form 

Shed less profusely there his lesser store ; 

Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, 

Compassionating man ; and happy he 

Who on his thread those precious tears receives ; 

If it be happiness to have the pulse 

That throbs with pity, and in such a world 

Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches 

With anguish at the sight of human woe. 

To her the fiend, well hoping now success, 
"This is thy thread ; observe how short the span; 
And little doth the evil Genius spare 
His bitter tincture there." The Maiden saw 
Calmly. " Now gaze ! " the tempter fiend exclaim'd. 
And placed again the poniard in her hand, 
For Superstition, Avith a burning torch. 
Approach' d the loom. " This, Damsel, is thy fate ! 
The hour draws on — now strike the dagger home ! 
Strike now, and be at rest ! " 

The Maid replied, 
" Or to prevent or change the will of Heaven, 
Impious 1 strive not : let that will be done ! " 



THE SECOND BOOK. 

She spake, and lo ! celestial radiance beam'd 
Amid the air, such odors wafting now 
As erst came blended with the evening gale, 
From Eden's bowers of bliss. An angel form 
Stood by the Maid ; his wings, ethereal white, 
Flash'd like the diamond in the noon-tide sun, 
Dazzling her mortal eye : all else appear'd 
Her Theodore. 

Amazed she saw : the fiend 
Was fled, and on her ear the well-known voice 
Sounded, though now more musically sweet 
Than ever yet had thrill'd her soul attuned, 
When eloquent affection fondly told 
The day-dreams of delight. 

" Beloved Maid ! 
Lo ! I am with thee, still thy Theodore ! 
Hearts in the holy bands of love combined. 
Death has no power to sever. Thou art mine ! 
A little while and thou shalt dwell with me, 
In scenes where sorrow is not. Cheerily 
Tread thou the path that leads thee to the grave, 
Rough though it be and painful, for the grave 
Is but the threshold of eternity. 

"Favor'd of Heaven, to thee is given to view 
These secret realms. The bottom of the abyss 
Thou treadest. Maiden. Here the dungeons are 
Where bad men learn repentance. Souls diseased 
Must have their remedy ; and where disease 
Is rooted deep, the remedy is long 
Perforce, and painful." 

Thus the spirit spake. 
And led the Maid along a narrow path. 
Dark gleaming to the light of far-off flames, 
More dread than darkness. Soon the distant sound 
Of clanking anvils, and the lengthen'd breath 
12 



Provoking fire are heard ; and now they reach 
A wide expanded den where all around 
Tremendous furnaces, with hellish blaze. 
Were burning. At the heaving bellows stood 
The meagre form of Care ; and as he blew 
To augment the fire, the fire augmented scorch'd 
His wretched limbs ; sleepless forever thus 
He toil'd and toil'd, of toil no end to know 
But endless toil and never-ending woe. 

An aged man went round the infernal vault, 
Urging his workmen to their ceaseless task ; 
White were his locks, as is the wintry snow 
On hoar Plinlimmon's head. A golden staff 
His steps supported : powerful talisman. 
Which whoso feels shall never feel again 
The tear of pity, or the throb of love. 
Touch'd but by this, the massy gates give way, 
The buttress trembles, and the guarded wall. 
Guarded in vain, submits. Him heathens erst 
Had deified, and bowed the suppliant knee 
To Plutus. Nor are now his votaries few. 
Even though our blessed Savior hath himself 
Told us, that easier through the needle's eye 
Shall the huge camel pass,'* than the rich man 
Enter the gates of heaven. " Ye cannot serve 
Your God and worship Mammon." 

" Mission 'd Maid ! " 
So spake the spirit, " know that these, whose hands 
Round each white furnace ply the unceasing toil, 
Were Mammon's slaves on earth. They did not 

spare 
To wring from poverty the hard-earn'd mite; 
They robb'd the orphan's pittance; they could see 
Want's asking eye unmoved; and therefore these, 
Ranged round the furnace, still must persevere 
In Mammon's service, scorch'd by these fierce fires, 
Nor seldom by the overboiling ore 
Caught ; yet retaining still, to punishment 
Converted here, their old besetting sin, 
Often impatiently to quench their thirst 
Unquenchable, large draughts of molten gold^ 
They drink insatiate, still with pain renew'd, 
Pain to destroy." 

So saying, her he led 
Forth from the dreadful cavern to a cell 
Brilliant with gem-born light. The rugged walls 
Part gleam'd with gold, and part with silver ore 
In milder radiance shone. The carbuncle 
There its strong lustre like the flamy sun 
Shot forth irradiate ; from the earth beneath, 
And from the roof there stream'd a diamond light; 
Rubies and amethysts their glows commix'd 
With the gay topaz, and the softer ray 
Shot from the sapphire, and the emerald's nue, 
And bright pyropus. 

There, on golden seats, 
A numerous, sullen, melancholy train 
Sat silent. ''Maiden, these," said Theodore, 
"Are they who let the love of wealth absorb 
All other passions ; in their souls that vice 
Struck deeply-rooted, like the poison-tree 
That with its shade spreads barrenness around. 
These, Maid ! were men by no atrocious crime 
Blacken'd, no fraud, nor ruffian violence ; 



90 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



Men of fair dealing, and respectable 
On earth, but such as only for themselves 
Heap'd up their treasures, deeming all their wealth 
Their own, and given to them, by partial Heaven, 
To bless them only : therefore here they sit, 
Possess'd of gold enough, and by no pain 
Tormented, save the knowledge of the bliss 
They lost, and vain repentance. Here they dwell, 
Loathing these useless treasures, till the hour 
Of general restitution." 

Thence they past, 
And now arriv'd at such a gorgeous dome, 
As even the pomp of Eastern opulence 
Could never equal : wandered through its halls 
A numerous train ; some with the red-swollen eye 
Of riot, and intemperance-bloated cheek ; 
Some pale and nerveless, and with feeble step. 
And eyes lack-lustre. 

" Maiden ! " said her guide. 
These are the wretched slaves of Appetite, 
Curst with their wish enjoy'd. The epicure 
Here pampers his foul frame, till the pall'd sense 
Loathes at the banquet ; the voluptuous here 
Plunge in the tempting torrent of delight. 
And sink in misery. All they wish'd on earth 
Possessing here, whom have they to accuse 
But their own folly, for the lot they chose 1 
Yet, for that these injured themselves alone. 
They to the house of Penitence may hie, 
And, by a long and painful regimen. 
To wearied Nature her exhausted powers 
Restore, till they shall learn to form the wish 
Of wisdom, and Almighty Goodness grants 
That prize to him who seeks it." 

Whilst he spake. 
The board is spread. With bloated paunch, and 

eyes 
Fat-swollen, and legs whose monstrous size dis- 
graced 
The human form divine, their caterer, 
Hight Gluttony, set forth the smoking feast. 
And by his side came on a brother form, 
With fiery cheek of purple hue, and red 
And scurfy-white, mix'd motley ; his gross bulk, 
Like some huge hogshead shapen'd, as applied. 
Him had antiquity with mystic rites 
Adored ; to him the sons of Greece, and thine, 
Imperial Rome, on many an altar pour'd 
The victim blood, with god-like titles graced, 
Bacchus, or Dionusus; son of Jove, 
Deem'd falsely, for from Folly's idiot form 
He sprung, what time Madness, with furious hand. 
Seized on the laughing female. At one birth 
She brought the brethren, menial here below. 
Though sovereigns upon earth, where oft they hold 
High revels. 'Mid the monastery's gloom, 
Thy palace. Gluttony, and oft to thee 
The sacrifice is spread, when the grave voice 
Episcopal proclaims approaching day 
Of visitation ; or church-wardens meet 
To save the wretched many from the gripe 
Of poverty ; or 'mid thy ample halls 
Of London, mighty Mayor I rich Aldermen, 
Of coming feast hold converse. 

Otherwhere, 



For though allied in nature as in blood, 

They hold divided sway, his brother lifts 

His spongy sceptre. In the noble domes 

Of princes, and state-wearied ministers, [mind 

Maddening he reigns; and when the affrightec 

Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood 

Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought 

To lull the worm of conscience to repose. 

He too the halls of country squires frequents ; 

But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades 

Thy offspring Rhedycina, and thy walls, 

Granta ! nightly libations there to him 

Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain 

Triangles, circles, parallelograms. 

Moods, tenses, dialects, and demigods, 

And logic and theology, are swept 

By the red deluge. 

Unmolested there 
He revels ; till the general feast comes round, 
The sacrifice septennial, when the sons 
Of England meet, with watchful care, to choose 
Their delegates, wise, independent men, 
Unbribing and unbribed, and chosen to guard 
Their rights and charters from the encroaching 

grasp 
Of greedy power ; then all the joyful land 
Join in his sacrifices, so inspired 
To make the important choice. 

The observing Maid 
Address'd her guide : " These, Theodore, thou say'st 
Are men, who, pampering their foul appetites. 
Injured themselves alone. But where are they, 
The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil 
Around deluded woman, so to sting 
The heart that loves them .? ' ' 

"Them," the spirit replied, 
" A long and dreadful punishment awaits. 
For when the prey of want and infamy. 
Lower and lower still the victim sinks, 
Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word. 
One impious imprecation from her lips 
Escapes, nay, not a thought of evil lurks 
In the polluted mind, that does not plead 
Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued, 
Against the foul seducer." 

Now they reacli'd 
The house of Penitence. Credulity 
Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head 
As though to listen ; on her vacant face, 
A look that promised premature assent ; 
Though her Regret behind, a meagre fiend, 
Disciplined sorely. 

Here they enter'd in. 
And now arrived where, as in study tranced, 
They saw the mistress of the dome. Her face 
Spake that composed severity, that knows 
No angry impulse, no weak tenderness. 
Resolved and calm. Before her lay the Book, 
Which hath the words of life ; and as she read, 
Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek. 
Though heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while. 

Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward 
Of this great lazar-house the Angel led 
The favor'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down 



BOOK ir. 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



91 



On the hard stone which their bare knees had worn, 
In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd ; 
Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave ; 
Yet such expression stealing from the eye, 
As though, that only naked, all the rest 
I Were one close-fitting mask. A scoffing fiend — 
For fiend he was, though wisely serving here — 
Moc'k'd at his patients, and did often strow 
Ashes upon them, and then bid them say 
Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laugh'd : 
For these were hypocrites, on earth revered 
As holy ones, who did in public tell 
Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross 

themselves, 
And call themselves most miserable sinners, 
That so they might be deem'd most pious saints ; 
And go all filth, and never let a smile 
Bend their stern muscles ; gloomy, sullen men, 
Barren of all affection, and all this 
To please their God, forsooth ! And therefore Scorn 
Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat 
Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery 
Tormenting ; but if earnest in their prayer, 
They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul 
To heaven, then did they not regard his mocks 
Which then came painless, and Humility 
Then rescued them, and led to Penitence, 
That she might lead to Heaven. 

From thence they came. 
Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band 
Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny 
Of a fierce demon. His coarse hair was red. 
Pale-gray his eyes, and bloodshot ; and his face 
Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears 
In ecstasy. Well-pleased he went around, 
Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some, 
Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts. 
Or placing coals of fire within their wounds ; 
Or seizing some within his mighty grasp. 
He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back 
And laugh'd to see them writhe. 

'* These," said the spirit, 
" Are taught by Cruelty, to loathe the lives 
They led themselves. Here are those wicked men 
Who loved to exercise their tyrant power 
On speechless brutes ; bad husbands undergo 
A long purgation here ; the traffickers 
In human flesh here, too, are disciplined. 
Till by their suffi?ring they have equall'd all 
The miseries they inflicted, all the mass 
Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged, 
The villages they burnt, the widows left 
In want, the slave or led to suicide, 
Or murder'd by the foul, infected air 
Of his close dungeon, or, more sad than all, 
His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved, 
And driven by woe to wickedness. 

" These next. 
Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room, 
With sullen eyes of hatred and of fear 
Each on the other scowling, these have been 
False friends. Tormented by their own dark 

thoughts. 
Here they dwell : in the hollow of their hearts 
There is a worm that feeds, and though thou seest 



That skilful leech who willingly would heal 
The ill they suffer, judging of all else 
By their own evil conscience, they suspect 
The aid he vainly proffers, lengthening thus 
By vice its punishment." 

" But who are these," 
The Maid exclaim'd, " that robed in flowing lawn, 
And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps 
Like cardinals, I see in every ward. 
Performing menial service at the beck 
Of all who bid them.?" 

Theodore replied, 
" These men are they who in the name of Christ 
Have heap'd up wealth, and arrogating power. 
Have made kings kiss their feet, yet call'd them- 
selves 
The servants of the servants of the Lord. 
They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed, 
And in fine linen ; therefore are they here ; 
And thougli they would not minister on earth, 
Here penanced they perforce must minister : 
Did not the Holy One of Nazareth 
Tell them, his kingdom is not of the world.'' " 

So sa3Mng, on they past, and now arrived 
Where such a hideous ghastly group abode, 
That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye, 
And shudder'd : each one was a loathly corpse j 
The worm was feeding on his putrid prey; 
Yet had they life and feeling exquisite, 
Though motionless and mute. 

" Most wretched men 
Are these," the angel cried. '• Poets thou seest 
Whose loose, lascivious lays perpetuated 
Their own corruption. Soul-polluted slaves, 
Who sate them down, deliberately lewd, 
So to awake and pamper lust in minds 
Unborn ; and therefore foul of body now 
As then they were of soul, they here abide 
Long as the evil works they left on earth 
Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom ! 
Yet amply merited by all who thus 
Have to the Devil's service dedicated 
The gift of song, the gift divine of heaven ! " 

And now they reach'd a huge and massy pile, 
Massy it seem'd, and yet with every blast 
As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit, 
Remorse forever his sad vigils kept. 
Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch. 
Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd, 
Aye as the fabric tottering from its base, 
Threaten'd its fall, and so expectant still 
Lived in the dread of danger still delay 'd. 
They enter'd there a large and lofty dome. 
O'er whose black marble sides a dim, drear light 
Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp. 
Enthroned around, the murderers of mankind, 
Monarchs, the great, the glorious, the august, 
Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire. 
Sat stern and silent. Nimrod, he was there, 
First king, the mighty hunter ; and that chief 
Who did belie his mother's fame, that so 
He might be called young Ammon. In this court 
Caesar was crown'd, the great liberticide ; 



92 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



BOOK III. 



And he who to the death of Cicero 
Consented, though the courtly minion's lyre 
Hath hymn'd his praise, though Maro sung to him, 
And when death levell'd to original clay 
The royal body, impious Flattery 
Fell at his feet, and worshipp'd the new god. 
Titus was here,** the conqueror of the Jews, 
He the delight of human-kind misnamed ; 
Caesars and Soldans, Emperors and Kings, 
All who for glory fought, here they were all, 
Here in the Hall of Glory, reaping now 
The meed they merited. 

As gazing round 
The Virgin mark'd the miserable train, 
A deep and hollow voice from one went forth ; 
*' Thou who art come to view our punishment, 
Maiden of Orleans ! hither turn thine eye, 
For I am he whose bloody victories 
Thy power hath render'd vain. Lo ! I am here," 
The hero conqueror of Agincourt, 
Henry of England ! — Wretched that I am ! 
I might have reign'd in happiness and peace, 
My coffers full, my subjects undisturb'd, 
And Plenty and Prosperity had loved 
To dwell amongst them ; but in evil hour 
Seeing the realm of France, by faction torn, 
I thought in pride of heart that it would fall 
An easy prey. I persecuted those 
Who taught new doctrines, though they taught the 

truth ; 
And when I heard of thousands by the sword 
/ Cut off, or blasted by the pestilence, 

I calmly counted up my proper gains, 
And sent new herds to slaughter. Temperate 
Myself, no blood that mutinied, no vice 
Tainting my private life, I sent abroad 
Murder and Rape ; and therefore am I doom'd, 
Like these imperial sufferers, crown'd with fire, 
Here to remain, till man's awaken'd eye 
Shall see the genuine blackness of our deeds 3 
And warn'd by them, till the whole human race. 
Equalling in bliss the aggregate we caused 
Of wretchedness, shall form one brotherhood. 
One universal family of love." 



THE THIRD BOOK. 

The Maiden, musing on the warrior's words, 
Turn'd from the Hall of Glory. Now tliey reach'd 
A cavern, at whose mouth a Genius stood. 
In front a beardless youth, whose smiling eye 
Beam'd promise, but behind, wither'd and old, 
And all unlovely. Underneath his feet 
Records obliterate lay, and laurels sear. 
He held an hour-glass, and as the sands fall, 
So pass the lives of men. By him they past 
Along the darksome cave, and reach'd a stream, 
Still rolling onward its perpetual course 
Noiseless and undisturb'd. Here they ascend 
A bark unpiloted, that down the stream, 
Borne by the current, rush'd, which circling still, 
Returning to itself, an island form'd ; 



Nor had the Maiden's footsteps ever reach'd 
The insulated coast, eternally 
Rapt round in endless whirl : but Theodore 
Drove with a spirit's will the obedient bark. 

They land ; a mighty fabric meets their eyes, 
Seen by its gem-born light. Of adamant 
The pile was framed, forever to abide 
Firm in eternal strength. Before the gate 
Stood eager Expectation, as to catch 
The half- heard murmurs issuing from within. 
Her mouth half-open'd, and her head stretch'd forth. 
On the other side there stood an aged crone, 
Listening to every breath of air; she knew 
Vague suppositions and uncertain dreams 
Of what was soon to come, for she would mark 
The little glow-worm's self-emitted light. 
And argue thence of kingdoms overthrown, 
And desolated nations ; ever fill'd 
With undetermined terror, as she heard 
Or distant screech-owl, or the regular beat 
Of evening death-watch. 

"Maid," the spirit cried, 
" Here, robed in shadows, dwells Futurity. 
There is no eye hath seen her secret form, 
For round the Mother of Time eternal mists 
Hover. If thou would'st read the book of fate, 
Go in!" 

The damsel for a moment paused, 
Then to the angel spake : " All-gracious Heaven, 
Benignant in withholding, hath denied 
To man that knowledge. 1, in faith assured, 
KnoAving my heavenly Father for the best 
Ordaineth all things, in that faith remain 
Contented." 

" Well and wisely hast thou said," 
So Theodore replied ; " and now, O Maid I 
Is there amid this boundless universe 
One whom thy soul would visit ? Is there place 
To memory dear, or vision'd out by hope, 
Where thou would'st now be present.? Form the 

wish. 
And I am with thee, there." 

His closing speech 
Yet sounded on her ear, and lo ! they stood 
Swift as the sudden thought that guided them, 
Within the little cottage that she loved. 
"He sleeps! the good man sleeps ! "enrapt she cried, 
As bending o'er her uncle's lowly bed 
Her eye retraced his features. " See the beads 
Which never morn nor night he fails to tell, 
Remembering me, his child, in every prayer. 
Oh ! peaceful be thy sleep, thou dear old man ! 
Good Angels guard thy rest ! and when thine hour 
Is come, as gently mayst thou Avake to life. 
As when through yonder lattice the next sun 
Shall bid thee to thy morning orisons ! " 

"Thy voice is heard," the angel guide rejoin"d; 
" He sees thee in his dreams, he hears thee breathe 
Blessings, and happy is the good man's rest. 
Thy fame has reach'd him, for who hath not heard 
Thy wondrous exploits ? and his aged heart 
Hath felt the deepest joy that ever yet 
Made his glad blood flow fast. Sleep on, old Claude ! 



BOOK III. THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



93 



Peaceful, pure spirit, be thy sojourn here, 
And short and soon thy passage to that world 
Where friends shall part no more ! 

Does thy soul own 
No other wish ? or sleeps poor Madelon 
Forgotten in her grave? — Sccst thou yon star," 
The spirit pursued, regardless that her eye 
Reproach'd him ; " seest thou that evening star 
Whose lovely light so often we beheld 
From yonder woodbine porch? How have we 

gazed 
Into the dark, deep sky, till the baffled soul, 
Lost in the infinite, return'd, and felt 
The burden of her bodily load, and yearn'd 
For freedom ! Maid, in yonder evening star 
Lives thy departed friend. I read that glance, 
And we are there ! " 

He said, and they had past 
The immeasurable space. 

Then on her ear 
The lonely song of adoration rose. 
Sweet as the cloister'd virgin's vesper hymn, 
Whose spirit, happily dead to earthly hopes, 
Already lives in heaven. Abrupt the song 
Ceased, tremulous and quick a cry 
Of joyful wonder roused the astonish'd Maid, 
And instant Madelon was in her arms ; 
No airy form, no unsubstantial shape. 
She felt her friend ; she prest her to her heart; 
Their tears of rapture mingled. 

She drew back, 
And eagerly she gazed on Madelon, 
Then fell upon her neck and wept again. 
No more she saw the long-drawn lines of grief. 
The emaciate form, the hue of sickliness. 
The languid eye : youth's loveliest freshness now 
Mantled her cheek, whose every lineament 
Bespake the soul at rest, a holy calm, 
A deep and full tranquillity of bliss. 

"Thou then art come, my first and dearest 
friend ! " 
The well-known voice of Madelon began, 
'^ Thou then art come ! And was thy pilgrimacre 
So short on earth? and was it painful too, 
Painful and short as mine ? but blessed they 
Who from the crimes and miseries of the world 
Early escape ! " 

"Nay," Theodore replied, 
" She hath not yet fulfill'd her mortal work. 
Permitted visitant from earth she comes 
To see the seat of rest ; and oftentimes 
In sorrow shall her soul remember this, 
And patient of its transitory woe. 
Partake again the anticipated joy." 

" Soon be that work perform'd ! " the Maid ex- 
claim'd, 
" O Madelon ! O Theodore ! My soul, 
Spurning the cold communion of the world. 
Will dwell with you. But I shall patiently, 
Yea, even with joy, endure the allotted ills 
Of which the memory in this better state 
Shall heighten bliss. That hour of agony, 
When, Madelon, I felt thy dying grasp, 



And from thy forehead wiped the dews of death, 
The very anguish of that hour becomes 
A joy for memory now." 

" O earliest friend ! 
I too remember," Madelon replied, 
" That hour, thy looks of watchful agony, 
The supprcst grief that struggled in thine eye 
Endearing love's last kindness. Thou didst know 
With what a deep and earnest hope intense 
I felt the hour draw on : but who can speak 
The unutterable transport, when mine eyes. 
As from a long and dreary dream, unclosed 
Amid this peaceful vale, — unclosed upon 
My Arnaud ! He had built me up a bower, 
A bower of rest. — See, Maiden, where he comes, 
His manly lineaments, his beaming eye, 
The same, but now a holier innocence 
Sits on his cheek, and loftier thoughts illume 
The enlighten'd glance." 

They met ; what joy was theirs 
He best can feel, who for a dear friend dead 
Hath wet the midnight pillow with his tears. 

Fair was the scene around ; an ample vale 
Whose mountain circle at the distant verge 
Lay soften'd on the sight ; the near ascent 
Rose bolder up, in part abrupt and bare, 
Part with the ancient majesty of woods 
Adorn'd, or lifting high its rocks sublime. 
A river's liquid radiance roll'd beneath ; 
Beside the bower of Madelon it wound 
A broken stream, whose shallows, though the waves 
Rolld on their way with rapid melody, 
A child might tread. Behind, an orange grove 
Its gay, green foliage starr'd with golden fruit. 
But Avith what odors did their blossoms load 
The passing gale of eve ! Less thrilling sweets 
Rose from the marble's perforated floor, 
Where kneeling at her prayers, the Moorish queen 
Inhaled the cool delight," and whilst she ask'd 
The prophet for his promised paradise. 
Shaped from the present bliss its utmost joys. 
A goodly scene ! fair as that fairy land 
Where Arthur lives, by ministering spirits borne 
From Camelot's bloody banks ; or as the groves, 
Of earliest Eden, where, so legends say, 
Enoch abides ; and he who, rapt away 
By fiery steeds and charioted in fire. 
Past in his mortal form the eternal ways ; 
And John, beloved of Christ, enjoying there 
The beatific vision, sometimes seen. 
The distant dawning of eternal day, 
Till all things be fulfilled. 

" Survey this scene !" 
So Theodore address'd the Maid of Arc ; 
"There is no evil here, no wretchedness; 
It is the heaven of those who nurst on earth 
Their nature's gentlest feelings. Yet not here 
Centring their joys, but with a patient hope. 
Waiting the allotted hour when capable 
Of loftier callings, to a better state 
They pass ; and hither from that better state 
Frequent they come, preserving so those ties 
Which through the infinite progressiveness 
Complete our perfect bhss. 



94 



THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 



BOOK III. 



Even such, so blest, 
Save that the memory of no sorrows past 
Heighten'd the present joy, our world was once, 
In the first era of its innocence. 
Ere man had learnt to bow the knee to man. 
"Was there a youth whom warm affection fill'd, 
He spake his honest heart ; the earliest fruits 
His toil produced, the sweetest flowers that deck'd 
The sunny bank, he gather'd for the maid. 
Nor she disdain'd the gift; for Vice not yet 
Had burst the dungeons of her Hell, and rear'd 
Those artificial boundaries that divide 
Man from his species. State of blessedness ! 
Till that ill-omen'd hour when Cain's true son 
Delved in the bowels of the earth for gold, 
Accursed bane of virtue, — of such force 
As poets feign dwelt in the Gorgon's locks, 
Which whoso saw, felt instant the life-blood 
Cold curdle in his veins, the creeping flesh 
Grew stiff" with horror, and the heart forgot 
To beat. Accursed hour ! for man no more 
To Justice paid his homage, but forsook 
Her altars, and bow'd down before the shrine 
Of Wealth and Power, the idols he had made. 
Then Hell enlarged herself, her gates flew wide, 
Her legion fiends rush'd forth. Oppression came. 
Whose frown is desolation, and whose breath 
Blasts like the pestilence ; and Poverty, 
A meagre monster, who with withering touch 
Makes barren all the better part of man. 
Mother of Miseries. Then the goodly earth 
Which God had framed for happiness, became 
One theatre of woe, and all that God 
Had given to bless free men, these tyrant fiends 
His bitterest curses made. Yet for the best 
Have all things been appointed by the All-wise ! 
For by experience taught shall man at length 
Dash down his Moloch-idols, Samson-like, 
And burst his fetters. Then in the abyss 
Oppression shall be chain'd, and Poverty 
Die, and with her, her brood of miseries; 
And Virtue and Equality preserve 
The reign of Love, and earth shall once again 
Be Paradise, where Wisdom shall secure 
The state of bliss which Ignorance betray 'd." 

" Oh age of happiness !" the Maid exclaim'd, 
" Roll fast thy current. Time, till that blest age 
Arrive ! and happy thou, my Theodore, 
Permitted thus to see the sacred depths 
Of wisdom ! " 

" Such," the blessed spirit replied, 
" Beloved ! such our lot ; allowed to range 
The vast infinity, progressive still 
In knowledge and increasing blessedness, 
This our united portion. Thou hast yet 
A little while to sojourn amongst men : 
[ will be with thee ; there shall not a breeze 
Wanton around thy temples, on whose wing 
I will not hover near ; and at that hour 
When from its fleshly sepulchre let loose, 
Thy phoenix soul shall soar, O best-beloved ! 
I will be with thee in thine agonies. 
And welcome thee to life and happiness, 
Eternal, infinite beatitude ! ' ' 



He spake, and led her near a straw-roof d cot, 
Love's palace. By the Virtues circled there 
The Immortal listen'd to such melodies. 
As aye, when one good deed is register'd 
Above, reecho in the halls of heaven. 
Labor was there, his crisp locks floating loose; 
Clear was his cheek, and beaming his full eye, 
And strong his arm robust; the wood-nymph 

Health 
Still follow'd on his path, and where he trod 
Fresh flowers and fruits arose. And there was 

Hope, 
The general friend ; and Pity, whose mild eye 
Wept o'er the widow 'd dove ; and, loveliest form, 
Majestic Chastity, whose sober smile 
Delights and awes the soul ; a laurel wreath 
Restrain'd her tresses, and upon her breast 
The snow-drop hung itshead,^ that seem'd to grow 
Spontaneous, cold and fair. Beside the maid 
Love went submiss, with eye more dangerous 
Then fancied basilisk to wound whoe'er 
Too bold approach'd ; yet anxious would he read 
Her every rising wish, then only pleased 
When pleasing. Hymning him, the song was 

raised. 

" Glory to thee whose vivifying power 
Pervades all Nature's universal frame 1 
Glory to thee. Creator Love I to thee. 
Parent of all the smiling Charities, 
That strow the thorny path of life with flowers' 
Glory to thee, Preserver ! To thy praise 
The awakened Avoodlands echo all the day 
Their living melody ; and warbling forth 
To thee her twilight song, the nightingale 
Holds the lone traveller from his way, or charms 
The listening poet's ear. Where Love shall deign 
To fix his seat, there blameless Pleasure sheds 
Her roseate dews ; Content will sojourn there. 
And Happiness behold Affection's eye 
Gleam with the mother's smile. Thrice happy he 
Vv^ho feels thy holy power ! he shall not drag. 
Forlorn and friendless, along life's long path 
To age's drear abode ; he shall not waste 
The bitter evening of his days unsooth'd; 
But Hope shall cheer his hours of solitude. 
And Vice shall vainly strive to wound his breast. 
That bears that talisman ; and when he meets 
The eloquent eye of Tenderness, and hears 
The bosom-thrilling music of her voice, 
The joy he feels shall purify his soul. 
And imp it for anticipated heaven." 



NOTES. 

Note 1, p. 86, col. ]. — Instructing best the passive faculty. 

May saj's of Serapis, 

Erudit at placide humanam per somnia mentem, 

JVocturnaque quicte docet ; nulloque labore 

Hie tantiim parta est pretiosa scientia, nulla 

Excutitur studio verum. Mortalia corda 

Tunc Deus iste docet, cum sunt minus apta doceri, 

Cum nullum obse^ioium pra}stant,meritisque fatcntwr 



NOTES TO THE VISION OF THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 95 



JV\7 scse debcre siuis ; tunc recte scientcs 

Cum nil scite valcnt. JVun illo tempore sensus 

Htimanos forsan dignatur ntimen inire, 

Cum propriis possunt per se discursihus utl 

J^e forte IiumaiidL ratio divina coirct. — Sup. Lucani. 



Note 2, p. 86, col. 1. ind all things are that seem. 

I liave met with a singular tale to illustrate this spiritual 
theory of dreams. 

Guntrum, king of the Franks, was liberal to the poor, and 
he himself experienced the wonderful effects of divine liber- 
ality. For one day, as he was hunting in a forest, he was 
separated from his companions, and arrived at a little stream 
of water with only one comrade of tried and approved fidelity. 
Here he found himself opprest by drowsiness, and, reclining 
his head upon the servant's lap, went to sleep. The servant 
witnessed a wonderful thing, for he saw a little beast creep 
out of the mouth of his sleeping master, and go immediately 
to the streamlet, which it vainly attempted to cross. The 
servant drew his sword, and laid it across the water, over 
which the little beast easily past, and crept into a hole of a 
mountain on the opposite side ; from whence it made its ap- 
pearance again in an hour, and returned by the same means 
into the king's mouth. The king then awakened, and told 
his companion that he had dreamt that he was arrived upon 
the bank of an immense river, which he had crossed by a 
bridge of iron, and from thence came to a mountain in which 
a great quantity of gold was concealed. When the king had 
concluded, the servant related what he had beheld, and they 
both went to examine the mountain, where, upon digging, they 
discovered an immense weight of gold. 

I stumbled upon this tale in a book entitled Sphinx, Tlico- 
logico-Philosophica. Aathore Johaiine Heidfeldio, Ecclesiaste 
Ebershachiano. 1621. 

The same story is in Matthew of Westminster ; it is added 
that Guntrum applied the treasures thus found to pious uses. 

For the truth of the theory there is the evidence of a monk- 
ish miracle. When Thurcillus was about to follow St. Julian 
and visit the world of souls, his guide said to him, " Let thy 
body rest in tlie bed, for thy spirit only is about to depart with 
me ; and lest the body should appear dead, I will send into it 
a vital breath." 

The body, however, by a strange sympathy, was affected like 
the spirit ; for when the foul and fetid smoke which arose 
from the tithes withlield on eartli had nearly suffocated Thur- 
cillus, and made him cough twice, those who were near his 
body said that it coughed twice about the same time. 

Matthew Paris. 



Note 3, p. 88, col. 2. — Or deeper sable dyed. 

These lines strongly resemble a passage in the Pharonnida 
of William Chamberlayne, a poet who has told an interesting 
story in uncouth rhymes, and mingled sublimity of thought and 
beauty of expression, with the quaintest conceits and most 
awkward inversions. 

On a rock more high 
Than Nature's common surface, she beholds 
The mansion house of Fate, which thus unfolds 
Its sacred mysteries. A trine within 
A quadrate placed, both these encompast in 
A perfect circle was its form ; but what 
Its matter was, for us to wonder at. 
Is undiscovered left. A tower there stands 
At every angle, where Time's fatal hands 
The impartial Parcce dwell ; i' the first she sees 
Clotho the kindest of the Destinies, 
From immaterial essences to cull 
The seeds of life, and of them frame the wool 
For Lachesis to spin ; about her flie 
Myriads of souls, that yet want flesh to lie 
Warmed with their functions in, whose strength bestows 
That power by which man ripe for misery grows. 

Her next of objects was that glorious tower 
Where that swift-fingered nymph that spares no hour 
From mortals' service draws the various threads 
Of life in several lengths ; to weary beds 



Of age extending some, whilst others in 

Their infancy are broke : sovie blackt in sin. 

Others, the favorites of Heaven^ from whence 

Their origin, candid with innocence ; 

Some purpled in afflictions, others dyed 

In sanguine jdeasures : some in glittering pride 

Spun to adorn the earth, whilst others wear 

Rags of deformity, but knots of care 

No thread was wholly free from. Next to this 

Fair glorious tower, was placed that black abyss 

Of dreadful Atiopos, the baleful seat 

Of death and horrour, in each room repleat 

With lazy damps, loud groans, and the sad sight 

Of pale grim ghosts, those terrours of the night. 

To this, the last stage that the winding clew 

Of life can lead mortality unto. 

Fear was the dreadful porter, which let in 

All guests sent thither by destructive sin. 

It is possible that I may have written from the recollection 
of this passage. The conceit is the same, and I willingly at- 
tribute it to Chamberlayne, a poet to whom I am indebted for 
many hours of delight. 



Note 4, 



, col. 2. — Shall the huge camel pass. 



I had originally written cable instead of camel. The alter- 
ation would not be worth noticing were it not for the reason 
which occasioned it. Facilius elephas per foramen acus, ia 
among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius ; the same 
metaphor is found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this 
confirms beyond all doubt the common reading of Matt. xix. 24 



Note 



col. 2. — Large draughts of molten gold. 



The same idea, and almost the same words, are in one of 
Ford's plays. The passage is a very fine one : 

Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, 
Almost condemn'd alive ! There is a place, 
(List, daughter !) in a black and hollow vault, 
Where day is never seen ; there shines no sun. 
But flaming horror of consuming fires ; 
A lightless sulphur, choaked with smoaky foggs 
Of an infected darkness. In this place 
Dwell many thousand thousands simdry sorts 
Of never-dying deaths ; there damned souls 
Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed 
With toads and adders : there is burning oil 
Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, the usurer 
Is forced to sup lohole draughts of molten gold j 
There is the murderer for ever stabb'd. 
Yet he can never die ; there lies the wanton 
On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul 
He feels the torment of his raging lust. 

' Tis Pity she's a Whore. 

I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite aa 
it is, was new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions 
of hell, and perhaps owes its origin to the fate of Crassus. 



Note 6, p. 92, col. 1. — Titus was here. 

During the siege of Jerusalem, " the Roman commander, 
with a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true 
heroism, labored incessantly, and to the very last moment, to 
preserve the place. With this view, he again and again en- 
treated the tyrants to surrender and save their lives. With 
the same view also, after carrying the second wall, the siege 
was intermitted four days : to rouse their fears, prisoners, to 
the number of five hundred or more, were crucified daily before 
the walls ; till space, Josephus says, was wanting for the crosses, 
and crosses for the captives." — Churton's Bampton Lectures 

If any of my readers should inquire why Titus Vespasian, 
the delight of mankind, is placed in such a situation, — I 
answer, for this instance of " his generous clemency, that in- 
separable attendant on true heroism! " 



96 



PREFACE TO JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS. 



]N"oTE 7, p. 93, col. 2. — InJialed the cool delight. 

In the cabinet of the Alhambra, where the queen used to 
dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, 
there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which 
perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. 
The doors and windows are disposed so as to afford the most 
agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon 
the eyes. Fresh currents of air, too, are admitted, so as to 



renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment 
Sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed 
to Florian's Oonsalvo of Cordova. 



Note 8, p. 94, col. 2. — The snow-drop hung its head. 

" The grave matron does not perceive how time has im- 
paired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same 
snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the virgin." 

P. H. 



StttitwtU a^nsr jMitiur Wt^tmn 



VOL. I. 

What I WAS, is passed by Wither. 



PREFACE. 

The earliest pieces in these Juvenile and Minor 
Poems were written before the writer had left 
school ; between the date of these and of the latest 
there is an interval of six and forty years : as much 
difference, therefore, may be perceived in them, as 
in the different stages of life from boyhood to old 
age. 

Some of the earliest appeared in a little volume 
published at Bath in the autumn of 1794, with this 
title : — " Poems containing the Retrospect, &c. 
by Robert Lovell and Robert Southey, 1795 } " and 
with this motto : — 

Minuentur atrce 
Carmine ctirce. — Horace. 

At the end of that volume, Joan of Arc was an- 
nounced as to be published by subscription. 

Others were published at Bristol, 1797, in a sin- 
gle volume, with this motto from Akenside : — 

Goddess of the Lyre, — 

with thee comes 
Majestic Truth ; and where Truth deigns to come, 
His sister Liberty will not be far. 

A second volume followed at Bristol in 1799, 
after the second edition of Joan of Arc, and com- 
mencing with the Vision of the Maid of Orleans. 
The motto to this was from the Epilogue to Spen- 
ser's Shepherds' Calendar : — 

The better, please ; the worse, displease : I ask no more. 

In the third edition of Joan of Arc, the Vision 
was printed separately, at the end ; and its place 
was supplied in the second edition of the Poems by 
miscellaneous pieces. 

A separate volume, entitled " Metrical Tales and 
other Poems," was published in 1805, with this 
advertisement : — " These Poems were published 
some years ago in the Annual Anthology. (Bris- 
tol, 1799, 1800.) They have now been revised and 



printed in this collected form, because they have 
pleased those readers whom the author was most 
desirous of pleasing. Let them be considered as 
the desultory productions of a man sedulously em- 
ployed upon better things." 

These various pieces were re-arranged in three 
volumes, under the title of Minor Poems, in 1815, 
with this motto. 



Jfos hcec novimus 



nihil . 



and they were published a second time in the same 
form, 1823. 

The Ballads and Metrical Tales contained in 
those volumes belong to a different part of this 
collection ; their other contents are comprised here ; 
and the present volume consists, with very few 
exceptions, of pieces written in youth or early 
manhood. One of these, written in my twentieth 
year, not having been published at the time, would 
never have been made public by my own act 
and deed ; but as Wat Tyler obtained considerable 
notoriety upon its surreptitious publication, it 
seemed proper that a production which will be 
specially noticed whenever the author shall be 
delivered over to the biographers, should be inclu- 
ded here. They who may desire to know more 
than is stated in the advertisement now prefixed 
to it, are referred to a Letter addressed to William 
Smith, Esq. M. P., 1817, reprinted in the second 
volume of my Essays Moral and Political, 1832. 

The second volume of this part of the Collection 
contains one juvenile piece, and many which were 
written in early manhood. The remainder were 
composed in middle or later life, and comprise 
(with one exception that Avill more conveniently 
be arranged elsewhere) all the odes which as Poet 
Laureate I have Avritten upon national occasions. 
Of these the Carmen Triumphalc^ and the Carmina 
Aulica^ were separately published in quarto in 1814, 
and reprinted together in a little volume in 1821. 

The Juvenile and Minor Poems in this Col- 
lection bear an inconsiderable proportion to those 



PREFACE TO JUVENILE AND MINOR POEMS, 



97 



of substantive length : for a small part only of my 
youthful eJETusions were spared from those autos- 
da-fe in which from time to time piles upon piles 
have been consumed. In middle life works of 
greater extent, or of a different kind, left me little 
leisure for occasional poetry ; the impulse ceased, 
and latterly the inclination was so seldom felt, that 
it required an effort to call it forth. 

Sir William Davenant, in the Preface to Gon- 
dibert, '■ took occasion to accuse and condemn all 
those hasty digestions of thought which were pub- 
lished in his youth ; a sentence, said he, not pro- 
nounced out of melancholy rigour, but from a 
cheerful obedience to the just authority of expe- 
rience. For that grave mistress of the world, ex- 
perience (in whose profitable school those before 
the Flood stayed long, but we, like w^anton chil- 
dren, come thither late, yet too soon are called out 
of it, and fetched home by death) hath taught me 
that the engender ings of unripe age become abor- 
tive and deformed ; and that 't is a high presump- 
tion to entertain a nation (who are a poet's stand- 
ing guest, and require monarchical respect) with 
hasty provisions ; as if a poet might imitate the 
familiar despatch of faulconers, mount his Pegasus, 
unhood his Muse, and, with a few flights, boast he 
hath provided a feast for a prince. Such posting 
upon Pegasus I have long since foreborne." Yet 
this eminently thoughtful poet was so far from 
seeking to suppress the crude compositions which 
he thus condemned, that he often expressed a great 
desire to see all his pieces collected in one volume ; 
and, conformably to his wish, they were so collect- 
ed, after his decease, by his widow and his friend 
Herringman the bookseller. 

Agreeing with Davenant in condemning the 
greater part of my juvenile pieces, it is only as cru- 
dities that 1 condemn them ; for in all that I have 
written, whether in prose or verse, there has 
never been a line which, for any compunctious 
reason, living or dying, I could wish to blot. 

Davenant had not changed his opinion of his 
own youthful productions so as to overlook in his 
age the defects which he had once clearly per- 
ceived ; but he knew that pieces which it would 
indeed have been presumptuous to re-produce on 
the score of their merit, might yet be deemed 
worthy of preservation on other grounds; that to 
his family and friends, and to those who might 
take any interest in English poetry hereafter, they 
would possess peculiar value, as characteristic 
memorials of one who had held no inconsiderable 
place in the literature of his own times ; feeling, 
too, that he was not likely to be forgotten by poster- 
ity, he thought that after the specimen which he had 
produced in his Gondibert of a great and elaborate 
poem, his early attempts would be regarded with 
curiosity by such of his successors as should, like 
him, study poetry as an art, — for as an art it must 
be studied by those who would excel in it, though 
excellence in it is not attainable by art alone. 

The cases are very few in which anything more 

can be inferred from juvenile poetry, than that the 

aspirant possesses imitative talent, and the power 

of versifying, for which, as for music, there must 

13 



be a certain natural aptitude. It is not merely 
because " they have lacked culture and the inspi- 
ring aid of books," * that so many poets who have 
been "sown by Nature," have " v/anted the ac- 
complishment of verse," and brought forth no fruit 
after their kind. Men of the highest culture, of 
whose poetical temperament no doubt can be en- 
tertained, and who had " taken to the height the 
measure of themselves," have yet failed in their 
endeavor to become poets, for want of that accom- 
plishment. It is frequently possessed without any 
other qualification, or any capacity for improve- 
ment; but then the innate and incurable defect 
that renders it abortive, is at once apparent. 

The state of literature in this kingdom during 
the last fifty years has produced the same effect 
upon poetry that academies produce upon paint- 
ing ; in both arts every possible assistance is 
afforded to imitative talents, and in both they are 
carried as far as the talent of imitation can reach. 
But there is one respect in which poetry differs 
widely from the sister arts. Its fairest promise 
frequently proves deceitful, whereas both in paint- 
ing and music the early indications of genius are 
unequivocal. The children who were called musi- 
cal prodigies, have become great musicians ; and 
great painters, as far as their history is known, 
have displayed in childhood that accuracy of eye, 
and dexterity of hand, and shaping facult}^, which 
are the prime requisites for their calling. But il 
is often found that young poets, of whom great 
expectations were formed, have made no progress^ 
and have even fallen short of their first perform- 
ances. It may be said that this is because men 
apply themselves to music and to painting as their 
professions, but that no one makes poetry the 
business of his life. This, however, is not the 
only reason : the indications, as has already been 
observed, are far less certain ; and the circum- 
stances of society are far less favorable for the moral 
and intellectual culture which is required for all 
the higher branches of poetry, — all, indeed, that 
deserves the name. 

My advice, as topublishing, has often been asked 
by young poets, who suppose that experience has 
qualified me to give it, and who have notyetlearnt 
how seldom advice is taken, and how little there- 
fore it is worth. As a general rule, it may be said 
that one who is not deceived in the estimate which 
he has formed of his own powers, can neither 
write too much in his youth, nor publish too little. 
It cannot, however, be needful to caution tlie 
present race of poetical adventurers against hurry- 
ing with their productions to the press, for there 
are obstacles enough in the way of publication. 
Looking back upon my own career, and acknowl- 
edging my imprudence in this respect, I have, nev- 
ertheless, no cause to wish that I had pursued a 
different course. In this, as in other circum- 
stances of my life, I have reason to be thankful to 
that merciful Providence which shaped the ends 
that I had roughly hewn for myself. 

KeswicK; Sept. 30, 1837. 

* Wordsworth. 



THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN, 



TO EDITH SOUTHEY. 

With way-worn feet, a traveller woe-begone, 
Life's upward road I journey'd many a day, 
And framing many a sad yet soothing lay, 

Beguiled the solitary hours with song. 
Lonely my heart and rugged was the way, 
Yet often pluck'd I, as I past along. 

The wild and simple flowers of poesy ; 

And sometimes, unreflecting as a child, 
Entwined the weeds which pleased a random eye. 
Take thou the wreath. Beloved ! it is wild 
And rudely garlanded ; yet scorn not thou 
The humble offering, where dark rosemary weaves 

Amid gay flowers its melancholy leaves. 

And myrtle gathered to adorn thy brov/. 

Bristol, 1796. 



THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 



The Subject of this Poem is taken from the third and fourth 
Chapters of the First Book of Esdras. 



TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT. 

The lily cheek, the " purple light of love," 
The liquid lustre of the melting eye, — 
Mary ! of these the Poet sung, for these 
Did Woman triumph ; — turn not thou away 
Contemptuous from the theme. No Maid of Arc 
Had, in those ages, for her country's cause 
Wielded the sword of freedom ; no Roland 
Had borne the palm of female fortitude ; 
No Corde, with self-sacrificing zeal. 
Had glorified again the Avenger's name, 
As erst when Caesar perish'd : haply too 
Some strains may hence be drawn, befitting me 
To offer, nor unworthy thy regard. 



Bristol, 1795. 



Robert Southey. 



THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 

Glad as the weary traveller tempest tost 

To reach secure at length his native coast. 

Who wandering long o'er distant lands hath sped, 

The night-blast wildly howling round his head, 

Known all the woes of want, and felt the storm 

Of the bleak winter parch his shivering form ; 

The journey o'er and every peril past 

Beholds his little cottage-home at last, 

And as he sees afar the smoke curl slow, 

Feels his full eyes with transport overflow ; 

So from the scene where Death and Misery reign, 

And Vice and Folly drench with blood the plain. 

Joyful I turn, to sing how Woman's praise 

Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise, 



Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod, 
And freed the nation best beloved of God. 

Darius gives the feast ; to Persia's court. 
Awed by his will, the obedient throng resort : 
Attending Satraps swell their prince's pride. 
And vanquish'd Monarchs grace the Conqueror's 

side. 
No more the warrior wears the garb of war. 
Girds on the sword, or mounts the scythed car ; 
No more Judsea's sons dejected go. 
And hang the head, and heave the sigh of woe. 
From Persia's rugged hills descend the train, 
From where Orontes foams along the plain, 
From where Choaspes rolls his royal waves, 
And India sends her sons, submissive slaves. 
Thy daughters, Babylon, for this high feast 
Weave the loose robe, and paint the flowery vest, 
With roseate wreaths they braid the glossy hair, 
They tinge the cheek which nature form'd so fair, 
Learn the soft step, the soul-subduing glance, 
Melt in the song, and swim adown the dance. 
Exalted on the Monarch's golden throne, 
In royal state the fair Apame shone ; 
Her form of majesty, her eyes of fire. 
Chill with respect, or kindle with desire ; 
The admiring multitude her charms adore, 
And own her worthy of the rank she bore. 

Now on his couch reclined Darius lay. 
Tired with the toilsome pleasures of the day ; 
Without Judaea's watchful sons await. 
To guard the sleeping idol of the state. 
Three youths were these of Judah's royal race. 
Three youths whom Nature dower'd with every 

grace. 
To each the form of symmetry she gave, 
And haughty genius cursed each favorite slave j 
These fill'd the cup, around the Monarch kept. 
Served when he spake, and guarded while he slept. 

Yet oft for Salem's hallow'd towers laid low 
The sigh would heave, the unbidden tear would 

flow ; 
And when the dull and wearying round of power 
Allow 'd Zorobabel one vacant hour. 
He loved on Babylon's high wall to roam. 
And lingering gaze toward his distant home ; 
Or on Euphrates' willowy banks reclined 
Hear the sad harp moan fitful to the wind. 

[light. 

As now the perfumed lamps stream wide their 
And social converse cheers the livelong night, 
Thus spake Zorobabel : " Too long in vain 
For Zion desolate her sons complain ; 
All hopelessly our years of sorrow flow. 
And these proud heathen mock their captives' woe. 
While Cyrus triumph'd here in victor state 
A brighter prospect cheer'd our exiled fate ; 
Our sacred walls again he bade us raise, 
And to Jehovah rear the pile of praise. 
Quickly these fond hopes faded from our eyes, 
As the frail sun that gilds the wintry skies. 
And spreads a moment's radiance o'er the plain, 
Soon hid by clouds which dim the scene again. 



THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 



99 



" Opprest by Artaxerxes' jealous reign, 
We vainly pleaded here, and wept in vain. 
Now when Darius, chief of mild command, 
Bids joy and pleasure fill the festive land, 
Still shall we droop the head in sullen grief, 
And sternly silent shun to seek relief? 
What if amid the Monarch's mirthful throng 
Our harps should echo to the cheerful song ? " 

" Fair is the occasion," thus the one replied ; 
*' Now tlien let all our tuneful skill be tried. 
And while the courtiers quaff the smiling bowl, 
And wine's strong fumes inspire the gladden'd soul, 
Where all around is merriment, be mine 
To strike the lute, and praise the power of Wine." 

" And while," his friend rejoin'd, " in state alone, 
Lord of the earth, Darius fills the throne. 
Be yours the mighty power of Wine to sing. 
My lute shall sound the praise of Persia's King." 

To them Zorobabel : " On themes like these 
Seek ye the Monarch of Mankind to please ; 
To Wine superior, or to Power's strong arms, 
Be mine to sing resistless Woman's charms. 
To him victorious in the rival lays 
Shall just Darius give the meed of praise ; 
A purple robe his honor' d frame shall fold, 
The beverage sparkle in his cup of gold ; 
A golden couch support his bed of rest. 
The chain of honor grace his favor'd breast; 
His the rich turban, his the car's array, 
On Babylon's high wall to wheel its way; 
And for his wisdom seated on the throne, 
For the King's Cousin shall the Bard be known." 

Intent they meditate the future lay. 
And watch impatient for the dawn of day. 
The morn rose clear, and shrill were heard the flute. 
The cornet, sackbut, dulcimer, and lute ; 
To Babylon's gay streets the throng resort, 
Swarm through the gates, and fill the festive court. 
High on his throne Darius tower'd in pride. 
The fair Apame graced her Sovereign's side : 
And now she smiled, and now with mimic frown 
Placed on her brow the Monarch's sacred crown. 
In transport o'er her faultless form he bends. 
Loves every look, and every act commends. 

And now Darius bids the herald call 
Judaea's Bards to grace the thronging hall. 
Hush'd are all sounds, the attending crowd are 

mute, 
And then the Hebrew gently touch'd the lute : 

When the Traveller on his way, 
Who has toil'd the livelong day, 
Feels around on every side 
The chilly mists of eventide. 
Fatigued and faint his weary mind 
Recurs to all he leaves behind ; 
He thinks upon the well-trimm'd hearth, 
The evening hour of social mirth, 
And her who at departing day 
Weeps for her husband far away. 



Oh give to him the flowing bowl ! 
Bid it renovate his soul ! 
Then shall sorrow sink to sleep. 
And he who wept no more shall weep ; 
For his care-clouded brow shall clear, 
And his glad eye will sparkle through the tear. 

When the poor man heart-opprest 
Betakes him to his evening rest, 
And worn with labor thinks in sorrow 
On the labor of to-morrow ; 
When repining at his lot 
He hies him to his joyless cot, 
And loathes to meet his children there, 
The rivals for his scanty fare ; 
Oh give to him the flowing bowl ! 
Bid it renovate his soul ! 
The generous juice with magic power 
Shall cheat with happiness the hour, 
And with each warm affection fill 
The heart by want and wretchedness made chill 

When, at the dim close of day, 
The Captive loves alone to stray 
Along the haunts recluse and rude 
Of sorrow and of solitude ; 
When he sits with mournful eye 
To mark the lingering radiance die, 
And lets distempered fancy roam 
Amid the ruins of his home ; — 
Oh give to him the flowing bowl ! 
Bid it renovate his soul ! 
The bowl shall better thoughts bestow, 
And lull to rest his wakeful woe, 
And joy shall gild the evening hour, 
And make the Captive Fortune's conqueror. 

When the wearying cares of state 
Oppress the Monarch with their weight, 
When from his pomp retired alone 
He feels the duties of the throne. 
Feels that the multitude below 
Depend on him for weal or woe ; 
When his powerful will may bless 
A realm with peace and happiness, 
Or with desolating breath 
Breathe ruin round, and woe, and death ; 
Oh give to him the flowing bowl ! 
Bid it humanize his soul ! 
He shall not feel the empire's weight ; 
He shall not feel the cares of state ; 
The bowl shall each dark thought beguile, 
And Nations live and prosper from his smile, 

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased the song. 
Long peals of plaudits echoed from the throng ; 
All tongues the liberal words of praise repaid, 
On every cheek a smile applauding play'd ; 
The rival Bard approach' d, he struck the string. 
And pour'd the loftier song to Persia's King. 

Why should the wearying cares of state 
Oppress the Monarch with their weight .? 

Alike to him if peace shall bless 

The multitude with happiness j 



100 



THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN 



Alike to him if frenzied War 
Career triumphant on the embattled plain, 
And rolling on o'er myriads slain, 
With gore and wounds shall clog his scythed car. 

What though the tempest rage ? no sound 
Of the deep thunder shakes his distant throne ; 
And the red flash that spreads destruction round 
Reflects a glorious splendor on the crown. 

Where is the Man who with ennobling pride 
Regards not his own nature ? where is he 
Who without awe can see 
The mysteries of the human mind, 
The miniature of Deity ? 
For Man the vernal clouds descending 

Shower down their fertilizing rain ; 
For Man the ripen'd harvest bending 
Waves with soft murmur o'er the plenteous plain. 
He spreads the sail to catch the favoring gale. 
Or sweeps with oars the main ; 
For him the winds of heaven subservient blow. 
Earth teems for him, for him the waters flow, 
He thinks, and wills, and acts, a Deity below ! 

Where is the King who with elating pride 
Sees not this Man, this godlike Man his slave .'' 
Mean are the mighty by the Monarch's side ; 
Alike the wise, alike the brave 
With timid step and pale, advance, 
And tremble at the royal glance ; 
Suspended millions watch his breath. 
Whose smile is happiness, whose frown is death. 

Why goes the Peasant from that little cot. 

Where Peace and Love have blest his humble life .'' 

In vain his wretched wife 

With tears bedews her husband's face, 

And clasps him in a long and last embrace ; 

In vain his children round his bosom creep, 

And weep to see their mother weep, 
Fettering their father with their little arms ! 
What are to him the war's alarms ? 
What are to him the distant foes .'' 
He at the earliest dawn of day 
To daily labor went his way, 
And when he saw the sun decline. 
He sat in peace beneath his vine. 
The King commands, the peasant goes, 
From all he loved on earth he flies. 
And for his monarch toils, and fights, and bleeds, 
and dies. 

What though yon city's castled wall 
Cast o'er the darken'd plain its crested shade ? 
What though her Priests in earnest terror call 
On all their host of Gods to aid ? 
Vain is the bulwark, vain the tower ! 

In vain her gallant youth expose 
Their breasts, a bulwark, to the foes ! 
In vain at that tremendous hour, 
Clasp'd in the savage soldier's reeking arms. 
Shrieks to deaf Heaven the violated Maid ! 
By the rude hand of Ruin scatter'd round. 
Their moss-grown towers shall spread the desert 
ground. 



Low shall the mouldering palace lie, 
Amid the princely halls the grass wave high, 
And through the shatter' d roof descend the in- 
clement sky. 

Gay o'er the embattled plain 

Moves yonder warrior train ; 

Their banners wanton on the morning gale j 

Full on their bucklers beams the rising ray ; 

Their glittering helms give glory to the day; 

The shout of war rings echoing o'er the vale. 

Far reaches as the aching eye can strain 

The splendid horror of their wide array. 

Ah ! not in vain expectant, o'er 
Their glorious pomp the vultures soar ! 
Amid the Conqueror's palace high 
Shall sound the song of victory ; 
Long after journeying o'er the plain 
The traveller shall with startled eye [ter sky. 
See their white bones then blanched by many a win- 
Lord of the earth ! we will not raise 
The temple to thy bounded praise ; 
For thee no victim need expire. 
For thee no altar blaze with hallow'd fire ; 
The burning City flames for thee, 
Thine Altar is the field of victory ! 
Thy sacred Majesty to bless 
Man a self-offer'd victim freely flies; 

To thee he sacrifices happiness, 
And peace, and Love's endearing ties; 
To thee a Slave he lives, for thee a Slave he dies. 

Hush'd was the lute, the Hebrew ceased to sing; 
The shout burst forth, " Forever live the King ! " 
Loud was the uproar, as when Rome's decree 
Pronounced Achaia once again was free ; 
Assembled Greece enrapt with fond belief [Chief. 
Heard the false boon, and bless'd the treacherous 
Each breast with freedom's holy ardor glows, 
From every voice the cry of rapture rose ; 
Their thundering clamors rend the astonished sky, 
And birds o'erpassing hear, and drop, and die. 
Thus o'er the Persian dome their plaudits ring. 
And the high hall reechoed — "Live the King! " 
The mutes bow'd reverent down before their Lord, 
The assembled Satraps envied and adored, 
Joy sparkled in the Monarch's conscious eyes. 
And his pleased pride already doom'd the prize. 

Silent they saw Zorobabel advance : 
He to Apame turn'd his timid glance ; 
With downward eye he paused, a moment mute, 
Then with light finger touch'd the softer lute. 
Apame knew the Hebrew's grateful cause, 
And bent her head, and sweetly smiled applause. 

Why is the warrior's cheek so red ? 
Why downward droops his musing head ? 
Why that slow step, that faint advance. 
That keen yet quick retreating glance ? 
That crested head in war tower'd high ; 
No backward glance disgraced that eye, 
No flushing fear that cheek o'erspread. 
When stern he strode o'er heaps of dead : 



THE TRIUMPH OF WOMAN. 



101 



Strange tumult now his bosom moves, — 
The Warrior fears because he loves. 

Why does the Youth delight to rove 
Amid the dark and lonely grove ? 
Why in the throng where all are gay, 
With absent eyes from gayety distraught, 
Sits he alone in silent thought ? 

Silent he sits, for far away 
His passion'd soul delights to stray ; 
Recluse he roves as if he fain would shun 
All human-kind, because he loves but One ! 

Yes, King of Persia, thou art blest ! 

But not because the sparkling bowl 

To rapture elevates thy waken'd soul ; 

But not because of power possest; 

Nor that the Nations dread thy nod, 
And princes reverence thee their earthly God ! 
Even on a monarch's solitude 
Will Care, dark visitant, intrude; 

The bowl brief pleasure can bestow ; 

The purple cannot shield from woe ; 

But, King of Persia, thou art blest. 
For Heaven who raised thee thus the world above. 
Hath made thee happy in Apame's love ! 

Oh ! I have seen him fondly trace 
The heavenly features of her face. 
Rove o'er her form with eager eye. 
And sigh and gaze, and gaze and sigh. 
See ! from his brow with mimic frown 
Apame takes the sacred crown ; 
Those sparkling eyes, that radiant face, 
Give to the diadem new grace : 
And subject to a Woman's laws, 
Darius sees, and smiles applause ! 

He ceased, and silent still remain'd the throng. 
While rapt attention own'd the power of song. 
Then, loud as when the wintry whirlwinds blow. 
From every voice the thundering plaudits flow ; 
Darius smiled, Apame's sparkling eyes 
Glanced on the King, and Woman won the prize. 

Now silent sate the expectant crowd : Alone 
The victor Hebrew gazed not on the throne ; 
With deeper hue his cheek distemper'd glows, 
With statelier stature loftier now he rose ; 
Heavenward he gazed, regardless of the throng, 
And pour'd with awful voice sublimer song. 

" Ancient of days ! Eternal Truth ! one hymn. 
One holier strain the Bard shall raise to Thee, 
Thee Powerful ! Thee Benevolent ! Thee Just ! 
Friend! Father! All in all! — The Vine's rich 
blood, [charms. 

The Monarch's might, and Woman's conquering 
These shall we praise alone .? — O ye who sit 
Beneath your vine, and quaff at evening hour 
The healthful bowl, remember Him whose dews. 
Whose rains, whose sun, matured the growing fruit, 
Creator and Preserver ! — Reverence Him, 
O Thou who from thy throne dispensest life 
And death, for He hath delegated power, 



And thou shalt one day at the throne of God 

Render thy strict account ! — And ye who gaze 

Enrapt on Beauty's fascinating form. 

Gaze on with love ; and loving beauty, learn 

To shun abhorrent all the mental eye 

Beholds deform' d and foul ; for so shall Love 

Climb to the soiirce of goodness. God of Truth! 

All Just ! All Mighty ! I should ill deserve 

Thy noblest gift, the gift divine of song, 

If, so content with ear-deep melodies 

To please all-profitless, I did not pour 

Severer strains, — of Truth — eternal Truth, 

Unchanging Justice, universal Love. 

Such strains awake the Soul to loftiest thoughts ; 

Such strains the blessed Spirits of the Good 

Waft, grateful incense, to the Halls of Heaven." 

The dying notes still murmur'd on the string, 
When from his throne arose the raptured King. 
About to speak he stood, and waved his hand. 
And all expectant sate the obedient band. 

Then just and generous, thus the Monarch cries, 
"Be thine, Zorobabel, the well-earn'd prize. 
The purple robe of state thy form shall fold. 
The beverage sparkle in tliy cup of gold. 
The golden couch, the car, and lionor'd chain, 
Requite the merits of thy favor'd strain. 
And raised supreme the ennobled race among, 
Be call'd My Cousin for the victor song. 
Nor these alone the victor song shall bless ; 
Ask what thou wilt, and what thou wilt 



" Fallen is Jerusalem ! " the Hebrew cries, 
And patriot anguish fills his streaming eyes, 
" Hurl'd to the earth by Rapine's vengeful rod. 
Polluted lies the temple of our God ; 
Far in a foreign land her sons remain, 
Hear the keen taunt, and drag the galling chain 
In fruitless woe they wear the weary years. 
And steep the bread of bitterness in tears. 
O Monarch, greatest, mildest, best of men. 
Restore us to those ruin'd walls again ! 
Allow us to rebuild that sacred dome, 
To live in liberty, and die at Home." 

So spake Zorobabel. — Thus Woman's praise 
Avail'd again Jerusalem to raise, 
Call'd forth the sanction of the Despot's nod. 
And freed the Nation best beloved of God. 

Brixton Causeway, 1793. 



WAT TYLER 



A DRAMA. 



Twenty 3'ears ago, upon the surreptitious publication of this 
notable Drama, and the use which was made of it, I said 
what it then became me to say in a letter to one of those 
gentlemen who thought proper to revile me, not for having 
entertained democratical opinions, but for having outgrown 
them, and learnt to appreciate and to defend the institutions 
of my country. 



102 



WAT TYLER 



Had I written lewdly in my youth, like Beza,— like Beza, I 
would ask pardon of God and man ; and no considerations 
should induce me to reprint what I could never think of 
without sorrow and shame. Had I at any time, like St. 
Augustine, taught doctrines which I afterwards perceived 
to be erroneous, — and if, as in his case, my position in 
society, and the estimation in which I was held, gave weight 
to what I had advanced, and made those errors dangerous to 
others, — like St. Augustine, I would publish my retrac- 
tations, and endeavor to counteract the evil which, though 
errin^ly, with no evil intention, I had caused. 

Wherefore than, it may be asked, have I included Wat Tyler 
in this authentic collection of my poetical works .'' For 
these reasons, — that it may not be supposed I think it any 
reproach to have written it, or that I am more ashamed of 
having been a republican, than of having been a boy. Qiii- 
cunqae ista lecturi sunt, non me imitentur errantem,sed in melius 
pruficienlem. Invenlet enimfortasse, quoiiiodo scribendo pro- 
fecerim, qaisqitis opiiscala riiea, ordine quo scripla sunt, 
legerit.* 

1 have endeavored to correct in my other juvenile pieces such 
faults as were corrigible. But Wat Tyler appears just as 
it was written, in the course of three mornings, in 1794 ; 
the stolen copy, which was committed to the press twenty- 
three years afterwards, not having undergone the slightest 
correction of any kind. 



ACT I. 



Scene. A Blacksmith's shop; Wat Tyler at 
work within; a May-pole before the door. 

Alice, Piers, &c. 

SONG. 

Cheerful on this holiday. 
Welcome we the merry May. 

On every sunny hillock spread, 
The pale primrose lifts her head ; 
Rich with sweets, the western gale 
Sweeps along the cowslip'd dale ; 
Every bank, with violets gay, 
Smiles to welcome in the May. 

The linnet from the budding grove 
Chirps her vernal song of love. 
The copse resounds the throstle's notes ; 
On each wild gale sweet music floats ; 
And melody from every spray 
Welcomes in the merry May. 

Cheerful on this holiday. 

Welcome we the merry May. [Dance. 

[During the dance, Tyler lays dozen his hammer, 
and sits mournfully down before the door. 

Hob Carter. Why so sad, neighbor.? — do not 
these ga.y sports. 
This revelry of youth, recall the days 
When we too mingled in the revelry. 
And lightly tripping in the morris dance. 
Welcomed the merry month .' 

Tyler. Ay, we were young ; 

No cares had quell'd the heyday of the blood ; 
We sported deftly in the April morning, 

♦ St. Augustine, 



Nor mark'd the black clouds gathering o'er our 
Nor fear'd the storm of night. [noon, 

Hob. Beshrew me, Tyler, 

But my heart joys to see the imps so cheerful ! 
Young, hale, and happy, why should they destroy 
These blessings by reflection ? 

Tyler. Look ye, neighbor — 

You have known me long. 

Hob. Since we were boys together, 

And play'd at barley -brake, and danced the morr-«. 
Some five-and-twenty years ! 

Tyler. Was not / young, 

And hale, and happy ? 

Hob. Cheerful as the best. [man ? 

Tyler. Have not I been a staid, hard-working 
Up with the lark at labor } sober, honest, 
Of an unblemish'd character ? 

Hob. Who doubts it? 

There's never a man in Essex bears a better. 

Tyler. And shall not these, though young, and 
hale, and happy, 
Look on with sorrow to the future hour ? 
Shall not reflection poison all their pleasures .'* 
When I — the honest, staid, hard-working Tyler, 
Toil through the long course of the summer's day, 
Still toiling, yet still poor ! when with hard labor 
Scarce can I furnish out my daily food. 
And age comes on to steal away my strength. 
And leave me poor and wretched ! Why should 

this be .'' 
My youth was regular — my labor constant — 
I married an industrious, virtuous woman ; 
Nor while I toil'd and sweated at the anvil, 
Sat she neglectful of her spinning-wheel. 
Hob ! 1 have only six groats in the world. 
And they must soon by law be taken from me. 

Hob. Curse on these taxes — one succeeds an 
other — 
Our ministers, panders of a king's will. 
Drain all our wealth away, waste it in revels. 
And lure, or force away our boys, who should be 
The props of our old age, to fill their armies. 
And feed the crows of France. Year follows year, 
And still we madly prosecute the war ; 
Draining our wealth, distressing our poor peasants, 
Slaughtering our youths — and all to crown our 

chiefs 
With glory ! — I detest the hell-sprung name. 

Tzjler. What matters me who wears the crown 
of France ? 
Whether a Richard or a Charles possess it ? 
They reap the glory — they enjoy the spoil — 
We pay — we bleed! The sun would shine as 
The rains of heaven as seasonably fall, [cheerly, 
Though neither of these royal pests existed. 

Hob. Nay, as for that, we poor men should fare 
better ; 
No legal robbers then should force away 
The hard-earn'd wages of our honest toil. 
The Parliament forever cries more money; 
The service of the state demands more money. 
Just heaven ! of what service is the state ? 

Tyler. Oh, 'tis of vast importance ! who should 
The luxuries and riots of the court ? [p^y for 

Who should support the flaunting courtier's pride, 



WAT TYLER. 



103 



Pay for their midnight revels, their rich garments, 
Did not the state enforce ? — Think ye, my friend. 
That 1, a humble blacksmith, here at Deptford, 
Would part with these six groats — earn'd by hard 

toil. 
All that 1 have ! to massacre the Frenchmen, 
Murder as enemies men I never saw I 
Did not tlie state compel me ? 
(Tiix-gaihercrs pass by.) There they go, 

Privileged ruffians ! [Piers S/- Alice adcance to him. 

Alice. Did we not dance it well to-day, my fa- 
ther ? 
You know I always loved these village sports. 
Even from my infancy, and yet methinks 
I never tripp'd along the mead so gayly. 
You know they chose me queen, and your friend 

Piers 
Wreathed me this cowslip garland for my head — 
Is it not simple ? — You are sad, my father ! 
You should have rested from your work to-day, 
And given a few hours up to merriment — 
But you are so serious ! 

Tijler. Serious, my good girl ! 

I may well be so : when I look at thee, 
It makes me sad ! thou art too fair a flower 
To bear the wintry wind of poverty. 

Piers. Yet I have often heard you speak of 
riches 
Even with contempt; they cannot purchase peace. 
Or innocence, or virtue ; sounder sleep 
Waits on the weary ploughman's lowly bed, 
Than on tlie downy couch of luxury 
Lulls the rich slave of pride and indolence. 
1 never wish for wealth ; my arm is strong. 
And I can purchase by it a coarse meal. 
And hunger savors it. 

Tyler. Young man, thy mind 

Has yet to learn the hard lesson of experience. 
Thou art yet young : the blasting breath of want 
Has not yet froze the current of thy blood. 

Piers. Fare not the birds well, as from spray to 
spray. 
Blithesome they bound, yet find their simple food 
Scatter' d abundantly .'' 

Tyler. No fancied boundaries of mine and thine 
Restrain their wanderings. Nature gives enough 
For all ; but Man, with arrogant selfishness. 
Proud of his heaps, hoards up superfluous stores 
Robb'd from his weaker follows, starves the poor, 
Or gives to pity what he owes to justice ! 

Piers. So I have heard our good friend John 
Ball preach. [prison'd ? 

Alice. My father, wherefore was John Ball ini- 
Was he not charitable, good, and pious ? 
I have heard him say that all mankind are brethren, 
And that like brethren they should love each other ; 
Was not that doctrine pious ? 

Tyler. Rank sedition — 

High treason, every syllable, my child ! 
The priests cry out on him for heresy, 
The nobles all detest him as a rebel, 
And this good man, this minister of Christ, 
This man, the friend and brother of mankind, 
Lingers in the dark dungeon ! — My dear Alice, 
Retire awhile. [Exit Alice. 



Piers, I would speak to thee, 
Even with a father's love ! you are much with me, 
And I believe do court my conversation ; 
Thou could'st not choose thee forth a truer friend. 
I would fain see thee happy, but 1 fear 
Thy very virtues will destroy thy peace. 
My daughter — she is young — not yet fifteen : 
Piers, thou art generous, and thy youthful heart 
Warm with aff'ection; this close intimacy 
Will ere long grow to love. 

Piers. Suppose it so ; 

Were that an evil, Walter ? She is mild. 
And cheerful, and industrious : — now methinks 
With such a partner life would be most happy ! 
Why would ye warn me then of wretchedness '' 
Is there an evil that can harm our lot? 
I liave been told the virtuous must be happy, 
And have believed it true : tell me, my friend, 
What shall disturb the virtuous ? 

Tyler. Poverty, 

A bitter foe. 

Piers. Nay, j'ou have often told me 

That happiness does not consist in riches. 

Tyler. It is most true ; but tell me, my dear boy, 
Could'st thou be happy to behold thy wife 
Pining with want.'' the children of your loves 
Clad in the squalid rags of wretchedness ? 
And, when thy hard and unremitting toil 
Had earn'd with pain a scanty recompense, 
Could'st thou be patient when the law should rob 

thee. 
And leave thee without bread, and penniless ? 

Piers. It is a dreadful picture. 

Tyler. 'Tis a true one. 

Piers. But yet methinks our sober industry 
Miglit drive away the danger ! 'tis but little 
That I could wish ; food for our frugal meals, 
Raiment, however homely, and a bed 
To shield us from the night. 

Tyler. Thy honest reason 

Could wish no more : but were it not most wretched 
To want the coarse food for tlie frugal meal .'' 
And by the orders of your merciless lord. 
If you by chance were guilty of being poor. 
To be turn'd out adrift to the bleak world. 
Unhoused, unfriended.^ — Piers, I have not been 

idle, 
I never ate the bread of indolence ; 
Could Alice be more thrifty than her mother.'' 
Yet with but one child, — and that one how good, 
Thou knowest, — I scarcely can provide the wants 
Of nature : look at these wolves of the law, 
They come to drain me of my hard-earn'd wages. 
I have already paid the heavy tax 
Laid on the wool that clothes me, on my leather, 
On all the needful articles of life ! 
And now three groats (and I work'd hard to earn 

them) 
The Parliament demands — and I must pay them, 
Forsooth, for liberty to wear my head. 

[Enter Tax-gatherers. 

Collector. Three groats a head for all your 
family. 

Piers. Why is this money gather'd ? 'tis a hard 
tax 



\ 



104 



WAT TYLER 



On the poor laborer ! It can never be 
That Government should thus distress the people. 
Go to the rich for money — honest labor 
Ought to enjoy its fruits. 

Collector. The state wants money ; 

War is expensive — 'tis a glorious war, 
A war of honor, and must be supported. — 
Three groats a head. 

Ttjler. There, three for my own head. 

Three for my wife's ; what will the state tax next? 

Collector. You have a daughter. 

Tyler. She is below the age — not yet fifteen. 

Collector. You would evade the tax. 

Tyler. Sir Officer, 

1 have paid you fairly what the law demands. 

[Alice and her mother enter the shop. The Tax- 
gatherers go to her. One of them lays hold of 
her. She screams. — Tyler goes in. 

Collector-. You say she's under age. 

[Alice screams again. Tyler knocks out the Tax- 
gatherer s brains. His companions fly. 

Piers. A just revenge. [law 

Tyler. Most just indeed; but in the eye of the 
'Tis murder : and the murderer's lot is mine. 

[Piers goes out — Tyler sits down Tnournfully. 

Alice. Fly, my dear father ! let us leave this place 
Before they raise pursuit. 

Tyler. Nay, nay, my child, 

Flight would be useless — I have done my duty ; 
1 have punish'd the brute insolence of lust, 
And here will wait my doom. 

Wife. Oh, let us fly, 

My husband, my dear husband ! 

Alice. Quit but this place, 

And we may yet be safe, and happy too. 

Tyler. It would be useless, Alice ; 't would but 
lengthen 
A wretched life in fear. 

[Cry z^it/tOM^, Liberty, Liberty ! Enter Mob^ Hob 
Carter, 8fC. crying Liberty ! Liberty ! No 
Poll-tax ! No War ! 

Hob. We have broke our chains; we will arise 
in anger ; 
The mighty multitude shall trample down 
The handful that oppress them. 

Tyler. Have ye heard 

So soon then of my murder 1 

Hob. Of your vengeance. 

Piers ran throughout the village : told the news — 
Cried out. To arms ! — arm, arm for liberty ; 
For Liberty and Justice ! 

Tyler. My good friends, 

Heed well your danger, or be resolute ! 
Learn to laugh menaces and force to scorn. 
Or leave me. I dare answer the bold deed — 
Death must come once : return ye to your homes. 
Protect my wife and child, and on my grave 
Write why I died ; perhaps the time may come, 
When honest Justice shall applaud the deed. 

Hob. Nay, nay, we are oppress'd, and have too 
long 
Knelt at our proud lords' feet ; we have too long 
Obey'd their orders, bow'd to their caprices. 
Sweated for them the wearying summer's day, 
Wasted for them the wages of our toil, 



Fought for them, conquer'd for them, bled for them. 
Still to be trampled on, and still despised ! 
But we have broke our chains. 

Tom Miller. Piers is gone on 

Through all the neighboring villages, to spread 
The glorious tidings. 

Hob. He is hurried on 

To Maidstone, to deliver good John Ball, 
Our friend, our shepherd. [Mob increases. 

Tyler. Friends and countrymen, 

Will ye then rise to save an honest man 
From the fierce clutches of the bloody law ? 
Oh, do not call to mind my private wrongs, [me, 
That the state drain'd my hard-earn'd pittance from 
That, of his office proud, the foul Collector 
Durst with lewd hand seize on my darling child, 
Insult her maiden modesty, and force 
A father's hand to vengeance ; heed not this ; 
Think not, my countrymen, on private wrongs ; 
Remember what yourselves have long endured; 
Think of the insults, wrongs, and contumelies. 
Ye bear from your proud lords — that your hard toil 
Manures their fertile fields — you plough the earth, 
You sow the corn, you reap the ripen'd harvest, — 
They riot on the produce ! — that, like beasts, 
They sell you with their land, claim all the fruits 
Which the kindly earth produces, as their own, 
The privilege, forsooth, of noble birth ! 
On, on to freedom ; feel but your own strength, 
Be but resolved, and these destructive tyrants 
Shall shrink before your vengeance. 

Hob. On to London, — 

The tidings fly before us — the court trembles, — 
Liberty — Vengeance — Justice. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. Blackheath. 
Tyler, Hob, &c. 

SONG. 

' When Adam delved and Eve span, 
Who was then the gentleman .'' ' 

Wretched is the infant's lot, 
Born within the straw-roofd cot; 
Be he generous, wise, or brave. 
He must only be a slave. 
Long, long labor, little rest. 
Still to toil to be oppress'd ; 
Drain'd by taxes of his store, 
Punish'd next for being poor : 
This is the poor wretch's lot. 
Born within the straw-roofd cot. 

While the peasant works, — to sleep, 
What the peasant sows, — to reap, 
On the couch of ease to lie. 
Rioting in revelry ; 
Be he villain, be he fool. 
Still to hold despotic rule, 
Trampling on his slaves with scorn ' 
This is to be nobly born. 



WAT TYLER. 



105 



' When Adam delved and Eve span, 
Who was then the gentleman ? ' 

Jack Straw. The mob are up in London — the 
proud courtiers 
Begin to tremble. 

Tom Miller. Ay, ay, 'tis time to tremble : 

Who'll plough their fields, who'll do their drud- 
gery now, 
And work like horses to give them the harvest? 
Jack Straw. 1 only wonder why we lay quiet so 
long. 
We had always the same strength ; and we 

deserved 
The ills we met with for not using it. 

H>b. Why do we fear those animals call'd lords .'' 
What is there in the name to frighten us .'' 
Is not my arm as mighty as a Baron's .'' 

Enter Piers and John Ball. 
Piers., (to Tyler.) Have 1 done well, my 
father ? 1 remember'd 
This good man lay in prison. 

Tyler. My dear child. 

Most well ; the people rise for liberty. 
And their first deed should be to break the chains 
That binds the virtuous : — Oh, thou honest priest, 
How much hast thou endured ! 

John Ball. Why, ay, my friend ! 

These squalid rags bespeak what I have suffer'd. 
1 was reviled, insulted, left to languish 
In a damp dungeon ; but I bore it cheerily — 
My heart was glad — for I had done my duty. 
I pitied my oppressors, and I sorrow'd 
For the poor men of England. 

Tyler. They have felt 

Their strength : look round this heath; 'tis throng'd 

with men 
Ardent for freedom : mighty is the event 
That waits their fortune. 

John Ball. I would fain address them. 

Tyler. Do so, my friend, and preach to them 
their duty. 
Remind them of their long-withholden rights. 
What ho ! there ; silence ! 

Piers. Silence, there, my friends ; 

This good man would address you. 

Hob. Ay, ay, hear him ; 

He is no mealy-mouth'd court-orator. 
To flatter vice, and pamper lordly pride. 

John Ball. Friends, brethren ! for ye are my 
brethren all ; 
Englishmen, met in arms to advocate 
The cause of freedom, hear me; pause awhile 
In the career of vengeance ! — It is true 
I am a priest, but, as these rags may speak, 
Not one who riots in the poor man's spoil, 
Or trades with his religion. I am one 
Who preach the law of Christ; and, in my life. 
Would practise what he taught. The Son of God 
Came not to you in power : humble in mien. 
Lowly in heart, the man of Nazareth 
Preach'd mercy, justice, love : " Woe unto ye, 
Ye that are rich : if that ye would be saved. 
Sell that ye have, and give unto the poor." 
14 



So taught the Savior. Oh, my honest friends, 

Have ye not felt the strong, indignant throb 

Of justice in your bosoms, to behold 

The lordly Baron feasting on your spoils ? 

Have you not in your hearts arraign'd the lot 

That gave him on the couch of luxury 

To pillow his head, and pass the festive day 

In sportive feasts, and ease, and revelry ? 

Have you not often in your conscience ask'd. 

Why is the difference ; wherefore should that man, 

No worthier than myself, thus lord it over me. 

And bid me labor, and enjoy the fruits.'' 

The God within your breasts has argued thus : 

The voice of truth has murmur'd. Came ye not 

As helpless to the world ? Shines not the sun 

With equal ray on both ? Do ye not feel 

The self-same winds of heaven as keenly parch ye .-* 

Abundant is the earth — the Sire of all 

Saw and pronounced that it was very good. 

Look round : the vernal fields smile with new 

flowers, 
The budding orchard perfumes the sweet breeze, 
And the green corn waves to tlie passing gale. 
There is enough for all ; but your proud Baron 
Stands up, and, arrogant of strength, exclaims, 
" I am a Lord — by nature I am noble : 
These fields are mine, for I was born to them ; 
I was born in the castle — you, poor wretches, 
Whelp'd in the cottage, are by birth my slaves." 
Almighty God ! such blasphemies are utter'd : 
Almighty God ! such blasphemies believed ! 

Tom Miller. This is something like a sermon. 

Jack Straio. Where's the bishop 

Would tell you truths like these .' [apostles. 

Hah. There never was a bishop among all the 

John Ball. My brethren 

Piers. Silence ; the good priest speaks. 

John Ball. My brethren, these are truths, and 
weighty ones ; 
Ye are all equal : nature made ye so. 
Equality is your birthright. — When I gaze 
On the proud palace, and behold one man 
In the blood-purpled robes of royalty, 
Feasting at ease, and lording over millions, 
Then turn me to the hut of poverty. 
And see the wretched laborer, worn with toil. 
Divide his scanty morsel with his infants, 
I sicken, and, indignant at the sight, 
" Blush for the patience of humanity." 

Jack Straio. We will assert our rights. 

Tom Miller. We'll trample down 

These insolent oppressors. 

John Ball. In good truth. 

Ye have cause for anger : but, my honest friends, 
Is it revenge or justice that ye seek.'' 

Mob. Justice I Justice ! 

John Ball. Oh, then remember mercy ; 
And though your proud oppressors spare not you, 
Show you excel them in humanity. 
They will use every art to disunite you ; 
To conquer separately, by stratagem. 
Whom in a mass they fear ; — but be ye firm ; 
Boldly demand your long-forgotten rights. 
Your sacred, your inalienable freedom. 
Be bold — be resolute — be merciful : 



106 



WAT TYLER. 



And while you spurn the hated name of slaves, 
Show you are men. 

Mob. Long live our honest priest. 

Jack Strato. He shall be made archbishop. 

John Ball. My brethren, I am plain John Ball, 
your friend, 
Your equal : by the law of Christ enjoin'd 
To serve you, not command. 

Jack Straw. March we for London. 

Tyler. Mark me, my friends — we rise for Lib- 
erty- 
Justice shall be our guide : let no man dare 
To plunder in the tumult. 

Mob. Lead us on. Liberty ! Justice ! 

[Exeunt, with cries of Liberty ! No Poll-tax ! 
No War. 

Scene II. The Tower. 

King Richard, Archbishop of Canterbury, 

Sir John Tresilian, Walworth, Philpot. 

King. What must we do.^ the danger grows 
more imminent. 
The mob increases. 

Philpot. Every moment brings 

Fresh tidings of our peril. 

King. It were well 

To grant them what they ask. 

Archbishop. Ay, that, my liege 

Were politic. Go boldly forth to meet them, 
Grant all they ask — however wild and ruinous — 
Meantime, the troops you have already summon'd 
Will gather round them. Then my Christian power 
Absolves you of your promise. [the rabble 

Walworth. Were but their ringleaders cut off, 
Would soon disperse. 

Philpot. United in a mass, 

There's nothing can resist them — once divide them. 
And they will fall an easy sacrifice. [them fair. 

Archbishop. Lull them by promises — bespeak 
Go forth, my liege — spare not, if need requires 
A solemn oath to ratify the treaty. 

King. 1 dread their fury. 

Archbishop. 'Tis a needless dread ; 

There is divinity about your person ; 
It is the sacred privilege of Kings, 
Howe'er they act, to render no account 
To man. The people have been taught this lesson, 
Nor can they soon forget it. 

King. 1 will go — 

I will submit to every thing they ask ; 
My day of triumph will arrive at last. [Shouts 
without. 

Enter Messenger. 

Messenger. The mob are at the city gates. 

Archbishop. Haste ! Haste ! 

Address them ere too late. I'll remain here. 
For they detest me much. [Shouts again. 

Enter another Messenger 

Mess. The Londoners have open'd the city gates ; 
The rebels are admitted. [mayor, 

King. Fear then must give me courage. My lord 
Come you with me. [Exeunt. Shouts without. 



Scene III. Smithjield. 
Wat Tyler, John Ball, Piers, (^c. Mob. 

Piers. So far triumphant are we. How these 
nobles. 
These petty tyrants, who so long oppress'd us, 
Shrink at the first resistance ! 

Hob. They were powerful 

Only because we fondly thought them so. 
Where is Jack Straw ? 

Tyler. Jack Straw is gone to the Tower 

To seize the king, and so to end resistance. 

John Ball. It was well judged ; fain would I 
spare the shedding 
Of human blood : gain we that royal puppet, 
And all will follow fairly ; deprived of him, 
The nobles lose their pretext, nor will dare 
Rebel against the people's majesty. 

Enter Herald. 

Herald. Richard the Second, by the grace of God, 
Of England, Ireland, France, and Scotland, King, 
And of the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, 
Would parley with Wat Tyler. 

Tyler. Let him know 

Wat Tyler is in Smithfield. [Exit Herald.] — I will 

parley 
With this young monarch : as he comes to me. 
Trusting my honor, on your lives I charge you 
Let none attempt to harm him. 

John Ball. The faith of courts 

Is but a weak dependence. You are honest — 
And better is it even to die the victim 
Of credulous honesty, than live preserved 
By the cold policy that still suspects. 

Enter King, Walavorth, Philpot, <^c. 

King. I would speak to thee, Wat Tyler : bid 
Retire awhile. [the mob 

Piers. Nay, do not go alone — 

Let me attend you. 

Tyler. Wherefore should I fear ? 

Am I not arm'd with a just cause ? Retire, 
And I will boldly plead the cause of Freedom. 

[Advances. 

King. Tyler, why have you kill'd my officer, 
And led my honest subjects from their homes. 
Thus to rebel against the Lord's anointed ? 

Tyler. Because they were oppress'd. 

King. Was this the way 

To remedy the ill ? You should have tried 
By milder means — petition'd at the throne — 
The throne will always listen to petitions. 

Tyler. King of England, 

Petitioning for pity is most weak — 
The sovereign people ought to demand justice. 
I kill'd your officer, for his lewd hand 
Insulted a maid's modesty. Your subjects 
I lead to rebel against the Lord's anointed. 
Because his ministers have made him odious ; 
His yoke is heavy, and his burden grievous. 
Why do we carry on this fatal war, 
To force upon the French a king they hate, 
Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes, 



WAT TYLER. 



107 



Forcing his hard-earn'd fruits from the honest 

peasant, 
Distressing us to desolate our neighbors? 
Why is this ruinous poll-tax imposed, 
But to support your courfs extravagance. 
And your mad title to the crown of France ? 
Shall we sit tamely down beneath these evils 
Petitioning for pity ? King of England, 
Why are we sold like cattle in your markets — 
Deprived of every privilege of man ? 
Must we lie tamely at our tyrant's feet. 
And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us ? 
You sit at ease in your gay palaces ! 
The costly banquet courts your appetite ; 
Sweet music soothes your slumbers : we, the while. 
Scarce by hard toil can earn a little food, [wind ; 
And sleep scarce shelter'd from the cold night 
Whilst your wild projects wrest the little from us 
Which might have chcer'd the wintry hour of age. 
The Parliament forever asks more money ; 
We toil and sweat for money for your taxes : 
Where is the benefit, what good reap we 
From all the counsels of your government ? 
Think you that we should quarrel with the French ? 
What boots to us your victories, your glory ? 
We pay, we fight, you profit at your ease. 
Do you not claim the country as your own ? 
Do you not call the venison of the forest. 
The birds of heaven, your own ? — prohibiting us. 
Even though in want of food, to seize the prey 
Which nature offers. King ! is all this just.^ 
Think you we do not feel the wrongs we suffer ^ 
The hour of retribution is at hand, 
And tyrants tremble — mark me. King of England ! 

Walioorth^ (comes hchind him, and stabs lUtti.) 
Insolent rebel, threatening the King ! 

Piers. Vengeance ! Vengeance ! 

Hob. Seize the King. 

King. I must be bold. (Advancing.) 

My friends and loving subjects, 
I will grant you all you ask ; you shall be free — 
The tax shall be repeal'd — all, all you wish. 
Your leader menaced me ; he deserv'd his fate : 
Quiet your angers : on my royal Avord 
Your grievances shall all be done away ; 
Your vassalage abolish'd. A free pardon 
Allow'd to all : So help me God, it shall be. 

John Ball. Revenge, my brethren, beseems not 
Christians : 
Send us these terms, sign'd with your seal of state. 
We will await in peace. Deceive us not — 
Act justly, so to excuse your late foul deed. 

Kijig. The charter shall be drawn out : on mine 
honor 
All shall be justly done. 



ACT III. 



Scene I. Smithfield. 

John Ball, Piers, &c. 

Piers., (to John Ball.) You look disturbed, my 
father. 



John Ball. Piers, I am so. [bishop, 

Jack Straw has forced the tower ; seiz'd the Arch- 
And beheaded him. 

Piers. The curse of insurrection. 

John Ball. Ay, Piers, our nobles level down 
their vassals. 
Keep them at endless labor, like their brutes, 
Degrading every faculty by servitude, 
Repressing all the energy of mind : 
We must not wonder, then, that, like wild beasts, 
When they have burst their chains, with brutal 

rage 
They revenge them on their tyrants. 

Piers. This Archbishop, 

He was oppressive to his humble vassals : 
Proud, haughty, avaricious 

Julin Ball. A true high priest, 

Preaching humility with his mitre on; 
Praising up alms and Christian charity. 
Even whilst his unforgiving hand distress'd 
His honest tenants. 

Piers. He deserved his fate, then. 

John Ball. Justice can never link with cruelty. 
Is there among the catalogue of crimes 
A sin so black that only Death can expiate ? 
Will reason never rouse her from her slumbers, 
And darting through the veil her eagle eye, 
See in the sable garments of the law 
Revenge conceal'd ? This high priest has been 

haughty ; 
He has oppress'd his vassals : tell me, Piers, 
Does his death remedy the ills he caused ? 
Were it not better to repress his power 
Of doing wrong, that so his future life 
Might remedy the evils of the past, 
And benefit mankind ? 

Piers. But must not vice 

Be punish'd ? 

John Ball. Is not punishment revenge .'' 
The momentary violence of anger 
May be excused : the indignant heart will tlirob 
Against oppression, and the outstretch'd arm 
Resent its injured feelings. The Collector 
Insulted Alice, and roused the keen emotions 
Of a fond father. Tyler murder'd him. 

Piers. Murder'd ! — a most harsh word. 

John Ball. Yes, murder'd him: 

His mangled feelings prompted the bad act, 
And Nature will almost commend the deed [ings 
That Justice blames : but will the awaken'd feel- 
Plead with their heart-emoving eloquence 
For the calm, deliberate murder of Revenge ? 
Would you. Piers, in your calmer hour of reason, 
Condemn an erring brother to be slain ? 
Cut him at once from all the joys of life, 
All hopes of reformation — to revenge 
The deed his punishment cannot recall ? 
My blood boil'd in me at the fate of Tyler, 
Yet I reveng'd not. 

Piers. Oh, my Christian father. 

They would not argue thus humanely on us. 
Were we within their power. 

John Ball. I know they would not; 

But we must pity them that they are vicious, 
Not imitate their vice. 



108 



WAT TYLER. 



Piers. Alas, poor Tyler ! 

I do repent me much that I stood back, 
When he advanced, fearless in rectitude, 
To meet these royal assassins. 

John Ball. Not for myself, 

Though I have lost an honest, virtuous friend, 
Mourn 1 the death of Tyler : he w^as one 
Gifted with the strong energy of mind, 
Quick to perceive the right, and prompt to act 
When Justice needed : he would listen to me 
With due attention, yet not yielding lightly 
What had to him seem'd good : severe in virtue, 
He awed the ruder people, whom he led, 
By his stern rectitude. 

Piers. Witness that day 

When they destroy'd the palace of the Gaunt; 
And hurl'd the wealth his avarice had amassed, 
Amid the fire : the people, fierce in zeal, 
Threw in the flames a wretch whose selfish hand 
Purloin' d amid the tumult. 

John Ball. I lament 

The death of Tyler for my country's sake. 
I shudder lest posterity, enslaved. 
Should rue his murder. Who shall now control 
The giddy multitude, blind to their own good, 
And listening with avidity to the tale 
Of courtly falsehood.^ 

Piers. The King must perform 

His plighted promise. 

{Cry without — The Charter ! — the Charter !) 

Enter Mob and Herald. 

Tom Miller. Read it out — read it out. 

Hob. Ay, ay, let's hear the Charter. 

Herald. Richard Plantagenet, by the grace of 
God, King of England, Ireland, France, Scotland, 
and the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, to all whom 
it may concern, — These presents : Whereas our 
loving subjects have complained to us of the heavy 
burdens they endure, particularly from our late 
■enacted poll-tax ; and whereas they have risen in 
arms against our ofliicers, and demanded the aboli- 
tion of personal slavery, vassalage, and manorial 
rights ; we, ever ready in our sovereign mercy to 
listen to the petitions of our loving subjects, do 
annul all these grievances. 

Mob. Huzza ! long live the King ! 

Herald^ (continues.) And do of our royal mercy 
grant a free pardon to all who may have been any- 
ways concerned in the late insurrections. All this 
shall be faithfully performed, on our royal word ; so 
help us God — God save the King ! 

[^Loud and repeated shouts. 

Herald. Now then depart in quiet to your homes. 

John Ball. Nay, my good friend, the people will 
remain 
Imbodied peaceably, till Parliament 
Confirm the royal Charter : tell your King so : 
We will await the Charter's confirmation. 
Meanwhile comporting ourselves orderly. 
As peaceful citizens, not risen in tumult. 
But to redress their evils. [Exit Herald., S^c. 

Hob. 'Twas well ordered. 

I place but little trust in courtly faith. [King 

John Ball. We must remain imbodied ; else the 



Will plunge again in royal luxury, 

And when the storm of danger is past over, 

Forget his promises. 

Hob. Ay, like an aguish sinner, 

He'll promise to repent, when the fit's on him; 
When well recover'd, laugh at his own terrors. 

Piers. Oh, I am grieved that we must gain so 
little. 
Why are not all these empty ranks abolish'd, 
King, slave, and lord, ennobled into MAN.^ 
Are we not equal all .? — have you not told me 
Equality is the sacred right of man. 
Inalienable, though by force withheld.? 

John Ball. Even so: but, Piers, my frail and 
fallible judgment 
Knows hardly to decide if it be right 
Peaceably to return, content with little. 
With this half restitution of our rights. 
Or boldly to proceed, through blood and slaughter, 
Till we should all be equal and all happy. 
I chose the milder way : — perhaps I err'd ! 

Piers. I fear me ! By the mass, the unsteady 
people 
Are flocking homewards — how the multitude 
Diminishes ! 

Joltn Ball. Go thou, my son, and stay them. 
Carter, do you exert your influence : 
All depends upon their stay: my mind is troubled, 
And I would fain compose my thoughts for action. 
[Exeunt Hob and Piers. 
Father of mercies ! I do fear me much 
That I have err'd. Thou gavest my ardent mind 
To pierce the mists of superstitious falsehood ; — 
Gavest me to know the truth. I should have 

urged it 
Through every opposition ; now, perhaps. 
The seemly voice of pity has deceived me. 
And all this mighty movement ends in ruin. 
I fear me 1 have been like the weak leech, 
Who, sparing to cut deep, with cruel mercy 
Mangles his patient without curing him. 

[ Great tumult. 
What means this tumult .'' hark ! the clang of arms. 
God of eternal justice — the false monarch 
Has broke his plighted vow. 

[Enter Piers wounded. 

Piers. Fly, fly, my father — the perjured King, 

- fly, fly- 

John Ball. Nay, nay, my child ; I dare abide 
my fate. 
Let me bind up thy wounds. 

Piers. 'Tis useless succor. 

They seek thy life ; fly, fly, my honored father, 
And let me have the hope to sweeten death 
That thou at least hast 'scaped. They are mur- 
dering 
Our unsuspecting brethren : half unarm'd, 
Trusting too fondly to the tyrant's word, [blood. 
They were dispersing : — the streets swim with 
Oh, save thyself. [Enter Soldiers. 

1st Soldier. This is that old seditious heretic. 

2d Soldier. And here the young spawn of re- 
bellion : 
My orders ar'n't to spare him. [Stabs Piers. 

Come, you old stirrer-up of insurrection, 



WAT TYLER. 



109 



You bell-wether of the mob — you ar'n't to die 
So easily. [Leading him off. 

{Mobjly across the stage — the troops pursue them 
— tumult increases — Loud cries and shouts. 

Scene II. Westminster Hall. 
King, Walworth, Philpot, Sir John 

TrESILIAN, &CC. 

Walworth. My liege, 'twas wisely ordered to 
destroy 
The dunghill rabble, but take prisoner 
That old seditious priest : his strange, wild notions 
Of tliis equality, when well exposed, 
Will create ridicule, and shame the people 
Of their late tumults. 

Sir John. Ay, there's nothing like 

A fair, free, open trial, where the King 
Can choose his jury and appoint his judges. 

King. Walworth, I must thank you for my de- 
liverance, 
'Twas a bold deed to stab him in the parley. 
Kneel down, and rise a knight, Sir William 
Walworth. 

Enter Messenger. 
Messenger. I left them hotly at it. Smithfield 
smoked 
With the rebels' blood ! your troops fought loyally; 
There's not a man of them will lend an ear 
To pity. 

Walworth. Is John Ball secured ? 

Messenger. They have seized him. 

Erder Guards, xcith John Ball. 

1st Guard. We've brought the old villain. 

2cf Guard. An old mischief-maker — 

Why, there's fifteen hundred of the mob are killed. 
All through his preaching. 

Sir John Tr. Prisoner, are you the arch-rebel 
John Ball ? 

John Ball. I am John Ball ; but 1 am not a rebel. 
Take ye the name, who, arrogant in strength. 
Rebel against the people's sovereignty. [ring up 

Sir John Tr. John Ball, you are accused of stir- 
The poor deluded people to rebellion ; 
Not having the fear of God and of the King 
Before your eyes ; of preaching up strange notions. 
Heretical and treasonous ; such as saying 
That kings have not a right from Heaven to govern ; 
That all mankind are equal ; and that rank 
And the distinctions of society. 
Ay, and the sacred rights of property. 
Are evil and oppressive : plead you guilty 
To this most heavy charge ? 

John Ball. If it be guilt 

To preach what you are pleased to call strange 

notions. 
That all mankind as brethren must be equal ; 
That privileged orders of society 
Are evil and oppressive ; that the right 
Of property is a juggle to deceive 
The poor whom you oppress — I plead me guilty. 

Sir John Tr. It is against the custom of this court 
That the prisoner should plead guilty. 



John Ball. Why then put you 

The needless question ? Sir Judge, let me save 
The vain and empty insult of a trial. 
What I have done, that I dare justify. 

Sir John Tr. Did you not tell the mob they were 
oppress'd. 
And preach upon the equality of man, 
With evil intent thereby to stir them up 
To tumult and rebellion ? 

John Ball. That I told them 

That all mankind are equal, is most true : 
Ye came as helpless infants to the world ; 
Ye feel alike the infirmities of nature ; 
And at last moulder into common clay. [earth 

Why then these vain distinctions ? — bears not the 
Food in abundance ? — must your granaries 
O'erflow with plenty, while the poor man starves .-* 
Sir Judge, why sit you there, clad in your furs.'' 
Why are your cellars stored with choicest wines, 
Your larders hung with dainties, while your vassal, 
As virtuous, and as able too by nature. 
Though by your selfish tyranny deprived 
Of mind's improvement, shivers in his rags, 
And starves amid the plenty he creates ? 
I have said this is wrong, and I repeat it — 
And there will be a time when this great truth 
Shall be confess'd — be felt by all mankind. 
The electric truth shall run from man to man, 
And the blood-cemented pyramid of greatness 
Shall fall before the flash. 

Sir John Tr. Audacious rebel ! 

How darest thou insult this sacred court, 
Blaspheming all the dignities of rank.' 
How could the Government be carried on 
Without the sacred orders of the King 
And the nobility ? 

John Ball. Tell me. Sir Judge, 

What does the Government avail the peasant ? 
Would not he plough his field, and sow the corn, 
Ay, and in peace enjoy the harvest too .-' 
Would not the sun shine and the dews descend, 
Though neither King nor Parliament existed.? 
Do your court politics ought matter him ? 
Would he be warring even unto death 
With his French neighbors ? Charles and Richard 

contend. 
The people fight and suflTer : — think ye. Sirs, 
If neither country had been cursed with a chief, 
The peasants would have quarrell'd .'' 

King. This is treason! 

The patience of the court has been insulted — 
Condemn the foul-mouth' d, contumacious rebel. 

Sir John Tr. John Ball, whereas you are accused 
before us. 
Of stirring up the people to rebellion. 
And preaching to them strange and dangerous 

doctrines ; 
And whereas your behavior to the court 
Has been most insolent and contumacious ; 
Insulting Majesty — and since you have pleaded 
Guilty to all these charges ; I condemn you 
To death : you shall be hanged by the neck. 
But not till you are dead — your bowels open'd — 
Your heart torn out, and burnt before your face — 
Your traitorous head be severed from your body — 



110 



POEMS CONCERNING "THE SLAVE TRADE. 



Your body quarter'd, and exposed upon 

The city gates — a terrible example — 

And the Lord God have mercy on your soul. 

John Ball. Why, be it so. I can smile at your 
vengeance, 
For I am arm'd with rectitude of soul. 
The truth, which all my life 1 have divulged, 
And am now doom'd in torments to expire for, 
Shall still survive. The destined hour must come, 
When it shall blaze with sun-surpassing splendor. 
And the dark mists of prejudice and falsehood 
Fade in its strong effulgence. Flattery's incense 
No more shall shadow round the gore-dyed throne ; 
That altar of oppression, fed with rites 
More savage than the priests of Moloch taught, 
Shall be consumed amid the fire of Justice ; 
The rays of truth shall emanate around, 
And the whole world be lighted. 

King. Drag him hence : 

Away with him to death ; order the troops 
Now to give quarter, and make prisoners — 
Let the blood-reeking sword of war be sheathed, 
That the law may take vengeance on the rebels. 



POEMS CONCERNING 
SLAVE TRADE. 



THE 



SONNET I. 



Hold your mad hands ! forever on your plain 
Must the gorged vulture clog his beak with blood ^ 
Forever must your Niger's tainted flood 
Roll to the ravenous shark his banquet slain .'' 
Hold your mad hands ! and learn at length to 

know. 
And turn your vengeance on the common foe. 
Yon treacherous vessel and her godless crew ! 
Let never traders with false pretext fair 
Set on your shores again their wicked feet : 
With interdict and indignation meet 
Repel them, and with fire and sword pursue ! 
Avarice, the white , cadaverous fiend, is there. 
Who spreads his toils accursed wide and far, 
And for his purveyor calls the demon War. 



SONNET H. 



Why dost thou beat thy breast and rend thine hair. 
And to the deaf sea pour thy frantic cries? 
Before the gale the laden vessel flies ; 
The Heavens all-favoring smile, the breeze is fair ; 
Hark to the clamors of the exulting crew ! 
Hark, how their cannon mock the patient skies ! 
Why dost thou shriek, and strain thy red-swollen 

eyes, 
As the white sail is lessening from thy view ^ 
Go, pine in want, and anguish, and despair ; 



There is no mercy found in human-kind ! 
Go, Widow, to thy grave, and rest thee there ! 
But may the God of Justice bid the wind 
Whelm that curst bark beneath the mountain wave, 
And bless with liberty and death the Slave ! 



SONNET HI. 



Oh, he is worn with toil ! the big drops run 
Down his dark cheek; hold — hold thy merciless 

hand. 
Pale tyrant I for beneath thy hard command 
O'erwearied nature sinks. The scorching sun, 
As pitiless as proud Prosperity, 
Darts on him his full beams ; gasping he lies 
Arraigning with his looks the patient skies, 
While that inhuman driver lifts on high 
The mangling scourge. O ye who at your ease 
Sip the blood-sweeten'd beverage, thoughts like 

these 
Haply ye scorn : I thank thee, gracious God, 
That I do feel upon my cheek the glow 
Of indignation, when beneath the rod 
A sable brother writhes in silent woe. 



SONNET IV. 



'Tis night; the unrelenting owners sleep 

As undisturb'd as Justice ; but no more 

The o'erwearied slave, as on his native shore, 

Rests on his reedy couch : he wakes to weep. 

Though through the toil and anguish of the day 

No tear escaped him, not one suffering groan 

Beneath the twisted thong, he weeps alone 

In bitterness ; thinking that far away 

While happy Negroes join the midnight song. 

And merriment resounds on Niger's shore. 

She whom he loves, far from the cheerful throng 

Stands sad, and gazes from her lowly door 

With dim-grown eye, silent and woe-begone, 

And weeps for him who will return no more. 



SONNET V. 



Did then the Negro rear at last the sword 

Of vengeance .? Did he plunge its thirsty blade 

In the hard heart of his inhuman lord ? 

Oh, who shall blame him ? in the midnight shade 

There came on him the intolerable thought 

Of every past delight ; his native grove. 

Friendship's best joys, and liberty and love, 

Forever lost. Such recollections wrought 

His brain to madness. Wherefore should he live 

Longer with abject patience to endure 

His wrongs and wretchedness, when hope can give 

No consolation, time can bring no cure .'' 

But justice for himself he yet could take, 

And life is then well given for vengeance' sake. 



POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE. 



Ill 



SONNET VI. 

High in the air exposed the slave is hung, 
To all the birds of heaven, their living food ! 
He groans not, though awaked by that fierce sun 
New torturers live to drink their parent blood : 
He groans not, though the gorging vulture tear 
The quivering fibre. Hither look, O ye 
Who tore this man from peace and liberty ! 
Look hither, ye who weigh with politic care 
The gain against the guilt ! Beyond the grave 
There is another world ! — bear ye in mind, 
Ere your decree proclaims to all mankind 
The gain is worth the guilt, that there the Slave, 
Before the Eternal, " thunder-tongued shall plead 
Against the deep damnation of your deed." 

Bnstol, 1794. 



TO THE GENIUS OF AFRICA. 

O THOU, who from the mountain's height 

Rollest thy clouds with all tlieir weight 

Of waters to old Nile's majestic tide ; 

Or o'er the dark, sepulchral plain 

Recallest Carthage in her ancient pride, 

The mistress of the Main ; 

Hear, Genius, hear thy children's cry ! 

Not always shouldst thou love to brood 

Stern o'er tlie desert solitude 

Where seas of sand heave their hot surges high : 

Nor, Genius, should the midnight song 

Detain thee in some milder mood 

The palmy plains among, 

Where Gambia to the torches' light 

Flows radiant through the awaken'd night. 

Ah, linger not to hear the song ! 
Genius, avenge thy children's wrong ! 
The demon Avarice on your shore 
Brings all the horrors of his train; 
And hark ! where from the field of gore 
Howls the hyena o'er the slain ! 
Lo ! where the flaming village fires the skies, 
Avenging Power, awake I arise ! 

Arise, thy children's w^rongs redress ! 
Heed the mother's wretchedness, 
When in the hot, infectious air 
O'er her sick babe she bows opprest, — 
Hear her when the Traders tear 
The suffering infant from her breast ! 
Sunk in the ocean he shall rest ! 
Hear thou the wretched mother's cries, 
Avenging Power ! awake ! arise ! 

By the rank, infected air 
That taints those cabins of despair; 
By the scourges blacken'd o'er. 
And stiff" and hard with human gore ; 
By every groan of deep distress, 
By every curse of wretchedness ; 
The vices and the crimes that flow 
From the hopelessness of woe ; 
By every drop of blood bespilt, 



By Afric's wrongs and Europe's guilt, 
Awake ! arise ! avenge ! 

[plains 
And thou hast heard ! and o'er tlieir blood-fed 
Sent thine avenging hurricanes. 
And bade thy storms with whirlwind roar 
Dash their proud navies on the shore ; 
And where their armies claim d the fight 
Wither'd the warrior's might ; 
And o'er the unholy host, with baneful breath, 
There, Genius, thou hast breathed the gales of Death. 

Bristol, 1795. 



THE SAILOR, 

WHO HAD SERVED IN THE SLAVE TRADE. 



In September, 1798, a Dissenting Minister of Bristol discov- 
ered a sailor in the neighborhood of that City, groaning and 
praying in a cow-house. The circumstance which occa- 
sioned his agony of mind is detailed in the annexed ballad, 
without the slightest addition or alteration. By presenting 
it as a Poem, the story is made more public ; and such stories 
ought to be made as public as possible. 



It was a Christian minister, 

Who, in the month of flowers, 
Walk'd forth at eve amid the fields 

Near Bristol's ancient towers, — 

When, from a lonely out-house breathed, 

He heard a voice of woe, 
And groans which less might seem from pain, 

Than wretchedness, to flow. 

Heart-rending groans they were, with words 

Of bitterest despair ; 
Yet with the holy name of Christ 

Pronounced in broken prayer. 

The Christian Minister went in; 

A Sailor there he sees, 
Whose hands were lifted up to Heaven, 

And he was on his knees. 

Nor did the Sailor, so intent, 

His entering footsteps heed. 
But now " Our Father " said, and now 

His half-forgotten creed ; — 

And often on our Savior call'd 

With many a bitter groan, 
But in sach anguish as may spring 

From deepest guilt alone. 

The miserable man was ask'd 

Why he was kneeling there, 
And what had been the crime that caused 

The anguish of his prayer. 

"I have done a cursed thing ! " he cried; 

" It haunts me night and day ; 
And I have sought this lonely place 

Here undisturb'd to pray. 



112 



POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE. 



Aboard 1 have no place for prayer, 

So 1 came here alone, 
That 1 might freely kneel and pray, 

And call on Christ, and groan. 

If to the main-mast head I go, 

The Wicked One is there ; 
From place to place, from rope to rope, 

He follows every where. 

1 shut my eyes — it matters not — 

Still, still the same I see, — 
And when 1 lie me down at night, 

'Tis always day with me ! 

He follows, follows every where, 
And every place is Hell ! 

God — and 1 must go with Him 
In endless fire to dwell ? 

He follows, follows every where ; 

He's still above — below ! 
Oh, tell me Avhere to fly from him ! 

Oh, tell me where to go ! " 

" But tell thou," quoth the stranger then, 
'' What this thy crime hath been ; 

So haply I may comfort give 
To one who grieves for sin." 

" Oh cursed, cursed is the deed ! " 

The wretched man replies ; 
" And night, and day, and every where, 

'Tis still before my eyes. 

1 sail'd on board a Guinea-man, 
And to the slave-coast went ; — 

Would that the sea had swallow'd me 
When 1 was innocent ! 

And we took in our cargo there, 

Three hundred negro slaves, 
And we sail'd homeward merrily 

Over the ocean-waves. 

But some were sulky of the slaves. 
And would not touch their meat. 

So therefore we were forced by threats 
And blows to make them eat. 

One woman, sulkier than the rest, 

Would still refuse her food, — 
O Jesus God ! 1 hear her cries ! 

1 see her in her blood ! 

The Captain made me tie her up, 

A nd flog while he stood by ; 
And then he cursed me if I stayed 

My hand to hear her cry. 

She shriek'd, she groan'd, — I could not spare, 

For the Captain he stood by ; — 
Dear God ! that I might rest one night 

From that poor creature's cry ! 

What woman's child a sight like that 

Could bear to look upon ! 
And still the Captain would not spare — 

But made me still flog on. 



She could not be more glad than I, 

When she was taken down : 
A blessed minute ! — 'twas the last 

That I have ever known 

I did not close my eyes all night. 

Thinking what I had done ; 
I heard her groans, and they grew faint 

Towards the rising sun. 

She groan'd and moan'd, but her voice grew 

Fainter at morning tide ; 
Fainter and fainter still it came, 

Until at noon she died. 

They flung her overboard ; — poor wretch, 

She rested from her pain, — 
But when — O Christ! O blessed God! — 

Shall I have rest again ? 

1 saw the sea close over her ; 

Yet she is still in sight; 
I see her twisting every where j 

I hear her day and night. 

Go where 1 will, do what I can, 

The Wicked One I see : 
Dear Christ, have mercy on my soul ! 

O God, deliver me ! 

Oh, give me comfort, if you can ! 

Oh, tell me where to fly ! 
Oh, tell me if there can be hope 

For one so lost as 1 ! " 

What said the Minister of Christ ? 

He bade him trust in Heaven, 
And call on Him for whose dear sake 

All sins shall be forgiven. 

He told him of that precious blood 

Which should his guilt efface ; 
Told him that none are lost, but they 

Who turn from proffer 'd grace. 

He bade him pray, and knelt with him, 
And join'd him in his prayers : 

And some who read the dreadful tale 
Perhaps will aid with theirs. 

Westbury, 1798. 



VERSES 



SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT OXFORD, UPON THE 
INSTALLATION OF LORD GRENVILLE. 



Grenville, few years have had their course, 

since last 
Exulting Oxford view'd a spectacle 
Like this day's pomp; and yet to those who 

throng'd 
These walls, which echo'd then with Portland's 

praise, [spring 

What change hath intervened ! The bloom of 



POEMS CONCERNING THE SLAVE TRADE. 



113 



Is fled from many a cheek, where roseate joy 

And beauty bloom'd ; the inexorable Grave 

Hath claim'd its portion ; and the band of youths, 

Who then, collected here as in a port, 

From whence to launch on life's adventurous sea. 

Stood on the beach, ere this have found their lots 

Of good or evil. Thus the lapse of years, 

Evolving all things in its quiet course, 

Hath wrought for them ; and though those years 

have seen 
Fearful vicissitudes, of wilder change 
Than history yet had learnt, or old romance 
In wildest mood imagined, yet these too. 
Portentous as they seem, not less have risen, 
Each of its natural cause the sure effect. 
All righteously ordain'd. Lo ! kingdoms wreck'd. 
Thrones overturn'd, built up, then swept away 
Like fabrics in the summer clouds, dispersed 
By the same breath that heap'd them; rightful 

kings, 
Who, from a line of long-drawn ancestry, 
Held the transmitted sceptre, to the axe 
Bowing the anointed head ; or dragg'd away 
To eat the bread of bondage ; or escaped 
Beneath the shadow of Britannia's shield, 
There only safe. Such fate have vicious courts, 
Statesmen corrupt, and fear-struck policy, 
Upon themselves drawn down ; till Europe, bound 
In iron chains, lies bleeding in the dust, 
Beneath the feet of upstart tyranny : 
Only the heroic Spaniard, he alone 
Yet unsubdued in these degenerate days. 
With desperate virtue, such as in old time 
Hallow'd Saguntum and Numantia's name, 
Stands up against the oppressor undismay'd. 
So may the Almighty bless the noble race. 
And crown with happy end their holiest cause ! 

Deem not these dread events the monstrous birth 
Of chance ! And thou, O England, who dost ride 
Serene amid the waters of the flood, 
Preserving, even like the Ark of old, 
Amid the general wreck, thy purer faith, 
Domestic loves, and ancient liberty. 
Look to thyself, O England ! for be sure, 
Even to the measure of thine own desert, 
The cup of retribution to thy lips 
Shall soon or late be dealt ! — a thought that well 
Might fill the stoutest heart of all thy sons 
With awful apprehension. Therefore, they 
Who fear the Eternal's justice, bless thy name, 
Grenville, because the wrongs of Africa 
Cry out no more to draw a curse from Heaven 
On England ! — for if still the trooping sharks 
Track by the scent of death the accursed ship 
Freighted with human anguish, in her wake 
Pursue the chase, crowd round her keel, and dart 
Toward the souhd contending, when they hear 
The frequent carcass, from her guilty deck, 
Dash in the opening deep, no longer now 
The guilt shall rest on England ; but if yet 
There be among her children, hard of heart 
And sear'd of conscience, men who set at nought 
Her laws and God's own word, upon themselves 
Their sin be visited ! — the red-cross flag, 
15 



Redeem'd from stain so foul, no longer now 
Covereth the abomination. 

This thy praise, 
O Grenville, and while ages roll away 
This shall be thy remembrance. Yea, when all 
For which the tyrant of these abject times 
Hath given his honorable name on earth, 
His nights of innocent sleep, his hopes of heaven; 
When all his triumphs and his deeds of blood, 
The fretful changes of his feverish pride. 
His midnight murders and perfidious plots. 
Are but a tale of years so long gone by. 
That they who read distrust the hideous truth. 
Willing to let a charitable doubt 
Abate their horror; Grenville, even then 
Thy memory will be fresh among mankind ; 
Afric with all her tongues will speak of thee. 
With Wilberforce and Clarkson, he whom Heaven, 
To be the apostle of this holy work, 
Raised up and strengthen'd, and upheld through 

all 
His arduous toil. To end the glorious task, 
That blessed, that redeeming deed was thine : 
Be it thy pride in life, thy thought in death. 
Thy praise beyond the tomb. The statesman's fame 
Will fade, the conqueror's laurel crown grow sear; 
Fame's loudest trump upon the ear of Time 
Leaves but a dying echo ; they alone 
Are held in everlasting memory. 
Whose deeds partake of heaven. Long ages hence 
Nations unborn, in cities that shall rise 
.Hong the palmy coast, will bless thy name; 
And Senegal and secret Niger's shore. 
And Calabar, no longer startled then 
With sounds of murder, will, like Isis now, 
Ring with the songs that tell of Grenville's praise. 

Keswick, 1810. 



BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES 



Where a sight shall shuddering sorrow find, 
Sad as the ruins of the human mind Bowles. 



I. 

ELINOR. 



Time, Morning. Scene, The Shore. 
Once more to daily toil, once more to wear 
The livery of shame, once more to search 
With miserable task this savage shore ! 
O thou, who mountest so triumphantly 
In yonder Heaven, beginning thy career 
Of glory, O thou blessed Sun ! thy beams 
Fall on me with the same benignant light 
Here, at the farthest limits of the world, 
And blasted as I am with infamy, 
As when in better years poor Elinor 
Gazed on thy glad uprise with eye undimm'd 
By guilt and sorrow, and the opening morn 



114 



BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES. 



Woke her from quiet sleep to days of peace. 
In other occupation then 1 trod 
The beach at eve ; and then, when I beheld 
The billows as they roll'd before the storm 
Burst on the rock and rage, my timid soul 
Shrunk at the perils of the boundless deep. 
And heaved a sigh for suffering mariners; — 
Ah ! little thinking I myself was doom'd 
To tempt the perils of the boundless deep, 
An outcast, unbeloved and unbewail'd. 

Still wilt thou haunt me, Memoiy ! still present 
The fields of England to my exiled eyes, 
The joys which once were mine. Even now I see 
The lowly, lovely dwelling; even now 
Behold the woodbine clasping its white walls. 
Where fearlessly the red-breasts chirp'd around 
To ask their morning meal : and where at eve 
I loved to sit and watch the rook sail by. 
And hear his hollow tone, what time he sought 
The church-yard elm, that with its ancient boughs 
Full-foliaged, half-conceal'd the house of God; 
That holy house, where I so oft have heard 
My father's voice explain the wondrous works 
Of Heaven to sinful man. Ah! little deem'd 
His virtuous bosom, that his shameless child 
So soon should spurn the lesson, — sink, the slave 
Of Vice and Infamy, — the hireling prey 
Of brutal appetite ; — at length worn out 
With famine, and the avenging scourge of guilt. 
Should share dishonesty, — yet dread to die ! 

' Welcome, ye savage lands, ye barbarous climes, 

Where angry England sends her outcast sons ; 
I hail your joyless shores ! My weary bark, 
Long tempest-tost on Life's inclement sea. 
Here hails her haven ; welcomes the drear scene. 
The marshy plain, the brier-entangled wood, 
And all the perils of a world unknown. 
For Elinor has nothing new to fear 
From cruel Fortune ; all her rankling shafts 
Barb'd with disgrace, and venom'd with disease, 
Have pierced my bosom, and the dart of death 
Has lost its terrors to a wretch like me. 

Welcome, ye marshy heaths, ye pathless woods. 
Where the rude native rests his wearied frame 
Beneath the sheltering shade ; where, when the 

storm 
Benumbs his naked limbs, he flies to seek 
The dripping shelter. Welcome, ye wild plains 
Unbroken by the plough, undelved by hand 
Of patient rustic ; where for lowing herds. 
And for the music of the bleating flocks. 
Alone is heard the kangaroo's sad note 
Deepening in distance. Welcome, wilderness. 
Nature's domain ! for here, as yet unknown 
The comforts and the crimes of polish'd life, 
Nature benignly gives to all enough. 
Denies to all a superfluity. 
What though the garb of infamy I wear. 
Though day by day along the echoing beach 
I gather wave-worn shells; yet day by day 
I earn in honesty my frugal food. 
And lay me down at night to calm repose ; 



No more condemned, the mercenary tool 

Of brutal lust, while heaves the indignant heart 

Abhorrent, and self-loathed, to fold my arms 

Round the rank felon, and for daily bread 

To hug contagion to my poison'd breast ! 

On tliese wild shores the saving hand of Grace 

Will probe my secret soul, and cleanse its v/ounds, 

And fit the faithful penitent for Heaven. 

Oxford, 1794. 



II. 



HUMPHREY AND WILLIAM. 



Time, JYoon. 



HUMPHREY. 



See' ST thou not, William, that the scorching sun 
By this time half his daily race hath run .' 
The savage thrusts his light canoe to shore, 
And hurries homeAvard with his fishy store. 
Suppose we leave awhile this stubborn soil, 
To eat our dinner and to rest from toil. 



Agreed. Yon tree, whose purple gum bestows 
A ready medicine for the sick man's woes, 
Forms with its shadowy boughs a cool retreat 
To shield us from the noontide's sultry heat. 
Ah, Humphrey ! now upon old England's shore 
The weary laborer's morning work is o'er. 
The woodman there rests from his measured stroke, 
Flings down his axe, and sits beneath the oak ; 
Savor'd with hunger there he eats his food, 
There drinks the cooling streamlet of the wood. 
To us no cooling streamlet winds its way. 
No joys domestic crown for us the day ; 
The felon's name, the outcast's garb we wear, 
Toil all the day, and all the night despair. 

HUMPHREY. 

Aye, William ! laboring up the furrow'd ground, 
I used to love the village clock's old sound, 
Rejoice to hear my morning toil was done. 
And trudge it homeward when the clock went one. 
Twas ere I turn'd a soldier and a sinner ! 
Pshaw ! curse this whining — let us fall to dinner, 

WILLIAM. 

I too have loved this hour, nor yet forgot 
The household comforts of my little cot ; 
For at this hour my wife with watcliful care 
Was wont her humble dainties to prepare ; 
The keenest savice by hunger was supplied, 
And my poor children prattled at my side. 
Methinks I see the old oak table spread, [bread : 
The clean Avhite trencher, and the good brown 
The cheese, my daily fare, which Mary made, 
For Mary knew full well the housewife's trade ; 
The jug of cider, — cider I could make ; — 
And then the knives, — I won 'em at the wake. 
Another has them now ! I toiling here 
Look backward like a child, and drop a tear. 



BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES. 



115 



HUMPHREY. 

I love a dismal story : tell me thine : 
Meantime, good Will, I'll listen as I dine : 
I too, my friend, can tell a piteous story 
When I turn'd hero how I purchased glory. 

WILLIAM. 

But, Humphrey, sure thou never canst have 

known 
The comforts of a little home thine own ; 
A home so snug, so cheerful too, as mine ; 
'Twas always clean, and we could make it fine. 
For there King Charles's Golden Rules were seen. 
And there — God bless 'em both ! the King and 

Queen. 
The pewter plates, our garnish'd chimney's grace. 
So bright, that in them you might see your face ; 
And over all, to frighten thieves, was hung. 
Well clean'd, although but seldom used, my gun. 
Ah ! that damn'd gun ! I took it down one morn, — 
A desperate deal of harm they did my corn ! 
Our testy Squire, too, loved to save the breed, 
So covey upon covey ate my seed. 
I mark'd the mischievous rogues, and took my aim ; 
I fired, they fell, and — up the keeper came. 
That cursed morning brought on my undoing; 
I went to prison, and my farm to ruin. 
Poor Mary ! for her grave the parish paid ; 
No tomb-stone tells where her remains are laid ! 
My children — my poor boys — 

HUMPHREY. 

Come ! — grief is dry — 
You to your dinner; — to my story I. 
For you, my friend, who happier days have known. 
And each calm comfort of a home your own. 
This is bad living: I have spent my life 
In hardest toil and unavailing strife. 
And here, (from forest ambush safe at least,) 
To me this scanty pittance seems a feast. 
I was a plough-boy once, as free from woes 
And blithesome as the lark with whom I rose. 
Each evening at return a meal I found ; 
And though my bed was hard, my sleep was sound. 
One Whitsuntide, to go to fair I drest. 
Like a great bumpkin, in my Sunday's best; 
A primrose posy in my hat I stuck. 
And to the revel went to try my luck. 
From show to show, from booth to booth I stray. 
See, stare, and wonder all the live-long day. 
A sergeant to the fair recruiting came, 
Skill'd in man-catching, to beat up for game ; 
Our booth he enter'd, and sat down by me ; — 
Methinks even now the very scene I see ! 
The canvass roof, the hogshead's running store, 
The old blind fiddler seated next the door, 
The frothy tankard passing to and fro. 
And the rude rabble round the puppet-show. 
The sergeant eyed me well ; the punch-bowl comes. 
And as we laugh'd and drank, up struck the 
drums. 

1 And now he gives a bumper to his wench ; 

j God save the King ! and then, God damn the 

l| French ! 



Then tells the story of his last campaign. 
How many wounded and how many slain, 
Flags flying, cannons roaring, drums a-beating, 
The English marching on, the French retreating — 
" Push on — push on, my lads ! they fly before ye } 
March on to riches, happiness, and glory ! '' 
At first I wonder'd, by degrees grew bolder, 
Then cried, " 'Tis a fine thing to be a soldier ! " 
" Aye, Humphrey ! " says the sergeant, — " that's 

your name ? 
'Tis a fine thing to fight the French for fame ! 
March to the field, — knock out a Mounseer's 

brains, 
And pick the scoundrel's pocket for your pains. 
Come, Humphrey, come ! thou art a lad of spirit j 
Rise to a halbert, as I did, — by merit ! 
Wouldst thou believe it ? even I was once 
As thou art now, a plough-boy and a dunce ; 
But courage raised me to my rank. How now, 

boy ! 
Shall Hero Humphrey still be Numps the plough- 
boy ? 
A proper-shaped young fellow ! tall and straight ! 
Why, thou wert made for glory ! — five feet eight ! 
The road to riches is the field of fight ! — 
Didst ever see a guinea look so bright? 
Why, regimentals, Numps, would give thee grace ; 
A hat and feather would become that face ; 
The girls would crowd around thee to be kiss'd ! — 
Dost love a girl?" — "Odd Zounds!" I cried, 

"I'll list!" 
So pass'd the night ; anon the morning came, 
And off" I set a volunteer for fame. 
" Back shoulders, turn out your toes, hold up yoiir 

head. 
Stand easy ! " — so I did — till almost dead. 
O how I long'd to tend the plough again. 
Trudge up the field, and whistle o'er the plain, 
When tired and sore, amid the piteous throng, 
Hungry, and cold, and wet, I limp'd along. 
And growing fainter as I pass'd, and colder, 
Cursed that ill hour when I became a soldier ! 
In town I found the hours more gayly pass. 
And time fled swiftly with my girl and glass ; 
The girls were wondrous kind and wondrous 

fair; 
They soon transferr'd me to the Doctor's care ; 
The Doctor undertook to cure the evil. 
And he almost transferr'd me to the Devil. 
'Twere tedious to relate the dismal story 
Of fighting, fasting, wretchedness, and glory. 
At last discharged, to England's shores I came. 
Paid for my wounds with want instead of fame; 
Found my fair friends, and plunder'd as they bade 

me ; 
They kiss'd me, coax'd me, robb'd me, andbetray'd 

me. 
Tried and condemn'd. His Majesty transports me ; 
And here in peace, I thank him, he supports me. 
So ends my dismal and heroic story ; 
And Humphrey gets more good from guilt than 
glory. 

Oxford, 1794. 



116 



BOTANY-BAY ECLOGUES, 



III. 

JOHN, SAMUEL, AND RICHARD. 

Time, Evening. 



'Tis acalm, pleasant evening ; the light fades away, 

And tJje sun going down has done watch for the 
day. 

To my mind we live wondrous well when trans- 
ported J 

It is but to work, and we must be supported. 

Fill the can, Dick ! Success here to Botany Bay ! 

RICHARD. 

Success, if you will, — but God send me away ! 



You lubberly landsmen don't know when you're 

well! 
Hadst thou known half the hardships of which I 

can tell ! 
The sailor has no place of safety in store ; 
From the tempest at sea, to the press-gang on shore ! 
When Roguery rules all the rest of the earth, 
God be thank'd, in this corner I've got a good berth. 

SAMUEL. 

Talk of hardships ! what these are the sailor 

don't know; 
'Tis the soldier, my friend, that's acquainted with 

woe; 
Long journeys, short halting, hard work, and small 

pay, 

To be popt at like pigeons for sixpence a day ! — 
Thank God I'm safe quarter'd at Botany Bay. 



Ah ! you know but little : I'll wager a pot 
I have suffer' d more evils than fell to your lot. 
Come, we'll have it all fairly and properly tried. 
Tell story for story, and Dick shall decide. 

SAMUEL. 

Done. 

JOHN. 

Done. 'Tis a wager, and I shall be winner ; 
Thou wilt go without grog, Sam, to-morrow at 
dinner. 

SAMUEL. 

I was trapp'd by the Sergeant's palavering pre- 
tences, 
He listed me when I was out of my senses ; 
So I took leave to-day of all care and all sorrow, 
And was drill'd to repentance and reason to- 
morrow. 

JOHN. 

1 would be a sailor, and plough the wide ocean. 
But was soon sick and sad with the billows' com- 
motion ; 
So the boatswain he sent me aloft on the mast. 
And cursed me, and bade me cry there, — and 
holdfast! 



SAMUEL. 

After marching all day, faint and hungry and 

sore, [moor, 

I have lain down at night on the swamps of the 

Unshelter'd and forced by fatigue to remain. 

All chill'd by the wind and benumb'd by the rain. 

JOHN. 

I have rode out the storm when the billows beat 

high. 
And the red gleaming lightnings flash'd through 

the dark sky ; 
When the tempest of night the black sea overcast, 
Wet and weary I labor'd, yet sung to the blast. 



I have march'd, trumpets sounding, drums beat- 
ing, flags flying, 

Where the music of war drown'd the shrieks of the 
dying ; 

When the shots whizz'd around me, all dangers 
defied ; 

Push'd on when my comrades fell dead at my side ; 

Drove the foe from the mouth of the cannon away. 

Fought, conquer'd, and bled, all for sixpence a-day. 



And I too, friend Samuel, have heard the shots 

rattle ! 
But we seamen rejoice in the play of the battle ; 
Though the chain and the grape-shot roll splintering 

around, 
With the blood of our messmates though slippery 

the ground, 
The fiercer the fight, still the fiercer we grow ; 
We heed not our loss, so we conquer the foe ; 
And the hard battle won, if the prize be not sunk. 
The Captain gets rich, and the Sailors get drunk. 



God help the poor soldier when backward he goes, 
In disgraceful retreat, through a country of foes ! 
No respite from danger by day or by night, 
He is still forced to fly, still o'ertaken to fight ; 
Every step that he takes he must battle his way, 
He must force his hard meal from the peasant away : 
No rest, and no hope, from all succor afar, — 
God forgive the poor soldier for going to the war ! 



But what are these dangers to those 1 have past. 
When the dark billows roar'd to the roar of the 

blast ; 
When we work'd at the pumps, worn with labor 

and weak, 
And with dread still beheld the increase of the leak ? 
Sometimes as we rose on the wave could our sight. 
From the rocks of the shore, catch the light-house's 

light ; 
In vain to the beach to assist us they press ; 
We fire faster and faster our guns of distress; 
Still with rage unabating the wind and waves 

roar ; — 
How the giddy wreck reels, as the billows burst o'er ' 



BOTANY BAY ECLOGUES. 



117 



Leap, leap ; for she yawns, for she sinks in the wave ! 
Call on God to preserve — for God only can save ! 



There's an end of all troubles, however, at last ! 
And when 1 in the wagon of wounded was cast. 
When my wounds with the chilly night-wind 

smarted sore, 
And I thought of the friends I should never see 

more, 
No hand to relieve, scarce a morsel of bread. 
Sick at heart 1 have envied the peace of the dead. 
Left to rot in a jail, till by treaty set free. 
Old England's white cliffs with what joy did I see ! 
1 had gain'd enough glory, some wounds, but no 

good, 
And was turn'd on the public to shift how I could. 
When 1 think what I've sufFer'd, and where I am 

now, 
I curse him who snared me away from the plough. 



When I was discharged, I went home to my wife, 
There in comfort to spend all the rest of my life. 
My wife was industrious ; we earn'd what we spent, 
And though little we had, were with little content ; 
And whenever I listen' d and heard the wind roar, 
1 bless'd God for my little snug cabin on shore. 
At midnight they seized me, they dragg'd me away. 
They wounded me sore when I would not obey. 
And because for my country I'd ventured my life, 
I was dragg'd like a thief from my home and my 

wife. 
Then the fair wind of fortune chopt round in my face. 
And want at length drove me to guilt and disgrace. 
Butall's for the best ; — on the world's wide sea cast, 
1 am haven'd in peace in this corner at last. 

SAMUEL. 

Come, Dick ! we have done — and for judgment 
we call. 

RICHARD. 

And in faith I can give you no judgment at all. 
But that as you're now settled, and safe from foul 

weather, 
You drink up your grog, and be merry together. 

Oxford, 1794. 



IV. 



FREDERIC. 

Time, Mght. Scene, The Woods. 
Where shall 1 turn me .' whither shall I bend 
My weary way .? thus worn with toil and faint. 
How through the thorny mazes of this wood 
Attain my distant dwelling ? That deep cry 
That echoes through the forest, seems to sound 
My parting knell : it is the midnight howl 
Of hungry monsters prowling for their prey ! 
Again ! O save me — save me, gracious Heaven ! 
1 am not fit to die ! 



Thou coward wretch, 
Why palpitates thy heart 1 why shake thy limbs 
Beneath their palsied burden ? Is there aught 
So lovely in existence ^ wouldst thou drain 
Even to its dregs the bitter draught of life .' 
Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy, 
Why should the felon Frederic shrink from Death .? 

Death ! Where the magic in that empty name 
That chills my inmost heart .'' Why at the thought 
Starts the cold dew of fear on every limb .? 
There are no terrors to surround the Grave, 
When the calm Mind collected in itself 
Surveys that narrow house : the ghastly train 
That haunt the midnight of delirious Guilt 
Then vanish : in that home of endless rest 
All sorrows cease ! — W ould I might slumber there ! 

Why then this panting of the fearful heart .' 
This miser love of life, that dreads to lose 
Its cherish'd torment.' Shall a man diseased 
Yield up his members to the surgeon's knife, 
Doubtful of succor, but to rid his frame 
Of fleshly anguish ; and the coward wretch, 
Whose ulcerated soul can know no help. 
Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid .' 
Oh, it were better far to lie me down 
Here on this cold, damp earth, till some wild beast 
Seize on his willing victim. 

If to die 
Were all, 'twere sweet indeed to rest my head 
On the cold clod, and sleep the sleep of Death 
But if the Archangel's trump at the last hour 
Startle the ear of Death, and wake the soul 
To frenzy .' — Dreams of infancy ; fit ♦ales 
For garrulous beldames to affrighten babes ! 
What if I warr'd upon the world.' the world 
Had wrong'd me first: I had endured the ills 
Of hard injustice ; all this goodly earth 
Was but to me one wide waste wilderness; 
I had no share in Nature's patrimony ; 
Blasted were all my morning hopes of youth. 
Dark Disappointment followed on my ways, 
Care was my bosom inmate. Penury 
Gnaw'd at my heart. Eternal One, thou know'st 
How that poor heart, even in the bitter hour 
Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd 
For peace. 

My Father ! I will call on thee. 
Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer, 
And wait thy righteous will, resign'd of soul. 
O thought of comfort ! how the afflicted heart. 
Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests 
On you with holy hope ! The hollow howl 
Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods 
Comes with no terror to the sober'd sense. 
If I have sinned against mankind, on them 
Be that past sin ; they made me what I was. 
In these extremest climes Want can no more 
Urge me to deeds of darkness, and at length 
Here I may rest. What though my hut be poor — 
The rains descend not through its humble roof: — 
Would I were there again ! The night is cold ; 
And what if in my wanderings 1 should rouse 
The savage from his thicket ! 



118 



SONNETS. 



Hark ! the gun ! 
And lo, the fire of safety ! I shall reach 
My little hut again ! again by toil 
Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance, 
And quick-ear'd Guilt will never start alarm'd 
Amid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb — 
Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven ? 
And what could purple more ? O strengthen me, 
Eternal One, in this serener state ! 
Cleanse thou mine heart, so Penitence and Faith 
Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace. 



Of virtue : with such reverence we behold 
The silver hairs, as some gray oak grown old 
That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage> 
Now like a monument of strength decay'd, [shade. 
With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling 
1794. 



Oxford, 1794. 



SONNETS. 



Go, Valentine, and tell that lovely Maid 
Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, 
How here I linger in this sullen shade. 
This dreary gloom of dull, monastic night; 
Say, that from every joy of life remote 
At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, 
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note, 
Who pours like me her solitary song ; 
Say, that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh ; 
Say, that of all her charms I love to speak, 
In fancy feel the magic of her eye. 
In fancy view the smile illume her cheek. 
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove. 
And heave the sigh of memory and of love. 
1794. 



n. 

Think, Valentine, as speeding on thy way 
Homeward thou hastest light of heart along, 
If heavily creep on one little day 
The medley crew of travellers among. 
Think on thine absent friend ; reflect that here 
On life's sad journey comfortless he roves, 
Remote from every scene his heart holds dear. 
From him he values, and from her he loves. 
And when, disgusted with the vain and dull. 
Whom chance companions of thy way may doom. 
Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full. 
Turns to itself and meditates on home. 
Ah, think what cares must ache within his breast, 
Who loathes the road, yet sees no home of rest. 
1794. 



III. 

Not to thee, Bedford, mournful is the tale 
Of days departed. Time in his career 
Arraigns not thee that the neglected year 
Hath past unheeded onward. To the vale 
Of years thou journeyest; may the future road 
Be pleasant as the past ; and on my friend 
Friendship and Love, best blessings, still attend, 
Till full of days he reach the calm abode 
Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age 



IV. CORSTON. 



As thus 1 stand beside the murmurmg stream, 
And watch its current, memory here portrays 
Scenes faintly form'd of half- forgotten days. 
Like far-off woodlands by the moon's bright beam 
Dimly descried, but lovely. I have worn 
Amid these haunts the heavy hours away. 
When childhood idled through the Sabbath-day ; 
Risen to my tasks at winter's earliest morn ; 
And when the summer twilight darken'd here, 
Thinking of home, and all of heart forlorn. 
Have sigh'd and shed in secret many a tear. 
Dream-like and indistinct those days appear, 
As the faint sounds of this low brooklet, borne 
Upon the breeze, reach fitfully the ear. 
1794. 



V. The Evening Rainbow. 
Mild arch of promise, on the evening sky 
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray 
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye 
Delights to linger on thee ; for the day. 
Changeful and many-weather'd, seemed to smile, 
Flashing brief splendor through the clo ads awhile, 
Which deepen'd dark anon and fell in rain; 
But pleasant is it now to pause, and view 
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue. 
And think the storm shall not return again. 
Such is the smile that Piety bestows 
On the good man's pale cheek, when he, in peace 
Departing gently from a world of woes. 
Anticipates the world where sorrows cease. 
1794. 



VI. 

With many a weary step, at length I gain 
Thy summit, Lansdown ; and the cool breeze plays 
Gratefully round my brow, as hence I gaze 
Back on the fair expanse of yonder plain. 
'Twas a long way and tedious ; to the eye 
Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view 
The autumnal leaves of many a faded hue. 
That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. 
Even so it fared with life : in discontent 
Restless through Fortune's mingled scenes I went, 
Yet wept to think they would return no more. 
But cease, fond heart, in such sad thoughts to roam; 
For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home ; 
And pleasant is the way that lies before. 
1794. 



VII. 
Fair is the rising morn when o'er the sky 
The orient sun expands his roseate ray, 



SONNETS. 



119 



And lovely to the musing poet's eye 
Fades the soft radiance of departing day ; 
But fairer is the smile of one we love, 
Than all the scenes in Nature's ample sway, 
And sweeter than the music of the grove, 
The voice that bids us welcome. Such delight, 
Edith ! is mine, escaping to thy sight 
From the cold converse of the indifferent throng 
Too swiftly then tov/ard the silent night. 
Ye hours of happiness, ye speed along. 
Whilst I, from all the world's dull cares apart, 
Pour out the feelings of my burden'd heart. 
1794. 



VIII. 

How darkly o'er yon far-off mountain frowns 
The gather'd tempest I from that lurid cloud 
The deep-voiced thunders roll, awful and loud, 
Though distant; while upon the misty downs 
Fast falls in shadowy streaks the pelting rain. 
I never saw so terrible a storm ! 
Perhaps some way-worn traveller in vain 
Wraps his thin raiment round his shivering form, 
Cold even as hope within him. I the while 
Pause here in sadness, though the sun-beams smile 
Cheerily round me. Ah ! that thus my lot 
Might be with Peace and Solitude assign'd, 
Where I might from some little quiet cot 
Sigh for the crimes and miseries of mankind. 
1794. 



IX. 

THOU sweet Lark, who, in the heaven so high 
Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully, 

1 Avatch thee soaring with a deep delight; 
And when at last I turn mine aching eye 
That lags below thee in the Infinite, 
Still in my heart receive thy melody. 

O thou sweet Lark, that I had wings like thee ! 
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light 
Upward to mount, and from my heavenly height 
Gaze on the creeping multitude below ; 
But that I soon would wing my eager flight 
To that loved home where Fancy even now 
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear, 
Counting the weary hours that hold her here. 
1798. 



Thou lingerest. Spring! still wintry is the scene; 
The fields their dead and sapless russet wear ; 
Scarce doth the glossy celandine appear 
Starring the sunny bank, or early green 
The elder yet its circimg tufts put forth. 
The sparrow tenants still the eaves-built nest 
Where we should see our martin's snowy breast 
Oft darting out. The blasts from the bleak north, 
And from the keener east, still frequent blow. 
Sweet Spring, thou lingerest ; and it should be so, — 
Late let the fields and gardens blossom out ! 
Like man when most with smiles thy face is drest, 



'Tis to deceive, and he who knows ye best. 
When most ye promise, ever most must doubt. 
Westbunj, 1799. 



XL 

Beware a speedy friend, the Arabian said, 
And wMsely was it he advised distrust : 
The flower that blossoms earliest fades the first. 
Look at yon Oak that lifts its stately head. 
And dallies with the autumnal storm, whose rage 
Tempests the great sea-waves ; slowly it rose, 
Slowly its strength increased through many an age, 
And timidly did its light leaves disclose. 
As doubtful of the spring, their palest green. 
They to the summer cautiously expand, 
And by tlie warmer sun and season bland 
Matured, their foliage in the grove is seen, 
When the bare forest by the wintry blast 
Is swept, still lingering on the boughs the last. 
1793. 



XII. To A Goose. 
If thou didst feed on western plains of yore ; 
Or waddle wide with flat and flabby feet 
Over some Cambrian mountain's plashy moor; 
Or find in farmer's yard a safe retreat 
From gypsy thieves, and foxes sly and fleet; 
If thy gray quills, by lawyer guided, trace 
Deeds big with ruin to some wretched race, 
Or love-sick poet's sonnet, sad and sweet, 
Wailing the rigor of his lady fair ; 
Or if, the drudge of housemaid's daily toil, 
Cobwebs and dust thy pinions white besoil, 
Departed Goose ! I neither know nor care. 
But this I know, that we pronounced thee fine, 
Season'd with sage and onions, and port wine. 
London, 1798. 



XIII. 

I MARVEL not, O Sun ! that unto thee 
In adoration man should bow the knee, 
And pour his prayers of mingled awe and love ; 
For like a God thou art, and on thy way 
Of glory sheddest, with benignant ray. 
Beauty, and life, and joyance from above. 
No longer let these mists thy radiance shroud, 
These cold, raw^ mists, that chill the comfortless day. 
But shed thy splendor through the opening cloud, 
And cheer the earth once more. The languid flowers 
Lie scentless, beaten down with heavy rain: 
Earth asks thy presence, saturate with show^ers ; 
O Lord of Light ! put forth thy beams again. 
For damp and cheerless are the gloomy hours. 
Westbunj, 1798. 



XIV. 

Fair be thy fortunes in the distant land. 
Companion of my earlier years and friend ! 
Go to the Eastern world, and may the hand 
Of Heaven its blessing on thy labor send. 



120 



SONNETS. 



And may I, if we ever more should meet, 
See thee with affluence to thy native shore 
Return'd; — 1 need not pray that 1 may greet 
The same untainted goodness as before. 
Long years must intervene before that day ; 
And what the changes Heaven to each may send, 
It boots not now to bode : O early friend ! 
Assured, no distance e'er can wear away 
Esteem long rooted, and no change remove 
The dear remembrance of the friend we love. 
1798. 



XV. 

A WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee, 
Old Winter, with a rugged beard as gray 
As the long moss upon the apple-tree ; 
Blue-lipt, an ice-drop at thy sharp, blue nose, 
Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way. 
Plodding alone through sleet and drifting snows. 
They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt 

hearth. 
Old Winter ! seated in thy great arm'd chair, 
Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; 
Or circled by them as thy lips declare 
Some merry jest, or tale of murder dire, 
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, 
Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire, 
Or taste the old October brown and bright. 
Westbury, 1799. 



XVI. 

PoRLocK, thy verdant vale so fair to sight, 
Thy lofty hills which fern and furze embrown, 
The waters that roll musically down 
Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight 
Recalls to memory, and the channel gray 
Circling its surges in thy level bay. 
Porlock, I also shall forget thee not, 
Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined 
But often shall hereafter call to mind 
How here, a patient prisoner, 'twas my lot 
To Avear the lonely, lingering close of day, 
Making my Sennet by the alehouse fire. 
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire 
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away. 
August 9, 1799. 



XVII. 
Stately yon vessel sails adown the tide. 
To some far distant land adventurous bound ; 
The sailors' busy cries from side to side, 
Pealing among the echoing rocks, resound : 
A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band. 
Joyful they enter on their ocean way. 
With shouts exulting leave their native land. 
And know no care beyond the present day. 
But is there no poor mourner left behind, 



Who sorrows for a child or husband there ? 
Who at the howlmg of the midnight wind 
Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer ? 
So may her voice be heard, and Heaven be kind ! 
Go, gallant Ship, and be thy fortune fair ! 
Westbury, 1799. 



XVIII. 

O God ! have mercy in this dreadful hour 
On the poor mariner ! in comfort here 
Safe shelter' d as I am, I almost fear 
The blast that rages with resistless power. 
What were it now to toss upon the waves. 
The madden'd waves, and knoAV no succor near; 
The howling of the storm alone to hear, 
And the wild sea that to the tempest raves ; 
To gaze amid the horrors of the night. 
And only see the billow's gleaming light; 
Then in the dread of death to think of her 
Who, as she listens sleepless to the gale, 
Puts up a silent prayer and waxes pale ? — 
O God ! have mercy on the mariner ! 
Westbury, 1799. 



XIX. 

She comes majestic with her swelling sails, 
The gallant Ship ; along her watisry way 
Homeward she drives before the favoring gales ; 
Now flirting at their length the streamers play, 
And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze. 
Hark to the sailors' shouts ! the rocks rebound, 
Thundering in echoes to the joyful sound. 
Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas ; 
And what a heart-delight they feel at last, 
So many toils, so many dangers past, 
To view the port desired, he only knows 
Who on the stormy deep for many a day 
Hath tost, aweary of his watery way. 
And watch 'd, all anxious, every wind that blows. 
Westbury, 1799. 



XX. 

Farewell my home, my home no longer now, 
Witness of many a calm and happy day ; 
And thou, fair eminence, upon whose brow 
Dwells the last sunshine of the evening ray. 
Farewell ! These eyes no longer shall pursue 
The western sun beyond the farthest height, 
When slowly he forsakes the fields of light. 
No more the freshness of the falling dew, 
Cool and delightful, here shall bathe my head, 
As from this western window dear, I lean. 
Listening, the while I watch the placid scene, 
The martins twittering underneath the shed. 
Farewell, dear home. ! where many a day has past 
In joys whose loved remembrance long shall last. 
Westbury, 1799. 



MONODRAMAS 



121 



JMONODRAMAS. 



SAPPHO. 

Scene. The Promontory of Leucadia. 

This is the spot : — 'tis here, tradition says, 

That Hopeless Love from this high, towering rock 

Leaps headlong to oblivion or to death. 

Oh, 'tis a giddy height ! my dizzy head 

Swims at the precipice ! — 'tis death to fall ! 

Lie still, thou coward heart ! this is no time 
To shake with thy strong throbs the frame con- 
vulsed. 
To die, — to be at rest, — oh, pleasant thought ! 
Perchance to leap and live ; the soul all still, 
And the wild tempest of the passions husht 
In one deep calm ; the heart, no more diseased 
By the quick ague fits of hope and fear, 
Quietly cold ! 

Presiding Powers, look down I 
In vain to you I pour'd my earnest prayers, 
In vain I sung your praises : chiefly thou, 
Venus ! ungrateful Goddess, whom my lyre 
Hymn'd with such full devotion. Lesbian groves, 
Witness how often, at the languid hour 
Of summer twilight, to the melting song 
Ye gave your choral echoes ! Grecian maids. 
Who hear with downcast look and flushing cheek, 
That lay of love, bear witness ! and ye youths. 
Who hang enraptured on the impassion'd strain, 
Gazing with eloquent eye, even till the heart 
Sinks in the deep delirium ! And ye, too, 
Ages unborn ! bear witness ye, how hard 
Her fate who hymn'd the votive hymn in vain ! 
Ungrateful Goddess ! I have hung my lute 
In yonder holy pile ; my hand no more 
Shall wake the melodies that fail'd to move 
Obdurate Phaon ! — yet when rumor tells 
How, from Leucadia, Sappho cast herself, 
A self-devoted victim, — he may melt 
Too late in pity, obstinate to love. 

Oh ! haunt his midnight dreams, black Nemesis ! 
Whom,* self-conceiving in the inmost depths 
Of Chaos, blackest Night long laboring bore. 
When the stern Destinies, her elder brood, [birth 
And shapeless Death, from that more monstrous 
Leapt shuddering : Haunt his slumbers, Nemesis ! 
Scorch with the fires of Phlegethon his heart, 
Till, helpless, hopeless, heaven-abandon'd wretch. 
He too shall seek beneath the unfathom'd deep 
To hide him from thy fury. 

How the sea 
Far distant glitters as the sun-beams smile, 
And gayly wanton o'er its heaving breast ! 
Phoebus shines forth, nor wears one cloud to mourn 
His votary's sorrows. God of Day, shine on ! — 
By man despised, forsaken by the Gods, 
I supplicate no more. 



* 0« Tivi Kotfirfdciffa ^ea tcks NYS tptStwn. 

16 



HZSIOD. 



How many a day, 
O pleasant Lesbos ! in thy secret streams 
Delighted have 1 plunged, from the hot sun 
Screen'd by the o'erarching grove's delightful 

shade. 
And pillow 'd on the waters ! Now the waves 
Shall chill me to repose. 

Tremendous height ! 
Scarce to the brink will these rebellious limbs 
Support me. Hark ! how the rude deep below 
Roars round the rugged base, as if it call'd 
Its long-reluctant victim ! I will come ! — 
One leap, and all is over ! The deep rest 
Of death, or tranquil apathy's dead calm, 
Welcome alike to me. Away, vain fears ! 
Phaon is cold, and why should Sappho live ? 
Phaon is cold, or with some fairer one — 
Thought worse than death ! 

Slie throws herself from the precipice. 
Oxford, 1793. 



XIMALPOCA. 



The story of this Mexican King is related by Torquemada in 
his Monarquia Indiana, 1. ii. c. 28, and by the Abate Clavi- 
gero, Storia Antica del Messlcu, t. i. 1, iii. p. 199. The sac- 
rifice was not completed ; a force sent by his enemy arrived 
in time to prevent the catastrophe ; he was carried off cap- 
tive, and destroyed himself in prison. 



Scene. The Temple of Mexitli. 

Subjects ! friends ! children ! I may call you 

children, 
For I have ever borne a father's love 
Towards you ; it is thirteen years since first 
You saw me in the robes of royalty, — 
Since here the multitudes of Mexico 
Hail'd me their King. I thank you, friends, that now, 
In equal numbers and with equal love, 
You come to grace my death. 

For thirteen years 
What I have been, ye know ; that with all care, 
That with all justness and all gentleness, 
Seeking your weal, I govern'd. Is there one 
Whom I have injured ? one whose just redress 
I have denied, or bafiled by delay ? 
Let him come forth, that so no evil tongue 
Speak shame of me hereafter. O my people, 
Not by my sins have I drawn down upon me 
The wrath of Heaven. 

The wrath is heavy on me ! 
Heavy ! a burden more than I can bear ! 
1 have endured contempt, insult, and wrongs 
From that Acolhuan tyrant. Should I seek 
Revenge .'' Alas, my people, we are few, — 
Feeble our grooving state ; it hath not yet 
Rooted itself to bear the hurricane ; 
It is the lion cub that tempts not yet 
The tiger's full-aged fury. Mexicans, 
He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe ; — 
When was the day that ever 1 look'd back 



122 



MONODRAMAS. 



In battle ? Mexicans, the wife I loved, 

To faith and friendship trusted, in despite 

Of me, of Heaven, he seized, and spurn'd her back 

Polluted ! — Coward villain ! and he lurks 

Behind his armies and his multitudes. 

And mocks my idle wrath ! — It is not fit — 

It is not possible that I should live ! — 

Live ! and deserve to be the finger-mark 

Of slave-contempt ! — His blood I cannot reach. 

But in my own all stains may be effaced ; 

It shall blot out the marks of infamy, 

And when the warriors of the days to come 

Tell of Ximalpoca, it shall be said 

He died the brave man's death ! 

Not of the God 
Unworthy, do I seek his altar thus, 
A voluntary victim. And perchance 
The sacrifice of life may profit ye. 
My people, though all living efforts fail'd 
By fortune, not by fault. 

Cease your lament ! 
And if your ill-doom'd King deserved your love, 
Say of him to your children, he was one 
Who bravely bore misfortune ; who, when life 
Became dishonor, shook his body off. 
And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead. 
Yes ! not in Miclanteuctli's dark abode 
With cowards shall your King receive his doom : 
Not in the icy caverns of the North 
Suffer through endless ages. He shall join 
The Spirits of the brave, with them at morn 
Shall issue from the eastern gate of Heaven, 
And follow through his fields of light the Sun ; 
With them shall raise the song and weave the 

dance ; 
Sport in the stream of splendor ; company 
Down to the western palace of his rest 
The Prince of Glory ; and with equal eye 
Endure his centred radiance. Not of you 
Forgetful, O my people, even then ; 
But often in the amber cloud of noon 
Diffused, will I o'erspread your summer fields. 
And on thefreshen'd maize and brightening meads 
Shower plenty. 

Spirits of my valiant Sires, 
I come ! Mexitli, never at thy shrine 
Flow'd braver blood ; never a nobler heart 
Steam'd up to thee its life ! Priests of the God, 
Perform your office ! 

Westbury, 1798. 



THE WIFE OF FERGUS. 



Fergusius 3. periit veneno ab uxore dato. Alii scribunt cum 
uxor saepc exprobrasset ei matrimonii contemptum et pelii- 
cum greges, neque ([uicquam profocissct, tandem noctu dor- 
mientem ab ea strangulatum. Quaestione de morte ejus 
habits, cum amicorum plurimi insimularentur, nee quisquam 
ne in gravissimis quidem tormcntis quisquam fateretur, 
mulier, alioqui ferox, tot innoxiorum capitum miserta, in 
medium processit, ac e superiore loco coedem a se factum 
confessa, ne ad ludibrium superesset, pectus cultro transfo- 



dit : quod ejus factum varie pro cujusque ingenio est accep- 
tum, ac perinde sermonibus celebratum. Buchanan. 



Scene. The Palace Court. The Queen speaking 

from the Battlements. 
Cease — cease your torments ! spare the sufferers ! 
Scotchmen, not theirs the deed; — the crime was 

mine. 
Mine is the glory. 

Idle threats ! I stand 
Secure. All access to these battlements 
Is barr'd beyond your sudden strength to force ; 
And lo ! the dagger by which Fergus died ! 

Shame on ye, Scotchmen, that a woman's hand 
Was left to do this deed ! Shame on ye. Thanes, 
Who with slave-patience have so long endured 
The wrongs and insolence of tyranny ! 
Cowardly race ! — that not a husband's sword 
Smote that adulterous King ! that not a wife 
Revenged her own pollution ; in his blood 
Wash'd herself pure, and for the sin compell'd 
Atoned by righteous murder ! — O my God ! 
Of what beast-matter hast thou moulded them 
To bear with wrongs like these ^ There was a time 
When if the Bard had feign'd you such a tale. 
Your eyes had throbb'd with anger, and your hand, 
In honest instinct would have grasp'd the sword. 

miserable men, who have disgraced 

Your fathers, whom your sons must blush to name ! 

Ay, — ye can threaten me ! ye can be brave 
In anger to a woman ! one whose virtue 
Upbraids your coward vice ; whose name will live 
Honor' d and praised in song, when not a hand 
Shall root from your forgotten monuments 
The cankering moss. Fools I fools ! to think that 

death 
Is not a thing familiar to my mind ; 
As if I knew not what must consummate 
My glory ! as if aught that earth can give 
Could tempt me to endure the load of life ! — 
Scotchmen ! ye saw when Fergus to the altar 
Led me, his maiden Queen. Ye blest me then, 

1 heard you bless me, — and I thought that 

Heaven 
Had heard you also, and that I was blest ; 
For I loved Fergus. Bear me witness, God ! 
With what a heart and soul sincerity 
My lips pronounced the unrecallable vow 
That made me his, him mine ; bear witness. Thou ! 
Before whose throne I this day must appear ' 
Stain'd with his blood and mine ! My heart was 

his, — 
His in the strength of all its first affections. 
In all obedience, in all love, I kept 
Holy my marriage-vow. Behold me. Thanes ! 
Time hath not changed the face on which his eye 
So often dwelt, when with assiduous care 
He sought my love, with seeming truth, for one, 
Sincere herself, impossible to doubt. 
Time hath not changed that face ! — I speak not 

now 
With pride of beauties that will feed the worm 



MOINODRAMAS. 



123 



To-morrow ; but with honest pride I say, 
That if the truest and the purest love 
Deserved requital, such was ever mine. 
How often reeking from the adulterous bed 
Have 1 received him ! and with no complaint. 
Neglect and insult, cruelty and scorn. 
Long, long did I endure, and long curb down 
The indignant nature. 

Tell your countrymen, 
Scotchmen, what I have spoken ! Say to them 
Ye saw the Queen of Scotland lift the dagger 
Red from her husband's heart ; that in her own 
She plunged it. Slabs herself. 

Tell them also, that she felt 
No guilty fear in death. 

Westbury, 1798. 



LUCRETIA. 



Scene. The House of CoUatine. 

Welcome, my father! good Valerius, 
Welcome ! and thou too, Brutus ! ye were both 
My wedding guests, and fitly ye are come. 
My husband — Collatine — alas ! no more 
Lucretia's husband, for thou shalt not clasp 
Pollution to thy bosom, — hear me on ! 
For 1 must tell thee all. 

1 sat at eve 
Spinning amid my maidens as I wont. 
When from the camp at Ardea Scxtus came. 
Curb down thy swelling feelings, Collatme ! 
1 little liked the man ! yet. for he came 
From Ardea, for he brouglit me news of thee, 
I gladly gave him welcome ; gladly listen 'd, — 
Thou canst not tell how gladly — to his tales 
Of battles,, and the long and perilous siege ; 
And when I laid me down at night to sleep, 
'Twas with a lighten'd heart, — I knew thee safe ; 
My visions were of thee. 

Nay, hear me out ! 
And be thou wise in vengeance, so thy wife 
Not vainly shall have suffer'd. I have wrought 
My soul up to the business of this hour. 
That it may stir your noble spirits, and prompt 
Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn 
Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke ; 
The Tarquin was beside me ! O my husband, 
Where wert thou then ! gone was my rebel 

strength — 
All power of utterance gone ! astonish'd, stunn'd, 
1 saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge 
His wicked suit, and bid me tamely yield, — 
Yield to dishonor. When he profFer'd death, — 
Oh, I had leap'd to meet themerciful sword ! 
But that with most accursed vows he vow'd. 
That he would lay a dead slave by my side, 
Murdering my spotless honor. — Collatine, 
From what an anguish have I rescued thee ! 
And thou, my father, wretched as thou art, 
Thou miserable, childless, poor old man, — 
Think, father, what that agony had been ! 
Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bless 
The memory of thy poor, polluted child. 



Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye : 
Mysterious man ! at last I know thee now ; 
I see thy dawning glories ! — to the grave 
Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend ; 
Not alwa3fs shall her wretched country wear 
The Tarquin's yoke ! Ye will deliver Rome, 
And 1 have comfort in this dreadful hour. 

Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded 
death ? 
O Collatine ! the weapon that had gored 
My bosom had been ease, been happiness, — 
Elysium, to the hell of his hot grasp. 
Judge if Lucretia could have fear'd to die ! 

Stabs herself. 
Bristol, 1799. 



LA CABA. 



This monodrania was written several years before the author 
had any intention of treating at greater length the portion 
of Spanish history to which it relates. It is founded upon 
the following passage in the Historia Verdadcra del Rey Don 
Rodrigo, which Miguel de Luna translated from the Arabic. 
Aviendose despedido en la Ciudad de Cordoba el Coiide 
Don Julian de aquellos Oencrales, recogio toda su gente, deu- 
dos y criados : y porque sus ticrras estavan tan perdidas y 
maltratadas, sefea a im lugar peqiteno, que estd fabricadn en 
la ribera del mar Jfediterraneo, en la provinr.ia que llaman 
Vandalucia, a. la qual nombraron los Cliristianos en su Icngua 
Villaviciosa. Y aviendo llegado a. clla, did orden de embiar 
por su wuger, y hija, que estavan detenidas en aquellas partes 
de Africa, en una Ciudad que estd en la ribera del mar, la 
qual se llama Tanjcr, para desde nlli aguardar el sucesso 
de la conquista de Espana en que aria de parar -. las quales 
llegadas en aquella Villa, el Conde D. Julian las recibid con 
mucho contento, porque tenia bien sentida su larga ausencia. 
Y aviendo descansado, desde alii el Conde dava orden con 
nvicha diligcncia para poblar y rcstaurar sus ticrras, para ir 
a vivir a ellas. Su hija estava may triste y afiigida; y por 
mucho que su padre y madre la regalavan, nunca la podian 
contentar, 7ii alcgrar. Imaginava la grandeperdida de Espana, 
y la grande drstruicion dr Ivs C/iristianos, con tantas muertes, 
y cautircrios, robadas sus lia-Jendas, y que clla huviesse sido 
causa principal, cabeza, y ocasio?i de aquella perdicion ; y sobre 
todo ello le crecian mas sus pesadumbres en verse deshonrada, 
y sin esperanza de tener estado, segun ella deseava. Con esta 
imaginacion, enganada del demonio, dctcrmino entresi de 
morir drscsperada ; y un dia se snbio a una torrc, cerrando la 
piicrta della por dedcnfro, porque no fuesse estorvada dc aquel 
hecho que queria hater ; y dixo d una ama suya, que le llamasse 
d su padre y madre, que les queria deiir un poco. Y siendo 
vcnidos, desde lo alto de aquella torre les hizo un razonamientd 
muy laslimosu, dizicndolcs al Jin del, quemuger tan desdichada 
como ella era, y tan desvcnturada, no merecia vivir en el 
mundo con tanta deshonra, mayormente aviendo sido causa de 
tanto maly destruicion. Yluego les dixo, Padres, enmemoria 
de mi desdicha, de aqui adelante no se llame esta Ciudad, Villa, 
viciosa, sino Malaca ; Oy se acaba en clla la mas mala muger 
que huvo en d mundo. Y acabadas estas palabras, sin mas 
oir d sus padres, ni d nadie de los que estavan presentes, por 
miichos ruegos que la hizieron, y amonestaciones que no se 
echasse abaio, se dexo cacr en el suelo ; y lleimda medio muerta, 
vivid como tres dias, y luego murio. — Fue causa este desastre 
y desesperacion de mucho escandalo, y notable memoria, entre 
los Moros y Christianas .- y desde alle adelante se llamo aquella 
Ciudad Malaga corruptamente por los Christianas ; y de los 
Arabes fue llamada Malaca, enmemoria de aquellas palabras 
que dixo quando se echd de la torre, no se llame Villaviciosa, 
.nno Malaca, porque ca, en lenguaje Espanol quiere dezir por- 
que ; y porque dixo, ca, oy se acaba en ella la inas mala muger 
que huvo en el mundo, se compuso este nombre de Malay ca. — 
Cap. xviii. pp. 81, 83. 



124 



AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 



Bleda, who has incorporated Miguel de Luna's story in his 
Cronica de los Moros de Espana, pp. 193, 194, has the fol- 
lowing curious passage concerning La Caba. 

Fae la hermosura desta dama no menos danosa d Espana, 
que la de Elena a Troya. Llamaronla los Moros por mal 
nombre La Cava j y nota el Padre Fray Estavan de Salazar, 
Cartuxo, en los discursos doctissimos sobre el Credo, que esto 
no fue sin mysterio : porque el nombre de nuestra primera 
madre en el Hebreo no se pronuncia Eva, sino Cavah : de 
suerte que tuvieron un mesmo nombre dos mugeres quefueron 
ruyna de los hombres, la una en todo el mundo, y la otra en 
Espana. — Bleda, p. 146. 

Morales supposes that the Gate at Malaga derived its name 
not from the death of La Caba, but from her having passed 
through it on her way to Africa. 

En Malaga he visto la puerta en el muro, que llaman de La 
Cava, y dicen le quedo aquel nombre, habiendo salido esta vez 
pur ella embarcarse. Y la gran desventura que luego sucedid, 
dexd tristemente notable aquel lugar. — Morales, 1. xii. cap. 
Ixvii. § 4. 

The very different view which I have taken of this subject 
When treating it upon a great scale, renders it proper to sub- 
stitute for Julian, in this earlier production, the name of Illan, 
for which the Coronica de Espana affords authority, and to 
call his daughter as she is named in that spirited Ode by P. 
Luis de Leon, of which a good translation may be found in 
Russell's poems. 



Father ! Count Illan ! here — what here I say, — 
Aloft — look up I — ay, father, here I stand, 
Safe of my purpose now ! The way is barr'd ; — 
Thou need'st not hasten hither! — Ho! Count 

Illan, 
I tell thee I have barr'd the battlements ! 
I tell thee that no human power can curb 
A desperate will. The poison and the knife — 
These thou couldst wrest from me ; but here I 

stand 
Beyond thy thrall — free mistress of myself. 
Though thou hadst wings, thou couldst not over- 
take 
My purpose. I command my destiny. 
Would I stand dallying on Death's threshold here. 
If it were possible that hand of man 
Could pluck me back ^ 

Why didst thou bring me here 
To set my foot, reluctant as I was. 
On this most injured and unhappy land ? 
Yonder in Afric — on a foreign shore, 
1 might have linger'd out my wretched life — 
I might have found some distant lurking place, 
Where my accursed tale was never known ; 
Where Gothic speech would never reach ray ear, — 
Where among savages I might have jfled 
The leprous curse of infamy ! But here — 
In Spain, — in my own country ; — night and morn 
Where all good people curse me in their prayers ; 
Where every Moorish accent that I hear 
Doth tell me of my country's overthrow. 
Doth stab me like a dagger to the soul ; 
Here — here — in desolated Spain, whose fields 
Yet reek to Heaven with blood, — whose slaugh- 

ter'd sons 
Lie rotting in the open light of day. 
My victims ; — said I, mine ? Nay — Nay, Count 

Illan, 
They are thy victims ! at the throne of God 
Their spirits call for vengeance on thy head ; 
Their blood is on thy soul, — even I, myself, 



I am thy victim too, — and this death more 
Must yet be placed in Hell to thy account. 

O my dear country ! O my mother Spain ! 
My cradle and ray grave ! — for thou art dear j 
And nursed to thy undoing as I was. 
Still, still I am thy child — and love thee still ; 
I shall be written in thy chronicles 
The veriest wretch that ever yet betray'd 
Her native land ! From sire to son ray name 
Will be transmitted down for infamy I — 
Never again will mother call her child 
La Caba, — an Iscariot curse will lie 
Upon the name, and children in their songs 
Will teach the rocks and hills to echo with it 
Strumpet and traitoress ! 

This is thy work, father ! 
Nay, tell me not my shame is wash'd away — 
That all this ruin and this misery 
Is vengeance for my wrongs. I ask'd not this, — 
I call'd for open, manly, Gothic vengeance. 
Thou wert a vassal, and thy villain lord 
Most falsely and raost foully broke his faith ; 
Thou wert a father, and the lustful king 
By force abused thy child ! — Thou hadst a sword j 
Shame on thee to call in the cimeter 
To do thy work! Thou wert a Goth — a Chris- 
tian — 
Son of an old and honorable house, — 
It was my boast, my proudest happiness. 
To think I was the daughter of Count Illan. 
Fool that I am to call this African 
By that good name ! O do not spread thy hands 
To me ! — and put not on that father's look ! 
Moor ! turbaned misbeliever ! renegade ! 
Circumcised traitor ! Thou Count Illan, Thou ! — 
Thou my dear father ? — cover me, O Earth .? 
Hell, hide me from the knowledge ! 
Bristol, 1802. 



THE AMATORY POEMS 

OF 

ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM. 



SONNET I. 



DELIA AT PLAY. 



She held a Cup and Ball of ivory white, 
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand ! 
Enrapt, I watch'd her from my secret stand^ 
As now, intent, in innocent delight. 
Her taper fingers twirl'd the giddy ball. 
Now tost it, following still with eagle sight, 
Now on the pointed end infixed its fall. 
Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd. 
Methought the ball she play'd with was my 

HEART ; 

(Alas ! that sport like that should be her pride !) 
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed 
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart; 
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn 
Who on that dart impales my bosom's gem -* 



LOVE ELEGIES. 



125 



SONNET n. 

TO A PAINTER ATTEMPTING DELIA's PORTRAIT, 

Rash Painter! canst thou give the orb of day 

In all its noontide glory ? or portray 

The DIAMOND, that athwart the taper d hall 

Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light ? 

Even if thine art could boast such 'magic mighty 

Yet if" it strove to paint mij Angel's eye, 

Here it perforce must fail. Cease ! lest I call 

Heaven s vengeance on thij sin. Must thou be told 

The CRIME it is to paint divinity ? 

Bash Painter ! should the world her charms behold. 

Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be, 

They to their old idolatry would fall. 

And bend before her form the pagan knee, 

Fairer than Venus, daughter of the sea. 



SONNET III. 

HE PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM 
HIS LOVE FOR DELIA. 

Some have denied a soul ! they never loved. 
Far from my Delia now by fate removed, 
At home, abroad, I viewed her every where ; 
Her ONLY in the flood of noon I see. 
My Goddess-Maid, my omnipresent fair. 
For LOVE annihilates the world to me! 
And when the weary Sol around his bed 
Closes the sable curtains of the night, 
Sun of my slumbers, on my dazzled sight 
She shines confest. When every sound is dead, 
The SPIRIT OF her voice comes then to roll 
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain. 
Far, far from her my Body drags its chain, 
But sure with Delia / exist a soul ' 



SONNET IV. 

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING 
A PORTRAIT IN DELIa's PARLOR. 

I WOULD I were that portly Gentleman 
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, 
Who hangs in Delia's parlor ! For whene'er 
From book or needlework her looks arise, 
On him converge the sun-beams of her eyes, 
And he unhlamed may gaze upon my fair. 
And oft MY fair h.\s favor d form surveys. 

HAPPY PICTURE ! still ou HER to gazc ; 

1 envy him ! and jealous fear alarms, 

Lest the strong glance of those divinest charms 
Warm him to life, as in the ancient days, 
When marble melted in Pygmalion's arms. 
I would I were that portly Gentleman 
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane. 



LOVE ELEGIES. 



ELEGY I. 

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA's 
POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF. 

'Tis mine ! what accents can my joy declare .? 

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! 
Blest be the hand so hasty^of my fair, 

That left the tempting corner hanging out ! 

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels. 

After long travel to some distant shrine, 

When at the relic of his saint he kneels. 

For Delia's pocket-handkerchief is mine. 

When first with filching fingers I drew near. 
Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein 

And when the finished deed removed my fear, 
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain 

What though the Eighth Commandment rose to 
mind, 

It only served a moment's qualm to move ; 
For thefts like this it could not be design'd ; [love ! 

The Eighth Commandment was not made for 

Here when she took the macaroons from me, 
She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet ! 

Dear napkin ! yes, she wiped her lips in thee ! 
Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat. 

And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw, 
That made my Love so delicately sneeze, 

Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, 

And thou art doubly dear for things like these. 

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er. 

Sweet pocket-handkerchief ! thy worth pro- 
fane ; 

For thou hast touch'd the rubies of my fair, 
And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again. 



ELEGY II. 



THE POET INVOKES THE SPIRITS OF THE ELEMENTS 

TO APPROACH DELIA. HE DESCRIBES HER 

SINGING. 

Ye Sylphs, who banquet on my Delia's blush. 
Who on her locks of floating gold repose. 

Dip in her cheek your gossamery brush. 

And with its bloom of beauty tinge the rose. 

Hover around her lips on rainbow loing, 

Load from her honey 'd breath your viev^less ?eet^ 

Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring, 
And make the lily and the violet sweet. 



126 



LOVE ELEGIES 



Ye Gnomes, whose toil through many adateless year 
Its nurture to the infant gem supplies, 

From central caverns bring your diamonds here, 
To ripen in the sun of Delia's eyes. 

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs. 
Spirits of fire ! to see my love advance ; 

Fly, Salamanders, on Asbestos' wings. 
To wanton in my Delia's Jieri/ glance. 

She weeps, she weeps ! her eye with anguish swells. 
Some tale of sorrow melts my feeling girl ! 

Nymphs ! catch the tears, and in your lucid shells 
Enclose them, embryos of the orient pearl. 

She sings ! the Nightingale with envy hears. 
The Cherub listens from his starry throne, 

And motionless are stopp'd the attentive Spheres, 
To hear more heavenly music than their own. 

Cease, Delia, cease ! for all the angel throng. 
Hearkening to thee, let sleep their golden wires ! 

Cease, Delia, cease that too surpassing song. 
Lest, stung to envy, they should break their lyres. 

Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven 
By the strong joy ! Cease, Delia, lest my soul, 

Enrapt, already think itself in heaven, 
And burst the feeble Body's frail control. 



ELEGY III. 

the poet expatiates on the beauty of Delia's 
hair. 

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains 
The straitening curls of gold so beamy bright, 

Not spotless merely from the touch remains. 
But issues forth more pure, more milky white. 

The rose-pomatum that the Friseur spreads 
Sometimes with honor'd fingers for my fair 

No added perfume on her tresses sheds. 

But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair. 

Happy the Friseur who in Delia's hair 

With licensed fingers uncontroll'd may rove ! 

And happy in his death the dancing bear. 
Who died to make pomatum for my love. 

Oh could I hope that e'er my favor'd lays 

Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride. 

Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's 
praise, 
I'd envy then, nor wish reward beside. 

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine. 
The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart ; 

From you, sweet locks ! he wove the subtile line 
Wherewith the urchin angled for my heart. 

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads 

That from the silk- worm, self-interr'd, proceed j 



Fine as the gleamy Gossamer that spreads 
Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead. 

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate 
My captive heart has handcuffed in a chain, 

Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate. 
That bears Britannia's thunders o'er the 
main. 

The Sylphs that round her radiant locks repair. 
Inflowing lustre bathe their brightening wings ; 

And Elfin Minstrels with assiduous care 
The ringlets rob for faery fiddle-strings. 



ELEGY IV. 



the poet relates how he stole a lock of 
Delia's hair, and her anger. 

Oh ! be the day accurst that gave me birth ! 

Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise ! 
Fall on me, Mountains ! and thou merciful Earth, 

Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes ! 

Let universal Chaos now return. 

Now let the central fires their prison burst. 

And earth, and heaven, and air, and ocean 
burn — 
For Delia FROWNS — she frowns, and I am curst! 

Oh ! I could dare the fury of the fight. 

Where hostile millions sought my single life ; 

Would storm volcano batteries with delight. 
And grapple with grim death in glorious strife. 

Oh ! 1 could brave the bolts of angry Jove, 

When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies : 

What is his wrath to that of her I love ? 

What is his lightning to my Delia's eyes ? 

Go, fatal lock ! I cast thee to the wind ; 

Ye serpent curls, ye poison-tendrils, go ! 
Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, 

Accursed lock, — thou cause of all my woe ! 

Seize the curst curls, ye Furies, as they fly ! 

Demons of Darkness, guard the infernal roll. 
That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die, 

May knit the knots of torture /or my soul. 

Last night, — Oh hear me. Heaven, and grant my 
prayer ! 

The book of fate before thy suppliant lay. 
And let me from its ample records tear 

Only the single page of yesterday! 

Or let me meet old Time upon his flight, 
And I will STOP him on his restless way ; 

Omnipotent in Love's resistless might, 

ril force him back the road of yesterday. 

Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair, 
My Delia bent deliciously to grieve, 



LYRIC POEMS. 



127 



I stood a treacherous loiterer by her ciiair, 

And drew the fatal scissors from iny sleeve : 

And would that at that instant o'er my thread 
The SHEARS OF Atropos had open'd then; 

And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, 
Had cut me sudden from the sons of men ! 

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide, 

And whilst my heart with transport panted big, 

She cast a fury frown on me, and cried, 

" You stupid Puppy, — you have spoil' d my Wig ! ' ' 

Westbury, 1799. 



LYRIC POEMS 



TO HORROR. 



Tij/ yap irora ciaoixai 

Tav Koi CKvXiKtg rpofxeovTi 
''EpXontvav v£KVu)v dvd t' ripta, Kai [xiXav alpa. 

Theocritds. 



Dark Horror ! hear my call ! 

Stern Genius, hear from thy retreat 

On some old sepulchre's moss-canker'd seat. 

Beneath the Abbey's ivied wall 

That trembles o'er its shade ; 
Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone. 

Thou lovest to lie and hear 

The roar of waters near. 
And listen to the deep, dull groan 

Of some perturbed sprite, 
Borne fitful on the heavy gales of night. 

Or whether o'er some wide waste hill 
Thou see'st the traveller stray, 

Bewilder'd on his lonely way, 
When, loud, and keen, and chill. 
The evening winds of winter blow, 

Drifting deep the dismal snow. 

Or if thou folio west now on Greenland's shore. 

With all thy terrors, on the lonely way 

Of some wreck 'd mariner, where to the roar 

Of herded bears, the floating ice-hills round 

Return their echoing sound. 

And by the dim, drear Boreal light 

Givest half his dangers to the wretch's sight. 

Or if thv fury form, 
When o'er the midnight deep 
The dark-wing'd tempests sweep. 
Beholds from some high cliff the increasing storm, 
Watching with strange delight. 
As the black billows to the thunder rave, 
When by the lightning's light 
Thou see'st the tall ship sink beneath the wave. 



Bear me in spirit where the field of fight 
Scatters contagion on the tainted gale, 
When, to the Moon's faint beam, 
On many a carcass shine the dews of night, 
And a dead silence stills the vale, [scream. 
Save when at times is heard the glutted Raven's 

Where some wreck'd army from the Conqueror's 
Speed their disastrous flight, [might 

With thee, fierce Genius ! let me trace their way, 
And hear at times the deep heart-groan 
Of some poor sufferer left to die alone ; 
And we will pause, where, on the wild, 
The mother to her breast. 
On the heap'd snows reclining, clasps her child. 
Not to be pitied now, for both are now at rest. 

Black Horror ! speed we to the bed of Death, 
Where one who wide and far 
Hath sent abroad the myriad plagues of war 
Struggles with his last breath ; 
Then to his wildly-starting eyes 
The spectres of the slaughter'd rise ; 
Then on his frenzied ear 
Their calls for vengeance and the Demons' yell 
In one heart-maddening chorus swell ; 
Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew, 
And night eternal darkens on his view. 

Horror ! I call thee yet once more ! 

Bear me to that accursed shore, 

Where on the stake the Negro writhes. 

Assume thy sacred terrors then ! dispense 
The gales of Pestilence ! 
Arouse the oppress'd ; teach them to know their 

power ; 
Lead them to vengeance ! and in that dread hour 
When ruin rages wide, 
I will behold and smile by Mercy's side. 

Bnstol, 1791. 



TO CONTEMPLATION. 



Kai Trayai (p^X^omi tov iyyvdev rixov olkovciv, 
"A TipTTci xpo<ptoiaa tov aypiKOv, ovx^ rapdauei. 

MOSCHUS. 



Faint gleams the evening radiance through the sky. 
The sober twilight dimly darkens round ; 
In short quick circles the shrill bat flits by. 
And the slow vapor curls along the ground. 

Now the pleased eye from yon lone cottage sees 
On the green mead the smoke long-shadov\nng play ; 
The Red-breast on the blossom 'd spray 
Warbles wild her latest lay ; 
And lo ! the Rooks to yon high-tufted trees 
Wing in long files vociferous their way. 
Calm Contemplation, 'tis thy favorite hourl 
Come, tranquillizing Power ! 



128 



LYRIC POEMS. 



I view thee on the calmy shore 
When Ocean stills his waves to rest ; 
Or when slow-moving on the surges hoar 
Meet with deep, hollow roar, 
And whiten o'er his breast; 
And when the Moon with softer radiance gleams, 
And lovelier heave the billows in her beams. 

When the low gales of evening moan along, 
I love with thee to feel the calm, cool breeze, 

And roam the pathless forest wilds among. 
Listening the mellow murmur of the trees 

FuU-foliaged, as they wave their heads on high, 

And to the winds respond in symphony. 

Or lead me where, amid the tranquil vale. 
The broken streamlet flows in silver light ; 
And I will linger where the gale 
O'er the bank of violets sighs, 
Listening to hear its soften'd sounds arise, 
And hearken the dull beetle's drowsy flight, 

And watch the tube-eyed snail 
Creep o'er his long, moon-glittering trail, 
And mark where radiant through the night 
Shines in the grass-green hedge the glow-worm' 
living light. 

Thee, meekest Power ! I love to meet, 
As oft with solitary pace 
The ruin'd Abbey's hallowed rounds I trace, 
And listen to the echoings of my feet. 
Or on some half-demolish' d tomb, 
Whose warning texts anticipate my doom, 

Mark the clear orb of night 
Cast through the ivied arch a broken light. 

Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour 
Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power. 
Wandering beneath the sacred pile 
When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, 
And clattering patters all around 
The midnight shower with dreary sound. 

But sweeter 'tis to wander wild, 
By melancholy dreams beguiled. 
While the summer moon's pale ray 
Faintly guides me on my way 
To some lone, romantic glen. 
Far from all the haunts of men ; 
Where no noise of uproar rude 
Breaks the calm of solitude ; 
But soothing Silence sleeps in all, 
Save the neighboring waterfall, 
Whose hoarse waters, falling near. 
Load with hollow sounds the ear, 
And with down-dash' d torrent white 
Gleam hoary through the shades of night. 

Thus wandering silent on and slow, 
I'll nurse Reflection's sacred woe. 
And muse upon the happier day 
When Hope would weave her visions gay, 
Kre Fancy, chill'd by adverse fate, 
Left sad Reality my mate. 



O Contemplation ! when to Memory's eyes 
The visions of the long-past days arise, 
Thy holy power imparts the best relief, 
And the calm'd Spirit loves the joy of grief. 

Bristol, 1792. 



TO A FRIEND. 



Oh my faithful Friend ! 
Oh early chosen, ever found the same, 
And trusted and beloved ! once more the verse 
Long destined, always obvious to thine ear, 
Attend indulgent. Akens'ide. 



And wouldst thou seek the low abode 
Where Peace delights to dwell ? 
Pause, Traveller, on thy way of life ! 
With many a snare and peril rife 
Is that long labyrinth of road ! 
Dark is the vale of years before ; 
Pause, Traveller, on thy way. 
Nor dare the dangerous path explore 
Till old Experience comes to lend his leading ray. 

Not he who comes with lantern light 
Shall guide thy groping pace aright 

With faltering feet and slow; 
No ! let him rear the torch on high, 

And every maze shall meet thine eye, 
And every snare and every foe ; 

Then with steady step and strong, 

Traveller, shalt thou march along. 

Though Power invite thee to her hall, 
Regard not thou her tempting call, 
Her splendor's meteor glare ; 
Though courteous Flattery there await, 
And Wealth adorn the dome of State, 
There stalks the midnight spectre Care : 
Peace, Traveller, doth not sojourn there. 

If Fame allure thee, climb not thou 
To that steep mountain's craggy brow 

Where stands her stately pile ; 
For far from thence doth Peace abide, 
And thou shalt find Fame's favoring smile 
Cold as the feeble Sun on Hecla's snow-clad side 

And, Traveller ! as thou hopest to find 
That low and loved abode. 
Retire thee from the thronging road, 
And shun the mob of human-kind. 
Ah ! hear how old Experience schools — 
" Fly, fly the crowd of Knaves and Fools, 
" And thou shalt fly from woe ! 
" The one thy heedless heart will greet 
" With Judas-smile, and thou wilt meet 
" In every Fool a Foe ! " 

So safely mayst thou pass from these. 
And reach secure the home of Peace, 



LYRIC POEMS. 



129 



And Friendship find thee there ; 
No liappier state can mortal know, 
No happier lot can Earth bestow, 
If Love thy lot shall share. 
Yet still Content with him may dwell 
Whom Hymen will not bless, 
And Virtue sojourn in the cell 
Of hermit Happiness. 

Bristol, 1793. 



REMEMBRANCE. 



The remombrance of Vouth is a sigh All 



Man hath a weary pilgrimage 
As through the world he wends ; 
On every stage from youth to age 

Still discontent attends; 
With heaviness he casts his eye 

Upon the road before. 
And still remembers with a sigh 
The days that are no more. 

To school the little exile goes, 
Torn from iiis mother's arms, — 
What then siiall soothe his earliest woes. 

When novelty hath lost its charms ? 
Condemn'd to surter tiirough the day 
Restraints wliich no rewards repay, 
And cares where love has no concern, 
Hope lengthens as slie counts the hours 
Before his wish'd return. 
From hard control and tyrant rules. 
The unfeeling discipline of schools. 

In thought he loves to roam, 
And tears will struggle in his eye 
While he remembers with a sigh 
The comforts of his home. 

Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life 

Torment the restless mind ; 
Where shall the tired and harass'd heart 
Its consolation find.' 
Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells. 

Life's summer prime of joy .' 
Ah no ! for hopes too long delay 'd 
And feelings blasted or betray'd, 

Its fabled bliss destroy; 
And Youth remembers with a sigli 
The careless days of Infancy. 

Maturer Manhood now arrives. 

And other thoughts come on. 
But with the baseless hopes of Youth 

Its generous warmth is gone ; 
Cold, calculating cares succeed, 
The timid thouglit, tiie wary deed. 

The dull realities of truth ; 
Back on the past he turns his eye. 
Remembering with an envious sigh 

The happy dreams of Youth. 
17 



So reaches lie the latter stage 

Of this our mortal pilgimage. 
With feeble step and slow; 

New ills that latter stage await, 
And old Experience learns too late 

That all is vanity below. 
Life's vain delusions are gone by; 

Its idle hopes are o'er ; 
Yet Age remembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 

Weslbm-y, 1798. 



THE SOLDIERS WIFE. 

DACTYLICS. 

Wkary way-wanderer, languid and sick at heart. 
Travelling painfully over the rugged road, [one ! 
Wild-visaged Wanderer ! God help thee, wretched 

Sorely thy little one drags by thee barefooted ; 
Cold is the baby that hangs at thy bending back, 
Meagre, and livid, and screaming for misery. 

* Woe-begone mother, half anger, half agony. 
As over thy shoulder thou lookest to hush the babe, 
Bleakly the blinding snow beats in thy haggard face. 

Ne'er will thy husband return from the war again. 
Cold is thy heart, and as frozen as Charity ! [forter ! 
Cold are thy children. — Now God be thy com- 
Bi-istol, 1795. 



THE WIDOW. 



SAPPHICS. 



Cor.n was the night wind, drifting fast the snow fell , 
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked. 
When a poor Wanderer struggled on her journey. 
Weary and way-sore. 

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections ; 
Cold was the night-wind, colder was her bosom; 
She had no home, the world was all before her, 
She had no shelter. 

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her, 
" Fity me 1 " feebly cried the lonely wanderer; 
" Fity me, strangers ! lest with cold and hunger 
Here I should perish. 

" Once I had friends, — though now by all forsaken ! 
Once 1 had i)arents, — they are now in heaven 1 
I had a home once — 1 had once a husband — 
Fity me, strangers I 

" 1 had a home once — 1 had once a husband — 
1 am a widow, poor and broken-hearted ! " 
Loud blew the wind ; unheard was her complaining; 
On drove the chariot. 

* This stanza was written by S. T. Coleridge. 



130 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Then on the snow she laid her down to rest her ; 
She heard a horseman; " Pity me ! " she groan'd 

out; 
Loud was the wind ; unheard was her complaining ; 
On went the horseman. 

Worn out with anguish, toil, and cold, and hunger, 
Down sunk the Wanderer ; sleep had seized her 

senses ; 
There did the traveller find her in the morning ; 
God had released her. 

BHsiol, 1795. 



THE CHAPEL BELL. 

Lo 1, the man who from the Muse did ask 
Her deepest notes to swell the Patriot's meeds. 

Am now enforced, a far unfitter task. 
For cap and gown to leave my minstrel weeds ; 

For yon dull tone, that tinkles on the air, 
Bids me lay by the lyre and go to morning prayer. 

how I hate the sound ! it is the knell 
That still a requiem tolls to Comfort's hour ; 

And loath am I, at Superstition's bell. 

To quit or Morpheus' or the Muse's bower : 
Better to lie and doze, than gape amain. 
Hearing still mumbled o'er the same eternal strain. 

Thou tedious herald of more tedious prayers, 
Say, dost thou ever summon from his rest 

One being Avakening to religious cares .'' 
Or rouse one pious transport in the breast .'' 

Or rather, do not all reluctant creep 
To linger out the time in listlessness or sleep .? 

1 love the bell that calls the poor to pray. 

Chiming from village church its cheerful sound. 
When the sun smiles on Labor's holy-day. 

And all the rustic train are gather'd round, 
Each deftly dizen'd in his Sunday's best. 
And pleased to hail the day of piety and rest. 

And when, dim shadowing o'er the face of day, 
The mantling mists of even-tide rise slow, 

As through the forest gloom I wend my way, 
The minster curfew's sullen voice 1 know, 

And pause, and love its solemn toll to hear, 
As made by distance soft it dies upon the ear. 

Nor with an idle nor unwilling ear 
Do I receive the early passing-bell ; 

For, sick at heart with many a secret care. 
When I lie listening to the dead man's knell, 

1 think that in the grave all sorrows cease. 
And would full fain recline my head and be at peace. 

But thou, memorial of monastic gall ! 

What fancy sad or lightsome hast thou given? 
Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall 

The prayer that trembles on a yawn to heaven. 
The snuffling, snaffling Fellow's nasal tone. 
And Romish rites retain'd, though Romish faith be 
flown. 
Oxford, 1793. 



TO HYMEN. 

God of the torch, whose soul-illuming flame 
Beams brightest radiance o'er the human heart, 

Of many a woe the cure, 

Of many a joy the source; 

To thee I sing, if haply may the Muse 

Pour forth the song unblamed from these dull haunts, 

Where never beams thy torch 

To cheer the sullen scene. 

I pour the song to thee, though haply doom d 
Alone and unbeloved to pass my days ; 

Though doom'd perchance to die 

Alone and unbewail'd. 

Yet will the lark, albeit in cage enthrall'd. 
Send out her voice to greet the morning sun, 
As wide his cheerful beams 
Light up the landscape round ; 

When high in heaven she hears the caroling, 
The prisoner too begins her morning hymn, 

And hails the beam of joy, 

Of joy to her denied. 

Friend to each better feeling of the soul, 
I sing to thee, for many a joy is thine, 

And many a Virtue comes 

To join thy happy train. 

Lured by the splendor of thy sacred torch, 

The beacon-light of bliss, young Love draws near, 

And leads his willing slaves 

To wear thy flowery chain. 

And chasten'd Friendship comes, whose mildest 

sway 
Shall cheer the hour of age, when fainter burn 

The fading flame of Love, 

The fading flame of Life, 

Parent of every bliss, the busy hand 
Of Fancy oft will paint in brightest hues 

How calm, how clear, thy torch 

Illumes the wintry hour ; 

Will paint the wearied laborer at that hour. 
When friendly darkness yields a pause to toil. 

Returning blithely home 

To each domestic joy ; 

Will paint the well-trimm'd fire, the frugal meal 
Prepared with fond solicitude to please ; 

The ruddy children round 

Climbing the father's knee. 

And oft will Fancy rise above the lot 
Of honest Poverty, and think how man 

Nor rich, nor poor, enjoys 

His best and happiest state ; 

When toil no longer irksome and constrain d 
By hard necessity, but comes to please, 



LYRIC POEMS. 



131 



To vary the still hour 
Of tranquil happiness. 

Why, Fancy, wilt thou, o'er the lovely scene 
Pouring thy vivid hues, why, sorceress bland, 

Soothe sad reality 

With visionary bliss ? 

Turn thou thine eyes to where the hallowed light 
Of Learning shines ; ah, rather lead thy son 

Along her mystic paths 

To drink the sacred spring. 

Lead calmly on along the unvaried path 
To solitary Age's drear abode ; — 

Is it not happiness 

That gives the sting to Death ? 

Wetl then is he whose unimbitter'd years 
Are waning on in lonely listlessness ; 
If Life hath little joy. 
Death hath for him no sting. 

Oxford, 1794. 



WRITTEN 

ON THE FIRST OF DECEMBER. 

Though now no more the musing ear 
Delights to listen to the breeze. 
That lingers o'er the green-wood shade, 
I love thee. Winter ! well. 

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring ; 
Sweet is the Summer's evening gale ; 
And sweet the Autumnal winds that shake 
The many-color' d grove. 

And pleasant to the sober'd soul 
The silence of the wintry scene. 
When Nature shrouds herself, entranced 
In deep tranquillity. 

Not undelightful now to roam 
The wild heath sparkling on the sight; 
Not undelightful now to pace 
The forest's ample rounds ; — 

And see the spangled branches shine ; 
And mark the moss of many a hue 
That varies the old tree's brown bark. 
Or o'er the gray stone spreads; — 

And see the cluster'd berries bright 
Amid the holly's gay green leaves ; 
The ivy round the leafless oak 
That clasps its foliage close. 

So Virtue, diffident of strength. 
Clings to Religion's firmer aid; 
So, by Religion's aid upheld, 
Endures calamity. 



Nor void of beauties now the ppring, 
Whose waters hid from summer-sun 
Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim's ear 
With more than melody. 

Green moss shines there with ice incased ; 
The long grass bends its spear-like form; 
And lovely is the silvery scene 
When faint the sun-beams smile. 

Reflection, too, may love the hour 
When Nature, hid in Winter's grave, 
No more expands the bursting bud. 
Or bids the floweret bloom ; 

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms, 
Shall rise revived from Winter's grave. 
Expand the bursting bud again. 
And bid the flower re-bloom. 

Bath, 1793. 



WRITTEN 

ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY. 

Come, melancholy Moralizer, come ! 

Gather Avith me the dark and wintry wreath; 

With me engarland now 

The Sepulchre of Time. 

Come, Moralizer, to the funeral song ! 
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days ; 

For well the funeral song 

Befits this solemn hour. 

But hark ! even now the merry bells ring round 
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day, 

This consecrated day 

To Joy and Merriment. 

Mortal ! while Fortune with benignant hand 
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness, 

Whilst her unclouded sun 

Illumes thy summer day, — 

Canst thou rejoice, — rejoice that Time flies fast.-* 
That night shall shadow soon thy summer sun.-* 

That vswift the stream of Years 

Rolls to Eternity ? 

If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish. 
If power be thine, remember what thou art ! 

Remember thou art Man, 

And Death thine heritage ! 

Hast thou known Love ! Doth Beauty's better sun 
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile, 

Her eye all eloquence. 

All harmony her voice ? 

Oh state of happiness ! — Hark ! how the gale 
Moans deep and hollow through the leafless grove I 

Winter is dark and cold ; 

Where now the charms of Spring ! 



132 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Say'si thou that Fancy paints the future scene 
In hues too sombrous ? that the dark-stoled Maid 

With frowning front severe 

Appalls the shuddering soul ? 

And wouldst thou bid me court her fairy form, 
When, as she sports her in some happier mood, 

Her many-colored robes 

Float varying in the sun ? 

Ah ! vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road 
Leads o'er a barren mountain's storm- vex'd height, 

With wistful eye behold 

Some quiet vale, far off. 

And there are those who love the pensive song. 
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant; 

Them in accordant mood 

This thoughtful strain will find. 

For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time, 
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day 

Is sunk again in night, 

That one day more is gone. 

And he who bears Affliction's heavy load 
With patient piety, well pleased he knows 

The World a pilgrimage, 

The Grave his inn of rest. 

Bath, 1794. 



WRITTEN 



ON SUNDAY MORNING. 

Go thou and seek the House of Praver ! 

I to the woodlands wend, and there 
In lovely Nature see the God of Love. 

The swelling organ's peal 

Wakes not my soul to zeal. 
Like the sweet music of the vernal grove. 
The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest 
Excite not such devotion in my breast. 

As where the noon-tide beam, 

Flash'd from some broken stream. 
Vibrates on the dazzled sight ; 

Or where the cloud-suspended rain 

Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain ; 
Or when, reclining on the cliffs huge height, 
I mark the billows burst in silver light. 

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer ! 

1 to the Woodlands shall repair. 

Feed with all Nature's charms mine eyes. 

And hear all Nature's melodies. 

The primrose bank will there dispense 

Faint fragrance to the awaken'd sense ; 

The morning beams that life and joy impart. 

Will with their influence warm my heart. 

And the full tear that down my cheek will steal. 

Will speak the prayer of praise I feel. 

Go thou and seek the House of Prayer ! 
1 to the Woodlands bend my way, 



And meet Religion there ! 
She needs not haunt the high-arch'd dome to pray, 
Where storied windows dim the doubtful day ; 
At liberty she loves to rove. 

Wide o'er the healthy hill or cowslip'd dale ; 
Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove. 

Or with the streamlet wind along the vale. 
Sweet are these scenes to her ; and when the Night 
Pours in the North her silver streams of light, 
She wooes reflection in the silent gloom. 
And ponders on the world to come. 

Bristol, 1795. 



THE RACE OF BANQUO. 

A FRAGMENT. 

" Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly ! 
Leave thy guilty sire to die ! " 
O'er the heath the stripling fled. 
The wild storm howling round his head : 
Fear, mightier through the shades of night, 
Urged his feet, and wing'd his flight; 
And still he heard his father's cry, 
" Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly ! " 

" Fly, son of Banquo ! Fleance, fly ! 

Leave thy guilty sire to die ! " 

On every blast was heard the moan. 

The anguish'd shriek, the death-fraught groan 

Loathly night-hags join the yell. 

And lo ! — the midnight rites of Hell ! 

" Forms of magic ! spare my life ! 
Shield me from the murderer's knife ! 
Before me, dim in lurid light, 
Float the phantoms of the night — 
Behind I hear my father cry. 
Fly, son of Banquo — Fleance, fly ! " 

" Parent of the sceptred race. 
Boldly tread the circled space. 
Boldly, Fleance, venture near. 
Sire of monarchs, spurn at fear. 
Sisters, with prophetic breath. 

Pour we now the dirge of Death ! " 

****** 

Oxford, 1793. 



WRITTEN IN ALENTEJO, 



JANUARY 23, 1796. 



When at morn, the Muleteer 
With early call announces day. 
Sorrowing that early call I hear. 
Which scares the visions of delight away 
For dear to me the silent hour 
When sleep exerts its wizard power. 
And busy fancy, then let free, 
Borne on the wings of Hope, my Edith, flies to thee. 



LYRIC POEJVIS, 



133 



2. 

When the slant sunbeams crest 
The mountain's shadowy breast ; 
When on the upland slope 
Shines the green myrtle wet with morning dew, 
And lovely as the youthful dreams of Hope, 
The dim-seen landscape opens on the view, 
I gaze around, with raptured eyes, 
On Nature's charms, whei'e no illusion lies. 
And drop the joy and memory mingled tear, 
And sigh to think that Edith is not here. 



At the cool hour of even, 

When all is calm and still. 

And o'er the western hill 
A richer radiance robes the mellow'd heaven, 

Absorb'd in darkness thence. 

When slowly fades in night 

The dim, decaying light, 
Like the fair day-dreams of Benevolence ; 

Fatigued, and sad, and slow 

Along my lonely way I go. 

And muse upon the distant day. 
And sigh, remembering Edith far away. 



I look'd abroad at noon. 
The shadow and the storm were on the hills 
The crags which like a faery fabric shone 

Darkness had overcast. 

On you, ye coming 3^ears, 
So fairly shone the April gleam of hope ; 
So darkly o'er the distance, late so bright, 

Now settle the black clouds. 

Come thou, and chase away 
Sorrow and Pain, the persecuting Powers 
Who make the melancholy day so long, 

So long the restless night. 

Shall we not find thee here, 
Recovery, on the salt sea's breezy strand ? 
Is there no healing in the gales that sweep 

The thymy mountain's brow .'' 

I look for thy approach, 
O life-preserving Power ! as one who strays 
Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh, 

Watches the dawn of day. 

Minehead, July, 1799. 



When late arriving at our inn of rest, 

Whose roof, exposed to many a winter's sky. 
Half shelters from the wind the shivering guest; 

By the lamp's melancholy gloom, 

1 see the miserable room. 

And musing on the evils that arise 

From disproportion'd inequalities. 

Pray that my lot may be 

Neither with Riclies. nor with Poverty, 

But in that happy mean. 

Which for the soul is best. 

And with contentment blest, 

In some secluded glen 
To dwell with Peace and Edith far from men. 



TO RECOVERY. 

Rkcovery, where art thou? 
Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy help ? 
Upon what hallow'd fountain hast thou laid, 

Nymph adored, thy spell ? 

By the gray ocean's verge, 
Daughter of Heaven, we seek thee, but in vain ; 
We find no healing in the breeze that sweeps 

The thymy mountain's brow. 

Where are the happy hours. 
The sunshine where, that cheer'd the morn of life .'' 
For Health is fled, and with her fled the joys 

Which made existence dear. 

1 saw the distant hills 

Smile in the radiance of the orient beam, 
And gazed delighted that anon our feet 
Should visit scenes so fair. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

With cheerful step the traveller 

Pursues his early way. 
When first the dimly-dawning east 

Reveals the rising day. 

He bounds along his craggy road, 
He hastens up the height. 

And all he sees and all he hears 
Administer delight. 

And if the mist, retiring slow. 
Roll round its wavy white. 

He thinks the morning vapors hide 
Some beauty from his sight. 

But when behind the western clouds 

Departs the fading day, 
How wearily the traveller 

Pursues his evening way ! 

Sorely along the craggy road 
His painful footsteps creep. 

And slow, with many a feeble pause. 
He labors up the steep. 

And if the mists of night close round, 
They fill his soul with fear ; 

He dreads some unseen precipice, 
Some hidden danger near. 

So cheerfully does youth begin 
Life's pleasant morning stage ; 

Alas ! the evening traveller feels 
The fears of wary age ! 

Westbury, 1798, 



134 



LYRIC POEMS 



THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS. 

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood 
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 

It grew and it flourish 'd for many an age, 

And many a tempest wreak'd on it its rage ; 

But when its strong branches were bent with the 

blast, 
It struck its root deeper, and flourish'd more fast. 

Its head tower'd on high, and its branches spread 
round ; [sound ; 

For its roots had struck deep, and its heart was 
The bees o'er its honey-dew'd foliage play'd. 
And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. 

The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear ; 
Its leaves were her crown, and its wood Avas her spear. 
Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood 
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 

There crept up an ivy and clung round the trunk ; 
It struck in its mouths and the juices it drunk ; 
The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food, 
And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood. 

The foresters saw and they gather'd around ; 
The roots still were fast, and the heart still was sound ; 
They lopp'd off the boughs that so beautiful spread. 
But the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed. 

No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews play'd. 
Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade ; 
Lopp'd and mangled the trunk in its ruin is seen, 
A monument now what its beauty has been. 

The Oak has received its incurable wound ; 
They have loosen'd the roots, though the heart 
may be sound} [see, 

What the travellers at distance green-flourishing 
Are the leaves of the ivy that poison'd the tree. 

Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood 
In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood ! 

Westbfirij, 1798. 



THE BATTLE OF PULTOWA. 

On Vorska's glittering waves 
The morning sunbeams play ; 
Pultowa's walls are throng'd 

With eager multitudes ; 

Athwart the dusty vale 
They strain their aching eyes, 
Where to the fight moves on 
The Conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede. 

Him Famine hath not tamed. 

The tamer of the brave ; 
Him Winter hath not quell'd; 
When man by man his veteran troops sunk down. 
Frozen to their endless sleep. 

He held undaunted on. 



Him Pain hath not subdued ; 
What though he mounts not now 
The fiery steed of war ? 
Borne on a litter to the field he goes. 

Go, iron-hearted King ! 
Full of thy former fame — 
Think how the humbled Dane 
Crouch' d underneath thy sword ; 
Think how the wretched Pole 
Resign'd his conquer'd crown ; 
Go, iron-hearted King ! 
Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast, — 
The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd ! 
Proud Swede, the Sun hath risen 
That on thy shame shall set ! 

Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest ! 
For over that relentless Swede 
Ruin hath raised his unrelenting arm ; 

For ere the night descends. 

His veteran host destroyed. 
His laurels blasted to revive no more, 

He flies before the Moscovite. 

, Impatiently that haughty heart must bear 
Long years of hope deceived ; 

Long years of idleness 
That sleepless soul must brook. 
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest ' 
To him who suffers in an honest cause 
No death is ignominious ; not on thee, 
But upon Charles, the cruel, the unjust, 
Not upon thee, — on him 
The ineffaceable reproach is fix'd, 
The infamy abides. 
Now, Patkul, may thine injured spirit rest. 

Westbury, 1798. 



THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. 

Sweet to the morning traveller 

The song amid the sky. 
Where, twinkling in the dewy light, 

The skylark soars on high. 

And cheering to the traveller 
The gales that round him play. 

When faint and heavily he drags 
Along his noon-tide way. 

And when beneath the unclouded sun 

Full wearily toils he. 
The flowing water makes to him 

A soothing melody. 

And when the evening light decays, 

And all is calm around. 
There is sweet music to his ear 

In the distant sheep-bell's sound. 

But oh ! of all delightful sounds 
Of evening or of morn, 



LYIIIC POEMS, 



135 



The sweetest is the voice of Love, 
That welcomes his return. 

Westbury, 1798. 

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, 

AND HOW HE GAINED THE3I. 

You are old, Father William, the young man cried ; 

The few locks which are left you are gray ; 
You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ; 

Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, 
I remember'd that youth would fly fast. 

And abused not my health and my vigor at first. 
That 1 never might need them at last. 

You are old, Father William, the young man cried. 
And pleasures with youth pass away ; 

And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; 
Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

In the days of my youth. Father William replied, 
I remember'd that youth could not last ; 

I thought of the future, whatever I did. 
That I never might grieve for the past. 

You are old. Father William, the young man cried. 

And life must be hastening away ; 
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; 

Now tell me the reason, I pray. 

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied ; 

Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God ! 

And He hath not forgotten my age. 

Westbury, 1799. 



TRANSLATION OF A GREEK ODE 
ON ASTRONOMY, 

WRITTEN BY S. T. COLERIDGE, FOR THE PRIZE AT 
CAMBRIDGE, 1793. 



Hail, venerable Night ! 
O first-created, hail ! 
Thou who art doom'd in thy dark breast to veil 
The dying beam of light. 
The eldest and the latest thou. 
Hail, venerable Night ! 
Around thine ebon brow. 
Glittering plays with lightning rays 
A wreath of flowers of fire. 
The varying clouds with many a hue attire 
Thy many-tinted veil. 
Holy are the blue graces of thy zone ! 
But who is he whose tongue can tell 
The dewy lustres which thine eyes adorn ? 
Lovely to some the blushes of the morn ; 



To some the glories of the Day, 
When, blazing with meridian ray. 

The gorgeous Sun ascends his highest throne ; 
But I with solemn and severe delight 

Still watch thy constant car, immortal Night ! 



For then to the celestial Palaces 
Urania leads, Urania, she 

The Goddess who alone 
Stands by the blazing throne, 
Eff"ulgent with the light of Deity. 
Whom Wisdom, the Creatrix, by her side 
Placed on the heights of yonder sky. 
And smiling with ambrosial love, unlock'd 
The depths of Nature to her piercing eye. 
Angelic myriads struck their harps around, 
And with triumphant song 
The host of Stars, a beauteous throng, 

Around the ever-living Mind 

In jubilee their mystic dance begun ; 

When at thy leaping forth, O Sun ! 

The Morning started in affright, 

Astonish'd at thy birth, her Child of Light! 



Hail, O Urania, hail ! 
Queen of the Muses ! Mistress of the Song! 
For thou didst deign to leave the heavenly thronor. 
As earthward thou thy steps wert bendinor, 
A ray went forth and harbinger'd thy way : 

All Ether laugh'd with thy descending. 
Thou hadst wroath'd thy hair with roses. 
The flower that in the immortal bower 
Its deathless bloom discloses. 
Before thine awful mien, compelled to shrink, 
Fled Ignorance, abash'd, with all her brood. 
Dragons, and Hags of baleful breath. 
Fierce Dreams, that wont to drink 
The Sepulchre's black blood; 
Or on the wings of storms 
Riding in fury forms. 
Shriek to the mariner the shriek of Death. 



I boast, O Goddess, to thy name 
That I have raised the pile of fame ; 

Therefore to me be given 
To roam the starry path of Heaven, 
To charioteer with wings on high. 
And to rein-in the Tempests of the sky. 



Chariots of happy Gods ! Fountains of Light ! 

Ye Angel-Temples bright ! 

May I unblamed your flamy thresholds tread .'' 

I leave Earth's lowly scene ; 

I leave the Moon serene, 

The lovely Queen of Night; 

I leave the wide domains, 

Beyond where Mars his fiercer light can fling, 

And Jupiter's vast plains, 

(The many-belted king ;) 

Even to the solitude where Saturn reigns, 



136 



LYRIC POEMS. 



Like some stern tyrant to just exile driven ; 
Dim-seen the sullen power appears 
In that cold solitude of Heaven, 
And slow he drags along 
The mighty circle of long-lingering years. 



Nor shalt thou escape my sight, 

Who at the threshold of the sun-trod domes 

Art trembling, — youngest Daughter of the Night ! 

And you, ye fiery-tressed strangers ! you. 

Comets who wander wide, 

Will I along your pathless way pursue. 

Whence bending I may view 

The Worlds whom elder Suns have vivified. 



For Hope with loveliest visions soothes my mind. 
That even in Man, Life's winged power. 
When comes again the natal hour. 
Shall on heaven- wandering feet. 
In undecaying youth, 
Spring to the blessed seat; 
Where round the fields of Truth 
The fiery Essences forever feed; 
And o'er the ambrosial mead. 
The breezes of serenity 
Silent and soothing glide forever by. 



There, Priest of Nature ! dost thou shine, 
Newton ! a King among the Kings divine. 
Whether with harmony's mild force, 
He guides along its course 
The axle of some beauteous star on high. 
Or gazing, in the spring 
Ebullient with creative energy. 
Feels his pure breast with rapturous joy possess'd, 
Inebriate in the holy ecstasy. 

9. 
I may not call thee mortal then, my soul ! 
Immortal longings lift thee to the skies : 
Love of thy native home inflames thee now. 
With pious madness wise. 
Know then thyself! expand thy wings divine ! 
Soon, mingled with thy fathers, thou shalt shine 
A star amid the starry throng, 
A God the Gods among. 

London, 1802. 



GOOSEBERRY-PIE. 



A PI^DAKIC ODE. 



Gooseberry-Pie is best. 
Full of the theme, O Muse, begin the song 
What though the sunbeams of the West 

Mature Avithin the Turtle's breast 
Blood glutinous and fat of verdant hue .'• 



What though the Deer bound sportively along 

O'er springy turf, the Park's elastic vest? 

Give them their honors due, — 

But Gooseberry-Pie is best. 



Behind his oxen slow 
The patient Ploughman plods. 
And as the Sower followed by the clods 
Earth's genial womb received the living seed. 
The rains descend, the grains they grow ; 

Saw ye the vegetable ocean 
Roll its green ripple to the April gale .'' 
The golden waves with multitudinous motion 
Swell o'er the summer vale .'' 

3. 

It flows through Alder banks along 
Beneath the copse that hides the hill ; 
The gentle stream you cannot see, 
You only hear its melody, 
The stream that turns the Mill. 
Pass on a little way, pass on. 
And you shall catch its gleam anon ; 
And hark ! the loud and agonizing groan, 
That makes its anguish known. 
Where tortured by the Tyrant Lord of Meal 
The Brook is broken on the Wheel ! 



Blow fair, blow fair, thou orient gale ! 
On the white bosom of the sail. 
Ye Winds, enamor'd, lingering lie I 
Ye Waves of ocean, spare the bark, 
Ye tempests of the sky ! 
From distant realms she comes to bring 
The sugar for my Pie. 
For this on Gambia's arid side 
The Vulture's feet are scaled with blood, 
And Beelzebub beholds with pride 
His darling planter brood. 



First in the spring thy leaves were seen, 
Thou beauteous bush, so early green ! 
Soon ceased thy blossoms' little life of love 

O safer than the gold-fruit-bearing tree. 
The glory of that old Hesperian grove, — 

No Dragon does there need for thee 

With quintessential sting to work alarms, 

Prepotent guardian of thy fruitage fine, 

Thou vegetable Porcupine ! — 

And didst thou scratch thy tender arms, 

O Jane ! that I should dine ! 



The flour, the sugar, and the fruit, 
Commingled well, how well they suit ! 

And they were well bestow'd. 
O Jane, with truth I praise your Pie, 
And will not you in just reply 
Praise my Pindaric Ode .■' 

ExeUr, 1799. 



LYRIC POEMS 



137 



TO A BEE. 



Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

As abroad 1 took my early way, 

Before the Cow from her resting-place 

Had risen up and left her trace 

On the meadow, with dew so gray, 

Saw I thee, thou busy, busy Bee. 

2. 

Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

After the fall of the Cistus flower. 

When the Primrose-of-evening was ready to burst, 

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first ; 

In the silence of the evening hour, 

Heard 1 thee, thou busy, busy Bee. 



Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee ! 
Late and early at employ ; 
Still on thy golden stores intent, 
Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent 

What thy winter will never enjoy ; 
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee ! 



Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

What is the end of thy toil. 
When the latest flowers of the ivy are gone, 
And all thy work for the year is done, 

Thy master comes for the spoil. 
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy Bee ! 

Westburij, 1799. 



TO A SPIDER. 



Spider ! thou need'st not run in fear about 
To shun my curious eyes ; 
I won't humanely crush thy bowels out 
Lest thou shouldst eat the flies; 
Nor will 1 roast thee v.'ith a damn'd delight 
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, 
For there is One who might 
One day roast me. 



Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore-perplex'd. 
The subject of his verse ; 
There's many a one who, on abetter text, 
Perhaps might comment worse. 
Then shrink not. old Free-Ma«on, from my view, 
But quietly like me spin out the line ; 
Do thou thy work pursue, 
As I will mine. 



Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways 

Of Satan, Sire of lies ; 
Hell's huge black Spider, for mankind he lays 

His toils, as thou for flies. 
18 



When Betty's busy eye runs round the room, 
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen \ 
But where is he whose broom 
The earth shall clean ^ 



Spider ! of old thy flimsy webs were thought — 

And 'twas a likeness true — 
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught, 
But which the strong break through : 
And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en. 
Like some poor client is that wretched fly ; 
I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain 
His life-blood dry. 



And is not thy Aveak work like human schemes 
And care on earth employ'd ^ 
Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams 

So easily destroy'd ! 

So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, 

Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay ; 

Soon shall destruction sweep 

His work away. 



Thou busy laborer ! one resemblance more 

May yet the verse prolong, 

For, Spider, thou art like the Poet poor, 

Whom thou hast help'd in song. 

Both busily our needful food to win. 

We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains 

Thy bowels thou dost spin, 

I spin my brains. 

Westbimj, 1798. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM. 

The rage of Babylon is roused. 
The King puts forth his strength ; 
And Judah bends the bow 
And points her arrows for the coming war. 

Her walls are firm, her gates are strong, 
Her youth gird on the sword ; 
High are her chiefs in hope, 
For soon will Egypt send the promised aid. 

But who is he whose voice of woe 
Is heard amid the streets .-' 
Whose ominous voice proclaims 
Her strength, and arms, and promised succors 
vain ? 

His meagre cheek is pale and sunk, 
Wild is his hollow eye, 
Yet awful is its glance ; 
And who could bear the anger of his frown ? 

Prophet of God ! in vain thy lips 
Proclaim the woe to come ; 
In vain thy warning voice 
Summons her rulers timely to repent ! 



133 



LYRIC POEMS. 



The Ethiop changes not his skin. 
Impious and reckless still 
The rulers spurn thy voice, 
And now the measure of their crimes is full. 

For now around Jerusalem 
The countless foes appear ', 
Far as the eye can reach 
Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege. 

Why is the warrior's cheek so pale ? 
Why droops the gallant youth 
Who late in pride of heart 
Sharpen'd his javelin for the welcome war ? 

'Tis not for terror that his eye 
Swells with the struggling woe; 
Oh ! he could bear his ills, 
Or rush to death, and in the grave have peace. 

His parents do not ask for food, 
But they are weak with want ; 
His wife has given her babes 
Her wretched pittance, — she makes no com- 
plaint. 

The consummating hour is come ! 
Alas for Solyma ! 
How is she desolate, — 
She that was great among the nations, fallen ! 

And thou — thou miserable King — 
Where is thy trusted flock, 
Thy flock so beautiful. 
Thy Father's throne, the temple of thy God.? 

Repentance brings not back the past ; 
It vv^ill not call again 
Thy murder'd sons to life, 
Nor vision to those eyeless sockets more. 

Thou wretched, childless, blind, old man, 
Heavy thy punishment ; 
Dreadful thy present woes, 
Alas, more dreadful thy remember'd guilt ! 

Westbury, 1798. 



THE DEATH OF WALLACE. 

Joy, joy in London now ! 
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death ; 
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom, 

Joy, joy, in London now ! 

He on a sledge is drawn. 
His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains, 
And garlanded around his helmless head 

The laurel wreath of scorn. 

They throng to view him now 
Who in the field had fled before his sword. 
Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale 

And falter'd out a prayer. 



Yes ! they can meet his eye. 
That only beams with patient courage now ; 
Yes ! they can look upon those manly limbs, 

Defenceless now and bound. 

And that eye did not shrink 
As he beheld the pomp of infamy ; 
Nor one ungovern'd feeling shook those limbs, 

When the last moment came. 

What though suspended sense 
Was by their legal cruelty revived ; [life 

What though ingenious vengeance lengthen'd 

To feel protracted death ? 

What though the hangman's hand 
Grasped in his living breast the heaving heart.? — 
In the last agony, the last, sick pang, 

Wallace had comfort still. 

He call'd to mind his deeds 
Done for his country in the embattled field ; 
He thought of that good cause for which he died, 

And it was joy in death. 

Go, Edward ! triumph now ! 
Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is 

crush'd; 
On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs, 

The fowls of Heaven have fed. 

Unrivall'd, unopposed. 
Go, Edward, full of glory to thy grave ! 
The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul, 

Go, Edward, to thy God ! 

Westburij, 1798. 



THE SPANISH ARMADA. 

Clear shone the morn, the gale was fair, 
When from Coruiia's crowded port 
With many a cheerful shout and loud acclaim 
The huge Armada past. 

To England's shores their streamers point, 
To England's shores their sails are spread. 
They go to triumph o'er the sea-girt land. 
And Rome hath blest their arms. 

Along the ocean's echoing verge. 
Along the mountain range of rocks. 
The clustering multitudes behold their pomp, 
And raise the votive prayer. 

Commingling with the ocean's roar 
Ceaseless and hoarse their murmurs rise^ 
And soon they trust to see the winged bark 
That bears good tidings home. 

The watch-tower now in distance sinks, 
And now Galicia's mountain rocks 
Faint as the far-off" clouds of evening lie. 
And now they fade away. 






LYRIC POEMS 



139 



Each like some moving citadel, 
On through the waves they sail sublime ; 
And now the Spaniards see the silvery cliffs, 
Behold the sea-girt land ! 

O fools ! to think that ever foe 
Sliould triumph o'er that sea-girt land ! 
O fools ! to think that ever Britain's sons 
Should wear the stranger's yoke ! 

For not in vain hath Nature rear'd 
Around her coast those silvery cliffs ; 
For not in vain old Ocean spreads his waves 
To guard his favorite isle ! 

On come her gallant mariners ! 
What now avail Rome's boasted charms? 
Where are the Spaniard's vaunts of eager wrath ? 
His hopes of conquest now ? 

And hark ! the angry AVinds arise ; 
Old Ocean heaves his angry Waves ; 
The Winds and Waves against the invaders fight, 
To guard the sea-girt land. 

Howling around his palace-towers 
The Spanish despot hears the storm ; 
He thinks upon his navies far away. 
And boding doubts arise. 

Long, over Biscay's boisterous surge 
The watchman's aching eye shall stram ! 
Long shall he gaze, but never wing'd bark 
Shall bear good tidings home. 

Westhunj, 1798. 



ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY. 

The night is come ; no fears disturb 
The dreams of innocence ; 
They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths ; 
They sleep, — alas ! they sleep ! 

Go to the palace, wouldst thou know 
How hideous night can be ; 

Eye is not closed in those accursed walls, 
Nor heart at quiet there. 

The Monarch from the window leans. 

He listens to the night, 
And with a horrible and eager hope 

Awaits the midnight bell. 

Oh, he has Hell within him now ! 
God, always art thou just ! 
For innocence can never know such pangs 
As pierce successful guilt. 

He looks abroad, and all is still. 
Hark ! — now the midnight bell 
Sounds through the silence of the night alone,- 
And now the signal gun ! 



Thy hand is on him, righteous God ! 

He hears the frantic shrieks. 

He hears the glorying yells of massacre, 

And he repents, — too late. 

He hears the murderer's savage shout, 
He hears the groan of death ; 
In vain they fly, — soldiers defenceless now, 
Women, old men, and babes. 

Righteous and just art thou, O God ! 
For at his dying hour 
Those shrieks and groans reechoed in his ear, 
He heard that murderous yell ! 

They throng'd around his midnight couch. 
The phantoms of the slain ; — 
It prey'd like poison on his powers of life : 
Righteous art thou, O God ! 

Spirits ! who suffer'd at that hour 
For freedom and for faith, 
Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke, 
Her faith and freedom crush'd. 

And like a giant from his sleep 
Ye saw when France awoke ; 
Ye saw the people burst their double chain, 
And ye had joy in Heaven ! 

Westbunj, 1798. 



THE HOLLY-TREE. 



1. 



O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The Holly-Tree ? 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Order'd by an intelligence so wise. 
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 



Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound ; 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear. 
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. 



I love to view these things with curious eyes, 

And moralize ; 
And in this wisdom of the Holly-Tree 

Can emblem see 
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, 
One which may profit in the after time. 



Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear 

Harsh and austere. 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Reserved and rude, 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree. 



140 



LYRIC POEMS. 



And should my youth, as youth is apt, 1 know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I day by day 

Would wear away, 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-Tree. 



And as, when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The Holly leaves a sober hue display 

Less bright than they ; 
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 
What then so cheerful as the Holly-Tree ? 



So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng ; 
So would I seem amid the young and gay 

More grave than they. 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the Holly-Tree. 

Westbunj, 1798. 



THE EBB TIDE. 

Slowly thy flowing tide 
Came in, old Avon ! scarcely did mine eyes, 
As watchfully I roam'd thy green-wood side, 

Perceive its gentle rise. 

With many a stroke and strong 
The laboring boatmen upward plied their oars ; 
Yet little way they made, though laboring long 

Between thy winding shores. 

Now down thine ebbing tide 
The unlabor'd boat falls rapidly along; 
The solitary helmsman sits to guide. 

And sings an idle song. 

Now o'er the rocks that lay 
So silent late, the shallow current roars ; 
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way 

Through wider-spreading shores. 

Avon ! I gaze and know 
The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way : 
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 

So rapidly decay. 

Kingdoms which long have stood, 
And slow to strength and power attain'd at last. 
Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood 

They ebb to ruin fast. 

Thus like thy flow appears 
Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage ; 
Alas ! how hurry ingly the ebbing years 

Then hasten to old age ! 

Westbury, 1799. 



THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR 

And wherefore do the Poor complain ? 

The Rich Man ask'd of me ; — 
Come walk abroad with me, 1 said, 

And 1 will answer thee. 

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets 

Were cheerless to behold. 
And we were wrapp'd and coated well. 

And yet we were a-cold. 

We met an old, bare-headed man; 

His locks were thin and white ; 
I ask'd him what he did abroad 

In that cold winter's night. 

The cold was keen indeed, he said. 

But at home no fire had he. 
And therefore he had come abroad 

To ask for charity. 

We met a young, bare-footed child, 
And she begg'd loud and bold; 

I ask'd her what she did abroad 
When the wind it blew so cold. 

She said her father was at home. 

And he lay sick a-bed ; 
And therefore was it she was sent 

Abroad to beg for bread. 

We saw a woman sitting down 

Upon a stone to rest ; 
She had a baby at her back. 

And another at her breast. 

1 ask'd her why she loiter'd there 
When the night- wind was so chill ; 

She turn'd her head and bade the child 
That scream'd behind, be still; — 

Then told us that her husband served, 

A soldier, far away. 
And therefore to her parish she 

Was begging back her way. 

We met a girl ; her dress was loose, 

And sunken was her eye, 
Who with a wanton's hollow voice 

Address'd the passers-by. 

I ask'd her what there was in guilt 

That could her heart allure 
To shame, disease, and late remorse : 

She answer'd, she was poor. 

I turn'd me to the Rich Man then. 

For silently stood he, — 
You ask'd me why the poor complain^ 

And these have answer'd thee ! 

London, 1798. 



LYRIC POEMS. 



141 



TO MARY. 

Mary ! ten checker'd years have past 
Since we beheld each other last ; 
Yet, Mary, 1 remember thee. 
Nor canst thou have forgotten me. 

The bloom was then upon thy face ; 
Thy form had every youthful grace ; 
1 too had then the warmth of youth, 
And in our hearts was all its truth. 

We conversed, were there others by, 
With common mirth and random eye ; 
But when escaped the sight of men. 
How serious was our converse then ! 

Our talk was then of years to come. 
Of hopes which ask'd a humble doom, 
Themes which to loving thoughts might move. 
Although we never spake of love. 

At our last meeting sure thy heart 
Was even as loath as mine to part ; 
And yet we little thought that then 
We parted — not to meet again. 

Long, Mary ! after that adieu, 
My dearest day-dreams were of you ; 
In sleep 1 saw you still, and long- 
Made you the theme of secret song. 

When manhood and its cares came on, 
The humble hopes of youth were gone ; 
And other hopes and other fears 
Effaced the thoughts of happier years. 

Meantime through many a varied year 
Of thee no tidings did I hear. 
And thou hast never heard my name 
Save from the vague reports of fame. 

But then, I trust, detraction's lie 
Hath kindled anger in thine eye ; 
And thou my praise wert proud to see, — 
My name should still be dear to thee. 

Ten years have held their course ; thus late 
1 learn the tidings of thy fate ; 
A Husband and a Father now, 
Of thee, a Wife and Mother thou. 

And, Mary, as for thee I frame 

A prayer which hath no selfish aim, 

No happier lot can 1 wish thee 

Than such as Heaven hath granted me. 

London, 1802. 



TO A FRIEND, 

INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN, 
1. 

Do I regret the past ? 

Would I again live o'er 
The morning hours of life .'' 
Nay, William ! nay, not so ! 



In the warm joyance of the summer sun, 
I do not wish again 
The changeful April day. 
Nay, William ! nay, not so ! 
Safe haven'd from the sea, 
I would not tempt again 
The uncertain ocean's wrath. 
Praise be to Him who made me what I am, 
Other I would not be. 

2. 
Why is it pleasant then, to sit and talk 
Of days that are no more ? 
When in his own dear home 
The traveller rests at last. 
And tells how often in his wanderings, 
The thought of those far off 
Hath made his eyes o'erflow 
With no unmanly tears ; 

Delighted he recalls [trod; 

Through what fair scenes his lingering feet have 

But ever when he tells of perils past 

And troubles now no more. 

His eyes are brightest, and a readier joy 

Flows thankful from his heart. 



No, William ! no, I would not live again 
The morning hours of life ; 

I would not be again 
The slave of hope and fear ; 
I would not learn again 
The wisdom by Experience hardly taught. 

4. 

To me the past presents 
No object for regret ; 
To me the present gives 
All cause for full content. 
The future ? — it is now the cheerful noon, 
And on the sunny-smiling fields I gaze 
With eyes alive to joy; 
When the dark night descends, 
I willingly shall close my weary lids. 
In sure and certain hope to wake again. 



Westburij, 1798. 



THE DEAD FRIEND. 



Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, 
Descend to contemplate 
The form that once was dear ! 

The Spirit is not there 
Which kindled that dead eye, 
Which throbb'd in that cold heart, 
Which in that motionless hand 
Hath met thy friendly grasp. 
The Spirit is not there ! 
It is but lifeless, perishable flesh 
That moulders in the grave ; 
Earth, air, and water's ministering particles 



142 



SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS 



Now to the elements 
Resolved, their uses done. 
Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, 
Follow thy friend beloved ; 

The Spirit is not there ! 

2. 

Often together have we talk'd of death; 

How sweet it were to see 

All doubtful things made clear ; 

How sweet it were with powers 

Such as the Cherubim, 
To view the depth of Heaven ! 

O Edmund ! thou hast first 
Begun the travel of Eternity ! 

I look upon the stars. 

And think that thou art there, 

Unfetter'd as the thought that follows thee. 

3. 

And we have often said how sweet it were 

With unseen ministry of angel power, 

To watch the friends we loved. 

Edmund ! we did not err ! 

Sure I have felt thy presence ! Thou hast given 

A birth to holy thought. 

Hast kept me from the world unstain'd and pure. 

Edmund ! we did not err ! 

Our best affections here 

They are not like the toys of infancy ; 

The Soul outgrows them not; 

We do not cast them off; 

O, if it could be so. 

It were indeed a dreadful thing to die ! 



Not to the grave, not to the grave, my Soul, 
Follow thy friend beloved ! 

But in the lonely hour, 

Eut in the evening walk. 

Think that he companies thy solitude ; 

Think that he holds with thee 

Mysterious intercourse ; 

And though remembrance wake a tear, 

There will be joy in grief. 

Westbury, 1799. 



SONGS 

OF 

THE AMERICAN INDIANS. 



THE HURON'S ADDRESS TO THE DEAD. 



Brother, thou wert strong in youth ! 
Brother, thou wert brave in war ! 
Unhappy man was he 
For whom thou hadst sharpen'd the tomahawk's 



Unhappy man was he 
On whom thine angry eye was fix'd in fight! 
And he who from thy hand 
Received the calumet. 
Blest Heaven, and slept in peace. 



When the Evil Spirits seized thee, 
Brother, we were sad at heart : 
We bade the Jongler come 
And bring his magic aid ; 
We circled thee in mystic dance, 
With songs and shouts and cries, 
To free thee from their power. 
Brother, but in vain we strove ; 
The number of thy days was full. 

3. 

Thou sittest amongst us on thy mat ; 

The bear-skin from thy shoulder hangs , 

Thy feet are sandall'd ready for the way 

Those are the unfatigueable feet 

That traversed the forest track ; 

Those are the lips that late 

Thunder 'd the yell of war ; 

And that is the strong right arm 

Which never was lifted in vain. 

Those lips are silent now ; 

The limbs that were active are stiff; 

Loose hangs the strong right arm ! 

4. 

And where is That which in thy voice 

The language of friendship spake ? 
That gave the strength of thine arm ? 
That fill'd thy limbs with life ? 
It was not Thou, for Thou art here, 
Thou art amongst us still. 
But the Life and the Feeling are gone. 
The Iroquois will learn 
That thou hast ceased from war ; 
'Twill be a joy like victory to them. 
For thou wert the scourge of their nation. 



Brother, we sing thee the song of death ; 
In thy coffin of bark we lay thee to rest; 
The bow shall be placed by thy side. 
And the shafts that are pointed and feather'd for 
flight. 
To the country of the Dead 
Long and painful is thy way ; * 

Over rivers wide and deep 

Lies the road that must be past, 

By bridges narrow-wall'd, 

Where scarce the Soul can force its way, 

While the loose fabric totters under it. 



Safely may our brother pass ! 

Safely may he reach the fields, 
Where the sound of the drum and the shell 
Shall be heard from the Country of Souls ! 
The Spirits of thy Sires 

Shall come to welcome thee -. 



SONGS OF THE AMERICAN INDIANS. 



14J 



The God of the Dead in his Bower 

Shall receive thee, and bid thee join 

The dance of eternal joy. 



Brother, we pay thee the rites of death 
Rest in thy Bower of Delight ! 



Westbury, 1799. 



THE PERUVIAN'S DIRGE OVER THE 
BODY OF HIS FATHER. 



Rest in peace, my Father, rest ! 
With danger and toil have 1 borne thy corpse 
From the Stranger's field of death. 
1 bless thee, O Wife of tlie Sun, 
For veiling thy beams with a cloud, 
While at the pious task 
Thy votary toil'd in fear. 
Thou badest the clouds of night 
Enwrap thee, and hide thee from Man; 
But didst thou not see my toil. 
And put on the darkness to aid, 
O Wife of the visible God ? 



Wretched, my Father, thy life ! 
Wretched the life of the Slave ! 
All day for another he toils; 
Overwearied at niglit he lies down, 
And dreams of the freedom tliat once he enjoy'd. 
Thou wert blest in the days of thy youth. 
My Father ! for then thou wort free. 
In the fields of the nation thy hand 
Bore its part of the general task ; 
And when, with the song and the dance, 
Ye brought the harvest home. 
As all in the labor had shared. 
So justly they shared in the fruits. 



Thou visible Lord of the Earth, 
Thou God of my Fathers, thou God of my heart, 
O Giver of light and of life ! 
When the Strangers came to our shores, 
Why didst thou not put forth thy power ? 
Thy thunders should then have been hurl'd. 
Thy fires should in lio-htnings have flash'd ! — 
Visible God of the Earth, 
The Strangers mock at thy might ! 

To idols and beams of wood 
They force us to bow the knee ; 
They plunge us in caverns and dens, 
Where never thy blessed light 
Shines on our poisonous toil ! 
But not in the caverns and dens, 
O Sun, are we mindless of thee ! 
We pine for the want of thy beams, 
We adore thee with anguish and groans. 



My Father, rest in peace ! 
Rest with the dust of thy Sires ! 
They placed their Cross in thy dying grasp;' 
They bore thee to their burial-place, 

And over thy breathless frame 
Their bloody and merciless Priest 

Mumbled his magic hastily. 
Oh ! could thy bones be at peace 
In the field where the Strangers are laid ? — 
Alone, in danger and in pain, 
My Father, I bring thee here : 
So may our God, in reward. 
Allow me one faithful friend 
To lay me beside thee when I am released ! 
So may he summon me soon. 
That my Spirit may join thee there. 
Where the stranirers never shall come ! 



Exeter, 1799. 



SONG OF THE ARAUCANS 

DURING A THUNDER-STORM. 

The storm-cloud grows deeper above, 
Araucans ! the tempest is ripe in the sky ; 
Our forefathers come from their Islands of Bliss, 

They come to the war of the winds 

The Souls of the Strangers are there. 
In their garments of darkness they ride through the 

heaven ; 
Yon cloud that rolls luridly over the hill 

Is red with their weapons of fire. 

Hark ! hark I in the howl of the wind 
The shout of the battle, the clang of their drums; 
The horsemen are met, and the shock of the fight 

Is the blast that disbranches the wood. 

Behold from the clouds of their pjDwer 
The lightning, — the lightning is lanced at our 

sires ! 
And the thunder that shakes the broad pavement 
of Heaven ! 
And the darkness that quenches the day ! 

Ye Souls of our Fathers, be brave ! 
Ye shrunk not before the invaders on earth, 
Ye trembled not then at their weapons of fire ; 

Brave Spirits, ye tremble not now ! 

We gaze on your Vv'-arfare in hope, 
W"e send up our shouts to encourage your arms ! 
Lift the lance of your vengeance, O Fathers, with 
force. 

For the wrongs of your country strike home ' 

Remember the land was your own 
When the Sons of Destruction came over the seas, 
That the old fell asleep in the fulness of days, 

And their children wept over their graves • 



144 



SONGS OP THE AMERICAN INDIANS. 



Till the Strangers came into the land 
With tongues of deceit and with weapons of fire : 
Then the strength of the people in youth was cutoff, 

And the father wept over his son. 

It thickens — the tumult of fight ! 
Louder and louder the blast of the battle is heard 1 — 
Remember the wrongs that your country endures ! 

Remember the fields of your fame ! 

Joy ! joy ! for the Strangers recoil, — 
They give way, — they retreat, — they are routed, — 

they fly ; 
Pursue them ! pursue them ! remember your 
wrongs ! 
Let your lances be drunk with their wounds. 

The Souls of your wives shall rejoice 
As they welcome you back to your Islands of Bliss ; 
And the breeze that refreshes the toil-throbbing brow 

Waft thither the song of your praise. 

Westbury, 1799. 



SONG OF THE CHIKKASAH WIDOW. 

'TwAS the voice of my husband that came on the 

gale; 
His unappeased Spirit in anger complains ; 

Rest, rest, Ollanahta, be still ! 

The day of revenge is at hand. 

The stake is made ready, the captives shall die ; 

To-morrow the song of their death shalt thou hear ; 
To-morrow thy widow shall wield 
The knife and the fire ; — be at rest ! 

The vengeance of anguish shall soon have its 
course, — 

The fountains of grief and of fury shall flow, — 
1 will think, Ollanahta! of thee. 
Will remember the days of our love. 

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sat, 
Where idly thy hatchet of battle is hung; 
I gazed on the bow of thy strength 
As it waved on the stream of the wind. 

The scalps that we number'd in triumph were there. 
And the musket that never was levell'd in vain, — 

What a leap has it given to my heart 

To see thee suspend it in peace ! 

When the black and blood-banner was spread to 

the gale. 
When thrice the deep voice of the war-drum was 
heard, 
1 remember thy terrible eyes 
How they flash'd the dark glance of thy joy. 

I remember the hope that shone over thy cheek. 
As lay hand from the pole reach'd its doers of death ; 
Like the ominous gleam of the cloud. 
Ere the thunder and lightning are born. 



He went, and ye came not to warn him in dreams, 
Kindred Spirits of Him who is holy and great ! 

And where was thy warning, O Bird, 

The timely announcer of ill .'' 

Alas ! when thy brethren in conquest return 'd ; 

When I saw the white plumes bending over their 
heads. 
And the pine-boughs of triumph before, 
Where the scalps of their victory swung, — 

The war-hymn they pour'd, and thy voice was not 
there ! [brought; 

I call'd thee, — alas, the white deer-skin was 
And thy grave was prepared in the tent 
Which 1 had made ready for joy ! 

Ollanahta, all day by thy war-pole I sit, — 
Ollanahta, all night I weep over thy grave ! 

To-morrow the victims shall die, 

And I shall have joy in revenge. 

Westbury, 1799. 



OLD CHIKKASAH TO HIS GRANDSON. 

Now go to the battle, my Boy ! 
Dear child of my son. 
There is strength in thine arm, 
There is hope in thy heart, 
Thou art ripe for the labors of war. 
Thy Sire was a stripling like thee 
When he went to the first of his fields. 



He return'd, in the glory of conquest return' d : 
Before him his trophies were borne, 
These scalps that have hung till the Sun and the 
Have rusted their raven locks. [rain 

Here he stood when the morn of rejoicing arrived, 
The day of the warrior's reward ; 
When the banners sunbeaming were spread. 
And all hearts were dancing in joy 
To the sound of the victory-drum. 
The Heroes were met to receive their reward ; 
But distinguish'd among the young Heroes that day, 
The pride of his nation, thy Father was seen : 
The swan-feathers hung from his neck. 
His face like the rainbow was tinged. 
And his eye, — how it sparkled in pride ! 
The Elders approach'd, and they placed on his brow 
The crown that his valor had won. 
And they gave him the old honor'd name. 
They reported the deeds he had done in the war, 
And the youth of the nation were told 
To respect him and tread in his steps. 



My Boy ! I have seen, and with hope, 

The courage that rose in thine eye 
When I told thee the tale of his death. 
His war-pole now is gray with moss, 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



145 



His tomahawk red with rust; 

His bowstring, whose twang was death, 

Now sings as it cuts the wind ; 

But his memory is fresh in the land, 

And his name with the names that we love. 

4. 

Go now and revenge him, my Boy ! 
That his Spirit no longer may hover by day 
O'er the hut where his bones are at rest. 
Nor trouble our dreams in the night. 
My Boy, I shall watch for the warrior's return. 
And my soul will be sad 
Till the steps of thy coming I see. 

Westbunj, 1799. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 

What I and not one to heave the pious sigh ? 

Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye, 

For social scenes, for life's endearments fled, 

Shall drop a tear, and dwell upon the dead ? 

Poor wretched Outcast ! I will weep for thee, 

And sorrow for forlorn humanity. 

Yes, I will weep ; but not that thou art come 

To the cold Sabbath of the silent tomb : 

For pining want, and heart-consuming care, 

Soul-withering evils, never enter there. 

I sorrow for the ills thy life has known. 

As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone. 

Haunted by Poverty and woe-bogone, 

Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on; 

Thy youth in ignorance and labor past. 

And thine old age all barrenness and blast ! 

Hard was thy Fate, which, while it doom'd to woe, 

Denied thee wisdom to support the blow ; 

And robb'd of all its energy thy mind. 

Ere yet it cast tliee on thy fellow-kind, 

Abject of thought, the victim of distress. 

To wander in the world's wide wilderness. 

Poor Outcast, sleep in peace ! the wintry storm 
Blows bleak no more on thine unshelter'd form; 
Thy woes are past ; thou restest in the tomb ; — 
I pause, — and ponder on the days to come. 

Bristol, lido. 



u. 



THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. 

It is the funeral march. I did not think 
That there had been such magic in sweet sounds ! 
Hark ! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead tone ! — 
It awes the very rabble multitude ; 
They follow silently, their earnest brows 
19 



Lifted in solemn thought. 'Tis not the pomp 

And pageantry of death that with such force 

Arrests the sense; — the mute and mourning train, 

The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse, 

Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke 

A serious smile upon tlie poor man's clieek 

At pride's last triumph. Now these measured 

sounds, 
This universal language, to the heart 
Speak instant, and on all these various minds 
Compel one feeling. 

But such better thoughts 
Will pass away, how soon I and these who here 
Are following their dead comrade to the grave. 
Ere the night fall will in their revelry 
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life 
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew 
No resting-place, no dear delights of home. 
Belike who never saw his children's face. 
Whose children knew no father, — he is gone, — 
Dropp'd from existence, like a blasted leaf 
That from the summer tree is swept away, 
Its loss unseen. Slie hears not of his death 
Who bore him, and already for her son 
Her tears of bitterness are shed ; when first 
He had put on the livery of blood, 
She wept him dead to her. 

We are indeed 
Clay in the potter's hand ! One favor'd mind, 
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore 
Tiie waj's of Nature, whilst his fellow-man, 
Framed with like miracle, the work of God, 
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on 
A life of labor; like this soldier here. 
His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain, 
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes 
A mere machine of murder. 

And there are 
Who say that this is well ! as God has made 
All things for man's good pleasure, so of men 
The many for the few ! Court-moralists, 
Reverend lip-comforters, that once a week 
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they 
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and though now 
Toiling and troubled, they may pick the crumbs 
That from the rich man's table fall, at length 
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus. 
Themselves meantime secure their good things 

here. 
And feast with Dives. These are they, O Lord ! 
Who in thy plain and simple Gospel see 
All m3^steries, but who find no peace enjoin'd. 
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them 
Who shed their brethren's blood, — blind at noon- 
day 
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness ! 

O my God ! 
I thank thee, with no Pharisaic pride 
I thank thee, that I am not such as these ; 
I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart 
That feels, the voice that in these evil days, 
Amid these evil tongues, exalts itself, 
And cries aloud against iniquity. 

Bristol, 1795. 



146 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



III. 



ON A LANDSCAPE OF GASPAR POUSSIN. 

Gaspar ! how pleasantly thy pictured scenes 
Beguile the lonely hour ! I sit and gaze 
With lingering eye, till dreaming Fancy makes 
The lovely landscape live, and the rapt soul 
From the foul haunts of herded human-kind 
Flies far away with spirit speed, and tastes 
The untainted air, that with the lively hue 
Of health and happiness illumes the cheek 
Of mountain Liberty. My willing soul 
All eager follows on thy faery flights, 
Fancy ! best friend ; whose blessed witcheries 
With cheering prospects cheat the traveller 
O'er the long wearying desert of the world. 
Nor dost thou, Fancy ! with such magic mock 
My heart, as, demon-born, old Merlin knew, 
Or Alquif, or Zarzafiel's sister sage, 
Who in her vengeance for so many a year 
Held in the jacinth sepulchre entranced 
Lisuart, the pride of Grecian chivalry. 
Friend of ray lonely hours ! thou leadest me 
To such calm joys as Nature, wise and good, 
Proffers in vain to all her wretched sons, — 
Her wretched sons who pine with want amid 
The abundant earth, and blindly bow them down 
Before the Moloch shrines of Wealth and Power, 
Authors of Evil. Well it is sometimes 
That thy delusions should beguile the heart, 
Sick of reality. The little pile 
That tops the summit of that craggy hill 
Shall be my dwelling : craggy is the hill 
And steep} yet through yon hazels upward leads 
The easy path, along whose winding way 
Now close embower'd I hear the unseen stream 
Dash down, anon behold its sparkling foam 
Gleam through the thicket ; and ascending on, 
Now pause me to survey the goodly vale 
That opens on my prospect. Half way up, 
Pleasant it were upon some broad, smooth rock 
To sit and sun myself, and look below. 
And watch the goatherd down yon high-bank'd path 
Urging his flock grotesque ; and bidding now 
His lean, rough dog from some near cliff" go drive 
The straggler ; while his barkings, loud and quick. 
Amid their tremulous bleat, arising oft. 
Fainter and fainter from the hollow road 
Send their far echoes, till the waterfall, 
Hoarse bursting from the cavern'd cliff" beneath. 
Their dying murmurs drown. A little yet 
Onward, and I have gain'd the upmost height. 
Fair spreads the vale below : I see the stream 
Stream radiant on beneath the noontide sky. 
A passing cloud darkens the bordering steep, 
Where the town-spires behind the castle-towers 
Rise graceful ; brown the mountain in its shade. 
Whose circling grandeur, part by mists conceal'd, 
Part with white rocks resplendent in the sun, 
Should bound mine eyes, — ay, and my wishes too, 
For I would have no hope or fear beyond. 
The empty turmoil of the worthless world, 
Its vanities and vices, would not vex 



My quiet heart. The traveller, who beheld 
The low tower of the little pile, might deem 
It were the house of God ; nor would he err 
So deeming, for that home would be the home 
Of peace and love, and they would hallow it 
To Him. Oh, life of blessedness! to reap 
The fruit of honorable toil, and bound 
Our wishes with our wants ! Delightful thoughts, 
That soothe the solitude of weary Hope, 
Ye leave her to reality awaked, 
Like the poor captive, from some fleeting dream 
Of friends, and liberty, and home restored. 
Startled, and listening as the midnight storm 
Beats hard and heavy through his dungeon bars. 

Bath, 1795. 



IV. 



WRITTEN 

ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1795. 

How many hearts are happy at this hour 
In England ! Brightly o'er the cheerful hall 
Flares the heaped hearth, and friends and kindred 

meet. 
And the glad mother round her festive board 
Beholds her children, separated long 
Amid the wide world's ways, assembled now — 
A sight at which aff"ection lightens up 
With smiles the eye that age has long bedimm'd. 
I do remember, when I was a child. 
How my young heart, a stranger then to care, 
With transport leap'd upon this holyday. 
As o'er the house, all gay with evergreens, 
From friend to friend with joyful speed I ran, 
Bidding a merry Christmas to them all. 
Those years are past ; their pleasures and their pains 
Are now like yonder convent-crested hill 
That bounds the distant prospect, indistinct. 
Yet pictured upon memory's mystic glass 
In faint, fair hues. A weary traveller now 
I journey o'er the desert mountain tracks 
Of Leon, wilds all drear and comfortless, 
Where the gray lizards in the noontide sun 
Sport on the rocks, and where the goatherd starts, 
Roused from his sleep at midnight when he hears 
The prowling wolf, and falters as he calls 
On Saints to save. Here of the friends I think 
Who now, I ween, remember me, and fill 
The glass of votive friendship. At the name 
Will not thy cheek, Beloved, change its hue, 
And in those gentle eyes uncall'd-for tears 
Tremble ? I will not wish thee not to weep ; 
Such tears are free from bitterness, and they 
Who know not what it is sometimes to wake 
And weep at midnight, are but instruments 
Of Nature's common work. Yes, think of me, 
My Edith, think that, travelling far away, 
Thus I beguile the solitary hours 
With many a day-dream, picturing scenes as fair 
Of peace, and comfort, and domestic bliss. 
As ever to the youthful poet's eye 
Creative Fancy fashion'd. Think of me. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



147 



Though absent, thine; and if a sigh will rise, 
And tears, unbidden, at the thought steal down, 
Sure hope will cheer thee, and the happy hour 
Of meeting soon all sorrow overpay. 



V. 



WRITTEN AFTER VISITING 

THE CONVENT OF ARRABIDA, 

NEAR SETUBAL, MARCH 22, 1796. 

Happy the dwellers in this holy house ; 

For surely never worldly thoughts intrude 

On this retreat, this sacred solitude. 

Where Quiet with Religion makes her home. 

And ye who tenant such a goodly scene, 

How should ye be but good, where all is fair, 

And where the mirror of the mind reflects 

Serenest beauty ? O'er these mountain wilds 

The insatiate eye with ever-new delight 

Roams raptured, marking now where to the wind 

The tall tree bends its many-tinted boughs 

With soft, accordant sound; and now the sport 

Of joyous sea-birds o'er the tranquil deep, 

And now the long-extending stream of light 

Where the broad orb of day refulgent sinks 

Beneath old Ocean's line. To have no cares 

That cat the heart, no wants that to the earth 

Chain the reluctant spirit, to be freed 

From forced communion with the selfish tribe 

Who worship Mammon, — yea, emancipate 

From this world's bondage, even while the soul 

Inhabits still its corruptible clay, — 

Almost, ye dwellers in this holy house, 

Almost I envy you. You never see 

Pale Misery's asking eye, nor roam about 

Those huge and hateful haunts of crowded men. 

Where Wealth and Power have built their palaces. 

Fraud spreads his snares secure, man preys on man, 

Iniquity abounds, and rampant Vice, 

With an infection worse than mortal, taints 

The herd of human-kind. 

1 too could love, 
Ye tenants of this sacred solitude, 
Here to abide, and when the sun rides high, 
Seek some sequestered dingle's coolest shade ; 
And at the breezy hour, along the beach 
Stray with slow step, and gaze upon the deep, 
And while the breath of evening fann'd my brow, 
And the wild waves with their continuous sound 
Soothed my accustom' d ear, think thankfully 
That I had from the crowd withdrawn in time, 
And found a harbor — Yet may yonder deep 
Suggest a less unprofitable thought, 
Monastic brethren. Would the mariner. 
Though storms may sometimes swell the mighty 

waves, 
And o'er the reeling bark with thundering crash 
Impel the mountainous surge, quit yonder deep, 
And rather float upon some tranquil sea. 
Whose moveless waters never feel the gale, 
In safe stagnation ? Rouse thyself, my soul ! 
No season this for self-deluding dreams; 



It is thy spring-time ; sow, if thou wouldst reap 
Then, after honest labor, welcome rest, 
In full contentment not to be enjoy 'd 
Unless when duly earn'd. Oh, happy then 
To know that we have walked among mankind 
More sinn'd against than sinning ! Happy then 
To muse on many a sorrow overpast, 
And think the business of the day is done. 
And as the evening of our lives shall close, 
The peaceful evening, with a Christian's hope 
Expect the dawn of everlasting day. 
Lisbon, 1796. 



VI. 

ON MY OWN MINIATURE PICTURE, 

TAKEN AT TWO YEARS OF AGE. 

And I was once like this ! that glowing cheek 
Was mine, those pleasure-sparkling eyes ; that brow 
Smooth as the level lake, when not a breeze 
Dies o'er the sleeping surface ! — twenty years 
Have wrought strange alteration ! Of the friends 
Who once so dearly prized this miniature, 
And loved it for its likeness, some are gone 
To their last home ; and some, estranged in heart, 
Beholding me, with quick-averted glance 
Pass on the other side. But still these hues 
Remain unalter'd, and these features wear 
The look of Infancy and Innocence. 
I search myself in vain, and find no trace 
Of what I was : those lightly-arching lines 
Dark and o'erchanging now ; and that sweet face 
Settled in these strong lineaments! — There were 
Who formd high Jiopes and flattering ones of tliee, 
Young Robert ! for thine eye was quick to speak 
Each opening feeling : should tliey not have known, 
If the rich rainbow on a morning cloud 
Reflects its radiant dyes, the husbandman 
Beholds the ominous glory, and foresees 
Impending storms ! — They argued happily, 
That thou didst love each wild and wondrous tale 
Of faery fiction, and thine infant tongue 
Lisp'd with delight the godlike deeds of Greece 
And rising Rome ; therefore they deem'd, forsooth, 
That thou shouldst tread Preferment's pleasant path. 
Ill-judging ones ! they let thy little feet 
Stray in the pleasant paths of Poesy, [crowd, 

And when thou shouldst have press'd amid the 
There didst thou love to linger out the day. 
Loitering beneath the laurel's barren shade. 
Spirit of Spenser! was the wanderer wrong? 

Bristol, 1796. 



VII. 

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE OLD 
SPANIEL. 

And they have drown 'd thee, then, at last I poor 

Phillis ! 
The burden of old age was heavy on thee, 



148 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



And yet thou shouldst have lived ! What though 

thine eye 
Was dim, and watch'd no more with eager joy 
The wonted call that on thy dull sense sunk 
With fruitless repetition? The warm Sun 
Might still have cheer'd thy slumbers ; thou didst 

love 
To lick the hand that fed thee, and though past 
Youth's active season, even Life itself 
Was comfort. Poor old friend, how earnestly 
Would I have pleaded for thee ! thou hadst been 
Still the companion of my boyish sports ; 
And as I roam'd o'er Avon's woody cliffs, 
From many a day-dream has thy short, quick bark 
Recall'd my wandering soul. I have beguiled 
Often the melancholy hours at school, 
Sour'd by some little tyrant, with the thought 
Of distant home, and I remember'd then 
Thy faithful fondness; for not mean the joy, 
Returning at the happy holidays, 
I felt from thy dumb welcome. Pensively 
Sometimes have I remarked thy slow decay, 
Feeling myself changed too, and musing much 
On many a sad vicissitude of Life. 
Ah, poor companion ! when thou followedst last 
Thy master's parting footsteps to the gate 
Which closed forever on him, thou didst lose 
Thy truest friend, and none was left to plead 
For the old age of brute fidelity. 
But fare thee well ! Mine is no narrow creed; 
And He who gave thee being did not frame 
The mystery of life to be the sport 
Of merciless Man. There is another world 
For all that live and move — a better one ! 
Where the proud bipeds, who would fain confine 
Infinite Goodness to the little bounds 
Of their own charity, may envy thee. 

Bristol, 1796. 



VIII. 

RECOLLECTIONS OF A DAY'S JOUR- 
NEY IN SPAIN. 

Not less delighted do I call to mind. 
Land of Romance, thy wild and lovely scenes, 
Than I beheld them first. Pleased I retrace 
With memory's eye the placid Minho's course, 
And catch its winding waters gleaming bright 
Amid the broken distance. I review 
Leon's wide wastes, and heights precipitous. 
Seen with a pleasure not unmix'd with dread. 
As the sagacious mules along the brink 
Wound patiently and slow their way secure ; 
And rude Galicia's hovels, and huge rocks 
And mountains, where, when all beside was dim. 
Dark and broad-headed the tall pines erect 
Rose on the farthest eminence distinct, 
Cresting the evening sky. 

Rain now falls thick. 
And damp and heavy is the unwholesome air ; 
I by this friendly hearth remember Spain, 



And tread in fancy once again the road, 

Where twelve months since I held my way, and 

thought 
Of England, and of all my heart held dear, 
And wish'd this day were come. 

The morning mist, 
Well I remember, hovered o'er the heath, 
When with the earliest dawn of day we left 
The solitary Venta.* Soon the Sun 
Rose in his glory; scatter'd by the breeze 
The thin fog roll'd away, and now emerged 
We saw where Oropesa's castled hill 
Tower'd dark, and dimly seen ; and now we pass'd 
Torvalva's quiet huts, and on our way 
Paused frequently, look'd back, and gazed around; 
Then journey'd on, yet turn'd and gazed again, 
So lovely was the scene. That ducal pile 
Of the Toledos now with all its towers 
Shone in the sunlight. Half way up the hill, 
Embower'd in olives, like the abode of Peace, 
Lay Lagartina ; and the cool, fresh gale. 
Bending the young corn on the gradual slope, 
Play'd o'er its varying verdure. I beheld 
A convent near, and could almost have thought 
The dwellers there must needs be holy men, 
For as they look'd around them, all they saw 
W^as good. 

But when the purple eve came on, 
How did the lovely landscape fill my heart ! 
Trees scatter'd among peering rocks adorn'd 
The near ascent ; the vale was overspread 
With ilex in its wintry foliage gay, 
Old cork-trees through their soft and swelling 

bark 
Bursting, and glaucous olives, underneath 
Whose fertilizing influence the green herb 
Grows greener, and with heavier ears enrich'd 
The healthful harvest bends. Pellucid streams 
Through many a vocal channel from the hills 
Wound through the valley their melodious way; 
And o'er the intermediate woods descried, 
Naval-Moral's church tower announced to us 
Our resting-place that night, — a welcome mark ; 
Though willingly we loiter'd to behold 
In long expanse Plasencia's fertile plain. 
And the high mountain range which bounded it, 
Now losing fast the roseate hue that eve 
Shed o'er its summit and its snov/y breast; 
For eve was closing now. Faint and more faint 
The murmurs of the goatherd's scattered flock 
Were borne upon the air, and sailing slow 
The broad-wing'd stork sought on the church tower 

top 
His consecrated nest. O lovely scenes ! 
I gazed upon you with intense delight, 
And yet with thoughts that weigh the spirit down. 
I was a stranger in a foreign land, 
And knowing that these eyes should never more 
Behold that glorious prospect, Earth itself 
Appear'd the place of pilgrimage it is. 

Bristol, January 15, 1797. 

* Venta de Peralbanegas. 



i 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



149 



IX. 
TO MARGARET HILL. 

■WRITTEN FROM LONDON. 1798. 

Margaret ! my Cousin, — nay, you must not smile, 

I love the homely and familiar phrase : 

And I will call thee Cousin Margaret, 

However quaint amid the measured line 

The good old term appears. Oh ! it looks ill 

When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin, 

Sir-ing and Madam-ing as civilly 

As if the road between the heart and lips 

Were such a weary and Laplandish way. 

That the poor travellers came to the red gates 

Half frozen. Trust me. Cousin Margaret, 

For many a day my memory hath play'd 

The creditor with me on your account, 

And made me shame to think that I should owe 

So long the debt of kindness. But in truth, 

liike Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear 

So heavy a pack of business, that albeit 

I toil on mainly, in our twelve hours' race 

Time leaves me distanced. Loath indeed were I 

That for a moment you should lay to me 

Unkind neglect; mine, Margaret, is a heart 

That smokes not ; yet methinks there should be some 

Who know its genuine warmth. 1 am not one 

Who can play off my smiles and courtesies 

To every Lady of her lap-dog tired 

Who wants a plaything ; I am no sworn friend 

Of half-an-hour, as apt to leave as love ; 

Mine are no mushroom feelings, which spring up 

At once without a seed, and take no root, 

Wiseliest distrusted. In a narrow sphere. 

The little circle of domestic life, 

I would be known and loved : the world beyond 

Is not for me. But, Margaret, sure I think 

That you should know me well ; for you and I 

Grew up together, and wlien we look back 

Upon old times, our recollections paint 

The same familiar faces. Did I wield 

The wand of Merlin's magic, I would make 

Brave witchcraft. We would have a faery ship, 

Ay, a new Ark, as in that other flood 

Which swept the sons of Anak from the earth ; 

The Sylphs should waft us to some goodly isle 

Like that where whilom old Apollidon, 

Retiring wisely from the troublous world, 

Built up his blameless spell ; and I would bid 

The Sea-Nymphs pile around their coral bowers. 

That we might stand upon the beach, and mark 

The far-off breakers shower their silver spray. 

And hear the eternal roar, whose pleasant sound 

Told us that never mariner should reach 

Our quiet coast. In such a blessed isle 

We might renew the days of infancy, 

And life, like a long childhood, pass away, 

Without one care. It may be, Margaret, 

That I shall yet be gather'd to my friends ; 

For I am not of those who live estranged 

Of choice, till at the last they join their race 

In the family vault. If so, if I should lose, 



Like my old friend the Pilgrim, this huge pack 

So heavy on my shoulders, I and mine 

Right pleasantly will end our pilgrimage. 

If not, if I should never get beyond 

This Vanity-town, there is another world 

Where friends will meet. And often, Margaret, 

I gaze at night into the boundless sky. 

And think that I shall there be born agam, 

The exalted native of some better star ; 

And, like the untaught American, I look 

To find in Heaven the thinos I loved on earth. 



X. 
AUTUMN. 

Nay, William, nay, not so! the changeful year, 

In all its due successions, to my sight 

Presents but varied beauties, transient all, 

All in their season good. These fading leaves, 

That with their rich variety of hues 

Make yonder forest in the slanting sun 

So beautiful, in you awake the thought 

Of winter, — cold, drear winter, when the trees 

Each like a fleshless skeleton shall stretch 

Its bare, brown boughs ; when not a flower shall 

spread 
Its colors to the da}', and not a bird 
Carol its joyance, — but all nature wear 
One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate, 
To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike. 
To me their many-color'd beauties speak 
Of times of merriment and festival, 
Tlie year's best holiday : I call to mind 
The school-bo}^ days, wlien in the falling leaves 
I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign 
Of coming Christmas; when at morn I took 
My wooden calendar, and counting up 
Once more its often-told account, smoothed off 
Each day with more delight the daily notch. 
To you the beauties of the autumnal year 
Make mournful emblems, and you think of man 
Doom'd to the grave's long winter, spirit-broken, 
Bending beneath the burden of his years, 
Sense-dull'd and fretful, " full of aches and pains," 
Yet clinging still to life. To me they show 
The calm decay of nature when the mind 
Retains its strength, and in the languid eye 
Religion's hoi}' hopes kindle a joy 
That makes old age look lovely. All to you 
Is dark and cheerless ; you in this fair world 
See some destroying principle abroad, 
Air, earth, and water full of living things, 
Each on the other preying ; and the ways 
Of man, a strange, perplexing labyrinth, 
Where crimes and miseries, each producing each, 
Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope 
That should in death bring comfort. Oh, my friend, 
That thy faith were as mine ! that thou couldst see 
Death still producing life, and evil still 
Working its own destruction ; couldst behold 
The strifes and troubles of this troubled world 
With the strong eye that sees the promised day 



J 50 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Dawn through this night of tempest ! All things, 

then, 
Would minister to joy ; then should thine heart 
Be heal'd and harmonized, and thou wouldst feel 
God, always, every where, and all in all. 

Westbury, 1798. 



XI. 



THE VICTORY. 

Hark — how the church-bells, with redoubling 

peals. 
Stun the glad ear ! Tidings of joy have come. 
Good tidings of great joy ! two gallant ships 
Met on the element, — they met, they fought 
A desperate fight! — good tidings of great joy ! 
Old England triumph'd ! yet another day 
Of glory for the ruler of the waves ! [cause, — 

For those who fell, — 'twas in their country's 
They have their passing paragraphs of praise, 
And are forgotten. 

There was one who died 
In that day's glory, whose obscurer name 
No proud historian's page will chronicle. 
Peace to his honest soul ! I read his name, — 
'Twas in the list of slaughter, — and thank'd God 
The sound was not familiar to mine ear. 
But it was told me after, that this man 
Was one whom lawful violence had forced 
From his own home, and wife, and little ones, 
Who by his labor lived ; that he was one 
Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel 
A husband's love, a father's anxiousness ; 
That from the wages of his toil he fed 
The distant dear ones, and would talk of them 
At midnight when he trod the silent deck 
With him he valued, — talk of them, of joys 
Which he had known, — oh God ! and of the hour 
When they should meet again, till his full heart. 
His manly heart, at times would overflow, 
Even like a child's, with very tenderness. 
Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly 
It came, and merciful the ball of death, 
That it came suddenly and shatter'd him, 
Nor left a moment's agonizing thought 
On those he loved so well. 

He ocean-deep 
Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter. 
Who art the widow's friend ! Man does not know 
What a cold sickness made her blood run back 
When first she heard the tidings of the fight ! 
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope 
She listened to the names of those who died ; 
Man does not know, or knowing will not heed, 
With what an agony of tenderness 
She gazed upon her children, and beheld 
His image who was gone. O God ! be Thou, 
Who art the widow's friend, her comforter ! 

Westbury, 1798. 



XII. 

HISTORY. 

Thou chronicle of crimes ! I read no more; 
For I am one who willingly would love 
His fellow-kind, O gentle Poesy, 
Receive me from the court's polluted scenes, 
From dungeon horrors, from the fields of war, 
Receive me to your haunts, — that I may nurse 
My nature's better feelings ; for my soul 
Sickens at man's misdeeds ! 

I spake, when lo ! 
There stood before me, in her majesty, 
Clio, the strong-eyed Muse. Upon her brow 
Sate a calm anger. Go, young man, she cried, 
Sigh among myrtle bowers, and let thy soul 
Effuse itself in strains so sorrowful sweet. 
That love-sick Maids may weep upon thy page, 
Soothed with delicious sorrow. Oh shame ! shame ! 
Was it for this I waken'd thy young mind ? 
Was it for this 1 made thy swelling heart 
Throb at the deeds of Greece, and thy boy's eye 
So kindle when that glorious Spartan died .? 
Boy ! boy ! deceive me not ! — What if the tale 
Of murder' d millions strike a chilling pang; 
What if Tiberius in his island stews, 
And Philip at his beads, alike inspire 
Strong anger and contempt ; hast thou not risen 
With nobler feelings, — with a deeper love 
For freedom ? Yes ; if righteously thy soul 
Loathes the black history of human crimes 
And human misery, let that spirit fill 
Thy song, and it shall teach thee, boy ! to raise 
Strains such as Cato might have deign'd to hear, 
As Sidney in his hall of bliss may love. 

Westbury, 1798. 



XIII. 

WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER READING 

THE SPEECH OF ROBERT EMMET, 

ON HIS TRIAL AND CONVICTION FOR HIGH TREASON, 
SEPTEMBER, 1803. 

" Let no man write my epitaph ; let my grave 
Be uninscribed, and let my memory rest 
Till other times are come, and other men. 
Who then may do me justice." * 

Emmet, no ! 
No withering curse hath dried my spirit up. 
That I should now be silent, — that my soul 
Should from the stirring inspiration shrink. 
Now when it shakes her, and withhold her voice, 

* These were the words in his speech : " Let there be no 
inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my epitaph. 
No man can write my epitaph. lam here ready to die. I 
am not allowed to vindicate my character ; and when I am 
prevented from vindicating myself, let no man dare to calum- 
niate me. Let my character and my motives repose in ob- 
scurity and peace, till other times and other men can do them 
justice. Then shall my character be vindicated ; then may 
my epitaph be written. I have done." 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



151 



Of that divinest impulse never more 

Worthy, if impious I withheld it now, 

Hardening my heart. Here, here in this free Isle, 

To which in thy young virtue's erring zeal 

Thou wert so perilous an enemy. 

Here in free England shall an English hand 

Build thy imperishable monument; 

Oh, — to thine own misfortune and to ours, 

By thine own deadly error so beguiled. 

Here in free England shall an English voice 

Raise up thy mourning-song. For thou hast paid 

The bitter penalty of that misdeed; 

Justice hath done her unrelenting part. 

If she in truth be Justice who drives on. 

Bloody and blind, the chariot wheels of death. 

So young, so glowing for the general good. 

Oh, what a lovely manhood had been thine. 

When all the violent workings of thy youth 

Had passed away, hadst thou been wisely spared, 

Left to the slow and certain influences 

Of silent feeling and maturing thought ! 

How had that heart, — that noble heart of thine. 

Which even now hadsnapp'd one spell, which beat 

With such brave indignation at the shame 

And guilt of France, and of her miscreant Lord, — 

How had it clung to England ! With what love, 

What pure and perfect love, return'd to her, 

Now worthy of thy love, the champion now 

For freedom, — yea, the only champion now. 

And soon to be the Avenger. But the blow 

Hath fallen, the indiscriminating blow. 

That for its portion to the Grave consign'd 

Youth, Genius, generous Virtue. Oh, grief, grief ! 

Oh, sorrow and reproach ! Have ye to learn, 

Deaf to the past, and to the future blind, 

Ye who thus irremissibly exact 

The forfeit life, how lightly life is staked. 

When in distempered times the feverish mind 

To strong delusion yields .'' Have ye to learn 

With what a deep and spirit-stirring voice 

Pity doth call Revenge ? Have ye no hearts 

To feel and understand how Mercy tames 

The rebel nature, madden'd by old wrongs, 

And binds it in the gentle bands of love. 

When steel and adamant were weak to hold 

That Samson-strength subdued ! 

Let no man write 
Thy epitaph ! Emmet, nay ; thou shalt not go 
Without thy funeral strain I Oh, young, and good. 
And wise, though erring here, thou shalt not go 
Unhonor'd nor unsung. And better thus 
Beneath that indiscriminating stroke. 
Better to fall, than to have lived to mourn. 
As sure thou wouldst, in misery and remorse, 
Thine own disastrous triumph ; to have seen, 
If the Almighty at that awful hour 
Had turn'd away his face, wild Ignorance 
Let loose, and frantic Vengeance, and dark Zeal, 
And all bad passions tyrannous, and the fires 
Of Persecution once again ablaze. 
How had it sunk into thy soul to see, 
Last curse of all, the ruffian slaves of France 
In thy dear native country lording it ! 
How happier thus, in that heroic mood 



That takes away the sting of death, to die, 
By all the good and all the wise forgiven i 
Yea, in all ages by the wise and good 
To be remember'd. mourn'd, and honor 'd still. 

Keswick. 



XIV. 



THANKSGIVING FOR VICTORY. 

[Written for Music, and composed by Shield.] 

Glory to thee in thine omnipotence, 
O Lord, who art our shield and our defence, 
And dost dispense. 
As seemeth best to thine unerring will, 
(Which passeth mortal sense,) 
The lot of Victory still ; 
Edging sometimes with might the sword unjust; 
And bowing to the dust 
The rightful cause, that so such seeming ill 
May thine appointed purposes fulfil ; 
Sometimes, as in this late auspicious hour 
For which our hymns we raise. 
Making the wicked feel thy present power; 
Glory to thee and praise. 
Almighty God, by whom our strength was given ! 
Glory to thee, O Lord of Earth and Heaven'. 

Keswick, 1815. 



XV. 



STANZAS 



WRITTEN IN LADY LONSDALE S ALBUM, AT LOW- 
THER CASTLE, OCTOBER 13, 1821. 



Sometimes, in youthful years, 
When in some ancient ruin I have stood, 
Alone and musing, till with quiet tears 

1 felt my cheeks bedew'd, 
A melancholy thought hath made me grieve 
For this our age, and humbled me in mind. 

That it should pass away and leave 

No monuments behind. 



Not for themselves alone 
Our fathers lived ; nor with a niggard hand 
Raised they the fabrics of enduring stone, 

Which yet adorn the land ; 
Their piles, memorials of the mighty dead. 
Survive them still, majestic in decay ; 

But ours are like ourselves, I said. 

The creatures of a day. 



With other feelings now, 
Lowther ! have I beheld thy stately walls. 
Thy pinnacles, and broad, embattled brow, 

And hospitable halls. 



152 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



The sun those wide -spread battlements shall crest, 
And silent years unhanning shall go by, 

Till centuries in their course invest 

Thy towers with sanctity. 



But thou the while shalt bear. 
To after-times, an old and honored name, 
And to remote posterity declare 

Thy Founder's virtuous fame. 
Fair structure ! worthy the triumphant age 
Of glorious England's opulence and power, 

Peace be thy lasting heritage. 

And happiness thy dower ! 



XVI. 
STANZAS 

ADDRESSED TO W. R. TURNER, ESQ., R. A., ON HIS 
VIEW or THE LAGO MAGGIORE FROM THE TOWN 
OF ARONA. 

[Engraved for the Keepsake of 1829.] 



Turner, thy pencil brings to mind a day 
When from Laveno and the Beuscer hill 

1 over Lake Verbanus held my way, 

In pleasant fellowship, with wind at will ; 

Smooth were the waters wide, the sky serene, 

And our hearts gladden'd with the joyful scene ; — 

2. 

Joyful, — for all things minister'd delight, — 
The lake and land, the mountains and the vales ; 

The Alps their snowy summits rear'd in light, 
Tempering with gelid breath the summer gales ; 

And verdant shores and woods refresh'd the eye 

That else had ached beneath that brilliant sky. 



To that elaborate island were we bound, 
Of yore the scene of Borromean pride, — 

Folly's prodigious work ; where all around, 
Under its coronet and self-belied, 

Look where you will, you cannot choose but see 

The obtrusive motto's proud "Humility ! " 

4. 

Far off the Borromean saint was seen, 

Distinct, though distant, o'er his native town, 

Where his Colossus with benignant mien 
Looks from its station on Arona down : 

To it the inland sailor lifts his eyes. 

From the wide lake, when perilous storms arise. 



But no storm threaten'd on that summer-day; 

The whole rich scene appear' d for joyance made ; 
With many a gliding bark the mere was gay. 

The fields and groves in all their wealth array'd ; 
I could have thought the Sun beheld with smiles 
Those towns, and palaces, and populous isles. 



6. 
From fair Arona, even on such a day. 

When gladness was descending like a shower, 
Great painter, did thy gifted eye survey 

The splendid scene ; and, conscious of its power, 
Well hath thine hand inimitable given 
The glories of the lake, and land, and heaven. 

Keswick, 1828. 



XVII. 
ON A PICTURE BY J. M. WRIGHT, ESQ. 

[Engraved for the Keepsake of 1829.] 

1. 

The sky-lark hath perceived his prison-door 
Unclosed ; for liberty the captive tries : 

Puss eagerly hath watched him from the floor, 
And in her grasp he flutters, pants, and dies 



Lucy's own Puss, and Lucy's own dear Bird, 
Her foster' d favorites both for many a day, 

That which the tender-hearted girl preferr'd. 
She in her fondness knew not, sooth to say. 

3. 

For if the sky-lark's pipe were shrill and strong, 
And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please, 

Yet Pussybel could breathe a fire-side song 
As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees. 



Both knew ner voice, and each alike would seek 
Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain 

How faintly, then, may words her sorrow speak. 
When by the one she sees the other slain. 

5. 

The flowers fall scatter'd from her lifted hand ; 

A cry of grief she utters in affright; 
And self-condemn'd for negligence she stands 

Aghast and helpless at the cruel sight. 



Come, Lucy, let me dry those tearful eyes ; 

Take thou, dear child, a lesson not unholy. 
From one whom nature taught to moralize. 

Both in his mirth and in his melancholy. 



I will not warn thee not to set thy heart 
Too fondly upon perishable things ; 

In vain the earnest preacher spends his art 
Upon that theme ; in vain the poet sings. 



It is our nature's strong necessity. 

And this the soul's unerring instincts tell . 

Therefore I say, let us love worthily, 

Dear child, and then we cannot love too well. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



153 



Better it is all losses to deplore, 

Which dutiful afFection can sustain, 

Than that the heart should, in its inmost core. 
Harden without it, and have lived in vain. 

10. 
This love which thou hast lavish'd, and the Avoe 

Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress, 
Are but a vent, an innocent overflow. 

From the deep springs of female tenderness. 

11. 

And something I would teach thee from the grief 
That thus hath fill'd those gentle eyes with tears, 

The which may be thy sober, sure relief. 
When sorrow visits thee in after years. 

12. 

I ask not whither is the spirit flown 

That lit the eye which there in death is seal'd ; 
Our Father hath not made that mystery known ; 

Needless the knowledge, therefore not reveal'd. 

13. 

But didst thou know, in sure and sacred truth, 
It had a place assign'd in yonder skies. 

There, through an endless life of joyous youth, 
To warble in the bowers of Paradise, — 

14. 

Lucy, if then the power to thee were given 
In that cold form its life to reongage, 

Wouldst thou call back the warbler from its 
Heaven 
To be again the tenant of a cage ? 

15. 

Only that thou mightst cherish it again, 
Wouldst thou the object of thy love recall 

To mortal life, and chance, and change, and pain, 
And death, which must be suffered once by all ? 

16. 

Oh, no, thou say'st : oh, surely not, not so ! 

I read the answer which those looks express ; 
For pure and true affection, well I know. 

Leaves in the heart no room for selfishness. 

17. 

Such love of all our virtues is the gem ; 

We bring with us the immortal seed at birth : 
Of heaven it is, and heavenly ; woe to them 

Who make it wholly earthly and of earth ! 

18. 
What we love perfectly, for its own sake 

We love, and not our own, being ready thus 
Whate'er self-sacrifice is ask'd, to make ; 

That which is best for it, is best for us. 

19. 
O Lucy ! treasure up that pious thought ! 
It hath a bal'_i for sorrow's deadliest darts ; 
?0 



And with true comfort thou wilt find it fraught, 
If grief should reach thee in thy heart of hearts. 

Buck-land, 1828. 



XVIIL 



My days among the Dead are past ; 

Around me I behold, 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 

Tlie mighty minds of old ; 
My never-failing friends are they. 
With whom I converse day by day. 



With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe ; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe. 
My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 



My thoughts are with the Dead ; with them 

I live in long-past years ; 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears. 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

4. 
My hopes are witli the Dead ; anon 

My place with them will be, 
And I with them shall travel on 

Through all Futurity : 
Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
That will not perish in the dust. 

Kesicick, 1818. 



XIX. 

IMITATED FROM THE PERSIAN. 

Lord ! who art merciful as well as just, 

Incline thine ear to me, a child of dust ! 

Not what I would, O Lord ! I offer thee, 

Alas ! but what I can. 

Father Almighty, who hast made me man, 

And bade me look to Heaven, for Thou art there, 

Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer. 

Four things which are not in thy treasury, 

I lay before thee, Lord, with this petition : — 

My nothingness, my wants, 

My sins, and my contrition. 

Lowther Castle, 1828. 



154 



THE RETROSPECT. 



THE RETROSPECT 



Corston is a small village about three miles from Bath, a little 
to the left of the Bristol road. The manor was parted with 
by the monks of Bath, about the reign of Henry I., to Sir 
Roger de St. Lo, in exchange. It continued in his family 
till the reign of Edward II., when it passed to the family 
of Inge, who are said to have been domestics to the St. 
Los for several generations. In process of time, it came to 
the Harringtons, and was by them sold to Joseph Langton, 
whose daughter and heiress brought it in marriage to 
William Gore Langton, Esq. 

The church, which, in 1292, was valued at 7 marks, 9s. 4<i., 
was appropriated to the prior and convent of Bath ; and 
a vicarage ordained here by Bishop John de Drokensford, 
Nov. 1, 1321, decreeing that the vicar and his successors in 
perpeiuum should have a hall, with chambers, kitchen, and 
bakehouse, with a third part of the garden and curtilage, 
and a pigeon-house, formerly belonging to the parsonage ; 
that he should have one acre of arable land, consisting of 
three parcels, late part of the demesne of the said parsonage, 
together with common pasturage for his swine in such 
places as the rector of the said church used that privilege ; 
that he should receive from the prior and convent of 
Bath one quarter of bread-corn yearly, and have all the 
altarage, and all small tithes of beans and other blade 
growing in the cottage enclosures and cultivated curtilages 
throughout the parish ; that the religious aforesaid and 
their successors, as rectors of the said church, should have 
all the arable land, with a park belonging to the land, (the 
acre above mentioned only excepted,) and receive all great 
tithes, as well of corn as of hay ; the said religious to 
sustain all burdens, ordinary and extraordinary, incumbent 
on the church as rectors thereof. The prior of Bath had 
a yearly pension out of the vicarage of 4s. — Collinson's 
Hist, of Somersetshire, vol. iii. pp. 341 — 347. 



On as 1 journey through the vale of years, 
By hopes enliven'd, or depress'd by fears, 
Allow me, Memory, in thy treasured store, 
To view the days that will return no more. 
And yes ! before thine intellectual ray 
The clouds of mental darkness melt away ! 
As when, at earliest day's awakening dawn, 
The hovering mists obscure the dewy lawn. 
O'er all the landscape spread their influence chill. 
Hang o'er the vale and wood, and hide the hill ; 
Anon, slow-rising, comes the orb of day ; 
Slow fade the shadowy mists and roll away ; 
The prospect opens on the traveller's sight. 
And hills and vales and woods reflect the living 
light. 

thou, the mistress of my future days. 
Accept thy minstrel's retrospective lays; 
To whom the minstrel and the lyre belong. 
Accept, my Edith, Memory's pensive song. 
Of long-past days I sing, ere yet 1 knew 

Or thought and grief, or happiness and you ; 
Ere yet my infant heart had learnt to prove 
The cares of life, the hopes and fears of love. 

Corston, twelve years in various fortunes fled 
Have past with restless progress o'er my head, 
Since in thy vale, beneath the master's rule, 

1 dwelt an inmate of the village school. 



Yet still will Memory's busy eye retrace 
Each little vestige of the well-known place; 
Each wonted haunt and scene of youthful joy, 
Where merriment has cheer'd the careless boy ; 
Well-pleased will fancy still the spot survey 
Where once he triumph'd in the boyish play, 
Without one care where every morn he rose, 
Where every evening sunk to calm repose. 

Large was the house, though fallen in course, 

of fate. 
From its old grandeur and manorial state. 
Lord of the manor, here the jovial Squire 
Once call'd his tenants round the crackling fire; 
Here while the glow of joy suffused his face, 
He told his ancient exploits in the chase, 
And, proud his rival sportsmen to surpass. 
He lit again the pipe, and fill'd again the glass. 

But now no more was heard at early morn 
The echoing clangor of the huntsman's horn; 
No more the eager hounds with deepening cry 
Leap'd round him as they knew their pastime 

nigh; 
The Squire no more obey'd the morning call, 
Nor favorite spaniels fill'd the sportsman's hall ; 
For he, the last descendant of his race, 
Slept with his fathers, and forgot the chase. 
There now in petty empire o'er the school 
The mighty Master held despotic rule ; 
Trembling in silence all his deeds we saw, 
His look a mandate, and his word a law ; 
Severe his voice, severe and stern his mien, 
And wondrous strict he was, and wondrous wise 
I ween. 

Even now through many a long, long year I trace 
The hour when first with awe I view'd his face ; 
Even now recall my entrance at the dome, — 
'Twas the first day I ever left my home ! 
Years intervening have not worn away 
The deep remembrance of that wretched day, 
Nor taught me to forget my earliest fears, 
A mother's fondness, and a mother's tears ; 
When close she press'd me to her sorrowing 
As loath as even I myself to part ; [heart, 

And I, as 1 beheld her sorrows flow. 
With painful effort hid my inward woe. 

But time to youthful troubles brings relief. 
And each new object weans the child from grief. 
Like April showers the tears of youth descend; 
Sudden they fall, and suddenly they end. 
And fresher pleasure cheers the following hour, 
As brighter shines the sun after the April shower. 

Methinks even now the interview 1 see. 
The Mistress's glad smile, the Master's glee ; 
Much of my future happiness they said. 
Much of the easy life the scholars led. 
Of spacious play-ground and of wholesome air, 
The best instruction and the tenderest care ; 
And when I followed to the garden-door 
My father, till through tears I saw no more, 
How civilly they soothed my parting pain ! 
And never did they speak so civilly again. 



HYMN TO THE PENATES 



155 



Why loves the soul on earlier years to dwell, 
When Memory spreads around her saddening 

spell, 
When discontent, with sullen gloom o'ercast, 
Turns from the present, and prefers the past? 
Why calls reflection to my pensive view 
Each trifling act of infancy anew, 
Each trifling act with pleasure pondering o'er. 
Even at the time when trifles please no more ? 
Yet is remembrance sweet, though well I know 
The days of childhood are but days of woe ; 
Some rude restraint, some petty tyrant sours 
What else should be our sweetest, blithest hours \ 
Yet is it sweet to call those hours to mind, — 
Those easy hours forever left behind; 
Ere care began the spirit to oppress, 
When ignorance itself was happiness. 

Such was my state in those remember'd years. 
When two small acres bounded all my fears ; 
And therefore still with pleasure, I recall [hall, 
The tapestried school, the bright, brown-boarded 
The murmuring brook, that every morning saw 
The due observance of the cleanly law ; 
The walnuts, where, when favor would allow, 
Full oft I wont to search each well-stripp'd bough ; 
The crab-tree, which supplied a secret hoard 
With roasted crabs to deck the wintry board ; 
These trifling objects then my heart possess'd, 
These trifling objects still remain impress'd ; 
So when with unskill'd hand some idle hind 
Carves his rude name within a sapling's rind. 
In after years the peasant lives to see 
The expanding letters grow as grows the tree ; 
Though every winter's desolating sway 
Shake the hoarse grove and sweep the leaves 

away. 
That rude inscription uneffaced will last, 
Unalter'd by the storm or wintry blast. 

Oh, while well pleased the letter'd traveller roams 
Among old temples, palaces, and domes. 
Strays with the Arab o'er the wreck of time 
Where erst Palmyra's towers arose sublime, 
Or marks the lazy Turk's lethargic pride, 
And Grecian slavery on Ilyssus' side. 
Oh, be it mine, aloof from public strife, 
To mark the changes of domestic life. 
The alter'd scenes where once I bore a part. 
Where every change of fortune strikes the heart. 
As when the merry bells with echoing sound 
Proclaim the news of victory around. 
Rejoicing patriots run the news to spread 
Of glorious conquest and of thousands dead. 
All join the loud huzza with eager breath. 
And triumph in the tale of blood and death ; 
But if extended on the battle-plain, 
Cut off" in conquest some dear friend be slain, 
Affection then will fill the sorrowing eye, 
And suffering Nature grieve that one should die. 

Cold was the morn, and bleak the wintry blast 
Blew o'er the meadow, when I saw thee last. 
My bosom bounded as 1 wandered round. 
With silent step, the long-remember'd ground, 



Where 1 had loiter'd out so many an hour. 
Chased the gay butterfly, and cuil'd the flower, 
Sought the swift arrow's erring course to trace, 
Or with mine equals vied amid the chase. 
I saw the church where I had slept away 
The tedious service of the summer day; 
Or, hearing sadly all the preacher told. 
In winter waked and shiver'd with the cold. 
Ofl have my footsteps roam'd the sacred ground 
Where heroes, kings, and poets sleep around ; 
Oft traced the mouldering castle's ivied wall, 
Or aged convent tottering to its fall ; 
Yet never had my bosom felt such pain. 
As, Corston, when I saw thy scenes again; 
For many a long-lost pleasure came to view, 
For many a long-past sorrow rose anew ; 
Where whilom all were friends I stood alone, 
Unknowing all I saw, of all I saw unknown. 

There, where my little hands were wont to rear 
With pride the earliest salad of the year; 
Where never idle weed to spring was seen, 
Rank thorns and nettles rear'd their heads ob- 
scene. 
Still all around and sad, I saw no more 
The playful group, nor heard the playful roar ; 
There echoed round no shout of mirth and glee ; 
It seem'das though the world were changed like 
me ! 

Enough ! it boots not on the past to dwell, — 
Fair scene of other years, a long farewell ! 
Rouse up, my soul ! it boots not to repine ; 
Rouse up ! for worthier feelings should be thine ; 
Thy path is plain and straight, — that light is 

given, — 
Onward in faith, — and leave the rest to Heaven. 

Oxford, 1794. 



HYMN TO THE PENATES. 



Remove far from me vanity and lies ; give me neither poverty 
nor riches ; feed me with food convenient for me. 

The words of Agur. 
OIKOI /i/£Xr£/)oi/ eivai, emi PXaSepov to ^vpr](pi. 

Hesiod. 



Yet one Song more ! one high and solemn strain 

Ere, Phoebus! on thy temple's ruin'd wall 

I hang the silent harp : there may its strings, 

When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile, 

Make melancholy music. One song more ! 

Penates, hear me ! for to you I hymn 

The votive lay ; whether, as sages deem. 

Ye dwell in inmost* Heaven, the Counsellors t 

Of Jove; or if, Supreme of Deities, 

All things are yours, and in your holy train 

Jove proudly ranks, and Juno, white-arm'd Queen, 

* Hence one explanation of the name Penates, because they 
were supposed to reign in the inmost heavens. 

t This was the belief of the ancient Hetrusci, who called 
them Concertes and Complices. 



156 



HYMN TO THE PENATES. 



I 



And wisest of Immortals, the dread Maid 
Athenian Pallas. Venerable Powers, [rites 

Hearken your hymn of praise ! Though from your 
Estranged, and exiled from your altars long, 
I have not ceased to love you. Household Gods ! 
In many a long and melancholy hour 
Of solitude and sorrow, hath my heart 
With earnest longings pray'd to rest at length 
Beside your hallow'd hearth, — for Peace is there ! 
Yes, I have loved you long ! I call on ye 
Yourselves to witness with what holy joy, 
Shunning the common herd of human-kind, 
I have retired to watch your lonely fires. 
And commune with myself: — delightful hours, 
That gave mysterious pleasure, made me know 
Mine inmost heart, its weakness and its strength, 
Taught me to cherish with devoutest care 
Its deep, unworldly feelings, taught me too 
The best of lessons — to resjject myself. 

Nor have I ever ceased to reverence you, 
Domestic Deities ! from the first dawn 
Of reason, through the adventurous paths of youth, 
Even to this better day, when on mine ear 
The uproar of contending nations sounds 
But like the passing wind, and wakes no pulse 
To tumult. When a child, (for still I love 
To dwell with fondness on my childish years,) 
When first, a little one, I left my home, 
I can remember the first grief 1 felt. 
And the first painful smile that clothed my front 
With feelings not its own : sadly at night 
I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth ; 
And when the lingering hour of rest was come, 
First wet with tears my pillow. As I grew 
In years and knowledge, and the course of time 
Developed the young feelings of my heart, 
When most I loved in solitude to rove 
Amid the woodland gloom ; or where the rocks 
Darken'd old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave 
Recluse to sit and brood the future song, — 
Yet not the less, Penates, loved I then 
Your altars ; not the less at evening hour 
Loved I beside the well-trimm'd fire to sit, 
Absorb'd in many a dear, deceitful dream 
Of visionary joys, — deceitful dreams, — 
And yet not vain; for painting purest bliss. 
They form'd to Fancy's mould her votary's heart. 

By Cherwell's sedgy side, and in the meads 
Where Isis in her calm, clear stream reflects 
The willow's bending boughs, at early dawn, 
In the noon-tide hour, and when the night-mist rose, 
I have remember'd you; and when the noise 
Of lewd Intemperance on my lonely ear 
Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sate. 
Musing on days when man should be redeem'd 
From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness. 
I blest you. Household Gods ! because I loved 
Your peaceful altars and serener rites. 
Nor did I cease to reverence yoa, when driven 
Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man 
To mingle with the world ; still, still my heart 
Sigh'd for your sanctuary, and inly pined ; 
And loathing human converse, I have stray 'd 



Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howl'd the blast, 
And gazed upon the world of waves, and wish'd 
That 1 were far beyond the Atlantic deep. 
In woodland haunts, a sojourner with Peace. 

Not idly did the ancient poets dream, 
Who peopled earth with Deities. They trod 
The wood with reverence where the Dryads dwelt; 
At day's dim dawn or evening's misty hour 
They saw the Oreads on their mountain haunts, 
And felt their holy influence ; nor impure 
Of thought, nor ever with polluted hands,* 
Touch'd they without a prayer the Naiad's spring, 
Nor without reverence to the River God 
Cross'd in unhappy hour his limpid stream. 
Yet was this influence transient ; such brief awe 
Inspiring as the thunder's long, loud peal 
Strikes to the feeble spirit. Household Gods, 
Not such your empire ! in your votaries' breasts 
No momentary impulse ye awake ; 
Nor fleeting, like their local energies. 
The deep devotion that your fanes impart. 
O ye whom Youth has wilder'd on your way, 
Or Pleasure with her siren song hath lured. 
Or Fame with spirit-stirring trump hath call'd 
To climb her summits, — to your Household Gods 
Return ; for not in Pleasure's gay abodes, 
Nor in the unquiet, unsafe halls of Fame 
Doth Happiness abide. O ye who grieve 
Much for the miseries of your fellow-kind. 
More for their vices ; ye whose honest eyes 
Scowl on Oppression, — ye v»^hose honest hearts 
Beat high when Freedom sounds her dread alarm ; 
O ye who quit the path of peaceful life 
Crusading for mankind — a spaniel race 
That lick the hand that beats them, or tear all 
Alike in frenzy ; to your Household Gods 
Return ! for by their altars Virtue dwells. 
And Happiness with her ; for by their fires 
Tranquillity, in no unsocial mood. 
Sits silent, listening to the pattering shower; 
For, so Suspiciont sleep not at the gate 
Of Wisdom, Falsehood shall not enter there. 

As on the height of some huge eminence, 
Reach'd with long labor, the way-faring man 
Pauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plain 
With many a sore step travell'd, turns him then 
Serious to contemplate the onward road, 

* MrjSe nor' asvawv noraixwv KuWippoov v6wp 
Tioaai rrepav, irpiv y' £>j(r] idcov eg KaXa peeOpa, 
ILeipas vixpanei'os noXvrjpaTco vSari Xevkm, 
'Of -KorapLOv 6ia6r], KaKOTiqri Se x^^^Pi^S avnrros 
T(oo£ ^£01 v£iJL£acjai, Kai a}^yea Sojkup onicaoi. 

Hesiod. 
Whene'er thy feet the river ford essay, 
Whose flowing current winds its limpid way, 
Thy hands amid the pleasant waters lave ; 
And lowly gazing on the heauteous wave, 
Appease tlie River God : if thou perverse 
Pass with unsprinkled hands, a heavy curse 
Shall rest upon thee from the observant skies, 
And after-woes retributive arise. Elton. 

f Oft though Wisdom wake. Suspicion sleeps 
At Wisdom's gate, and to Simplicity 
Resigns her charge, while Goodness thinks no ill 
Where no ill seems. Milton. 



HYMN TO THE PENATES. 



157 



And calls to mind the comforts of his home, 
And sighs that he has left them, and resolves 
To stray no more : I on my way of life 
Muse thus, Penates, and with firmest faith 
Devote myself to you. I will not quit. 
To mingle with the crowd, your calm abodes, 
Where by the evening hearth Contentment sits 
And hears the cricket chirp ; where Love delights 
To dwell, and on your altars lays his torch, 
That burns with no extinguishable flame. 

Hear me, ye Powers benignant ! there is one 
Must be mine inmate, — for I may not choose 
But love him. He is one whom many wrongs 
Have sicken'd of the world. There was a time 
When he would weep to hear of wickedness, 
And wonder at the tale ; when for the oppress'd 
He felt a brother's pity, to the oppressor 
A good man's honest anger. His qviick eye 
Betray'd each rising feeling; every thought 
Leap'd to his tongue. When first among mankind 
He mingled, by himself he judged of them. 
And loved and trusted them, to Wisdom deaf. 
And took them to his bosom. Falsehood met 
Her unsuspecting victim, fair of front, 
And lovely as Apega's* sculptured form. 
Like that false image caught his warm embrace, 
And pierced his open breast. The reptile race 
Clung round his bosom, and with viper folds 
Encircling, stung the fool who foster'd them. 
His mother was Simplicity, his sire 
Benevolence ; in earlier days he bore 
His father's name ; the world who injured him 
Call him Misanthropy. I may not choose 
But love him, Household Gods ! for we grew up 
Together, and in the same school were bred. 
And our poor fortunes the same course have held, 
Up to this hour. 

Penates ! some there are 
Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell. 
Gazing with eye remote on all the ways 
Of man, his Guardian Gods ; wiselier they deem 
A dearer interest to the human race 
Links you, yourselves the Spirits of the Dead. 
No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world, 
No light of human reason penetrate 
The depths where Truth lies hid. Yet to this faith 
My heart with instant sympathy assents ; 
And I would judge all systems and all faiths 
By that best touchstone, from whose test Deceit 
Shrinks like the Arch-Fiend at Ithuriel's spear; 
And Sophistry's gay, glittering bubble bursts, 
As at the spousals of the Nereid's son. 
When that false Florimcl,t with her prototype 
Set side by side, in her unreal charms, 
Dissolved away. 

* One of the ways and means of the tyrant Nabis. If one 
of his subjects refused to lend him money, he commanded him 
to embrace his Apega — the statue of a beautiful woman, so 
formed as to clasp the victim to her breast^ in which a pointed 
dagger was concealed. 

I Then did he set her by that snowy one, 
Like the true saint beside the image set, 
Of both their beauties to make paragons 
And trial whether should the honor get j 



Nor can the halls of Heaven 
Give to the human soul such kindred joy. 
As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels, 
When with the breeze it dwells around the brow 
Of one beloved on earth ; or when at night 
In dreams it comes, and brings with it the Days 
And Joys that are no more ; or when, perchance 
With power permitted to alleviate ill 
And fit the sufferer for the coming woe. 
Some strange presage the Spirit breathes, and fills 
The breast with ominous fear, preparing it 
For sorrow, pours into the afllicted heart 
The balm of resignation, and inspires 
With heavenly hope. Even as a child delights 
To visit day by day the favorite plant 
His hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth, 
And watch all-anxious for the promised flower ; 
Tlius to the blessed spirit in innocence 
And pure affections like a little child. 
Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends 
Beloved ; then sweetest, if, as duty prompts, 
With earthly care we in their breasts have sown 
The seeds of Truth and Virtue, holy flowers 
Whose odor reacheth Pleaven. 

When my sick Heart 
(Sick* with hope long delay 'd, than which no 

care 
Weighs on the spirit heavier) from itself 
Seeks the best comfort, often have I deem'd 
That thou didst witness every inmost thought, 
Seward! my dear, dead friend! For not in 

vain, 
O early summon'd on thy heavenly course, 
Was thy brief sojourn here ; me didst thou leave 
With strengthcn'd step to follow the right path, 
Till we shall meet again. Meantime 1 soothe 
The deep regret of nature, with belief, 
O Edmund ! that thine eye's celestial ken 
Pervades me now, marking with no mean joy 
The movements of the heart that loved thee well ! 

Such feelings Nature prompts, and hence your 
rites. 
Domestic Gods ! arose. When for his son 
With ceaseless grief Syrophanes bewail'd. 
Mourning his age left childless, and his wealth 
Heap"d for an alien, he with obstinate eye 
Still on the imaged marble of the dead 
Dwelt, pampering sorrow. Thither from his wrath, 
A safe asylum, fled the offending slave. 
And garlanded the statue, and implored 
His young lost lord to save. Remembrance then 
Soften'd the father, and he loved to see 
The votive w^reath renew'd, and the rich smoke 
Curl from the costly censer slow and sweet. 
From Egypt soon the sorrow-soothing rites 



Streightway so soone as both together met, 
The enchaunted damsell vanish'd into nought ; 

Her snowy substance melted as with heat ; 
Ne of that goodly hew remayned ought 
But the empty girdle which about her wast was wrought. 

Spenser. 
* Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. —Proverbs. 
QiicL non gravior mortalibus add'ita cicra, 
Spes ubi longa venit. Statu;!. 



158 



PREFACE TO MINOR POEMS, VOL. II 



Divulging spread ; before your idol forms * 
By every hearth the blinded Pagan knelt, 
Pouring his prayers to these, and offering there 
Vain sacrifice or impious, and sometimes 
With human blood your sanctuary defiled. 
Till the first Brutus, tyrant-conquering chief, 
Arose : he first the impious rites put down, 
He fitliest, who for Freedom lived and died. 
The friend of human-kind. Then did your feasts 
Frequent recur and blameless ; and when came 
The solemn festival,! Avhose happiest rites 
Emblem'd Equality, tlie holiest truth. 
Crown' d with gay garlands were your statues seen ; 
To you the fragrant censer smoked ; to you 
The rich libation flowed : vain sacrifice ! 
For not the poppy wreath, nor fruits, nor wine 
Ye ask, Penates ! nor the altar cleansed 
With many a mystic form; ye ask the heart 
Made pure, and by domestic Peace and Love 
JIallow'd to you. 

Hearken your hymn of praise, 
Penates ! to your shrines I come for rest, 
There only to be found. Often at eve. 
As in my wanderings I have seen far off 
Some lonely light that spake of comfort there, 
It told my heart of many a joy of home. 
When I was homeless. Often, as I gazed 
From some high eminence on goodly vales, 
And cots, and villages embower'd below, 
The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot 
Where my tired mind might rest, and call it Home. 
There is a magic in that little word : 
It is a mystic circle that surrounds 

* It is not certainly known under what form the Penates 
were worshipped; according to some, as wooden or brazen 
rods shaped like trumpets ; according to others, they were 
represented as young men. 

t The Saturnalia. 



Comforts and virtues never known beyond 
The hallowed limit. Often has my heart 
Ached for that quiet haven ! Haven'd now, 
I think of those in this world's wilderness 
Who wander on and find no home of rest 
Till to the grave they go : them Poverty, 
Hollow-eyed fiend, the child of Wealth and Power, 
Bad offspring of worse parents, aye afl[licts. 
Cankering with her foul mildews the chill'd 

heart ; — 
Them Want with scorpion scourge drives to the den 
Of Guilt ; — them Slaughter for the price of death 
Throws to her raven brood. Oh, not on them, — 
God of eternal Justice ! not on them 
Let fall thy thunder ! 

Household Deities ! 
Then only shall be Happiness on earth 
When man shall feel your sacred power, and love 
Your tranquil joys ; then shall the city stand 
A huge void sepulchre, and on the site 
Where fortresses and palaces have stood. 
The olive grow, there shall the Tree of Peace 
Strike its roots deep and flourish. This the state 
Shall bless the race redeem'd of Man, when Wealth, 
And Power, and all their hideous progeny 
Shall sink annihilate, and all mankind 
Live in the equal brotherhood of love. 
Heart-calming hope, and sure ! for hitherward 
Tend all the tumults of the troubled world, 
Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickedness 
Alike ; — so He hatli will'd, whose will is just. 

Meantime, all hoping and expecting all 
In patient faith, to you, Domestic Gods ! 
Studious of other lore than song, I come. 
Yet shall my Heart remember the past years 
With honest pride, trusting that not in vain 
Lives the pure song of Liberty and Truth. 

Bristol, 1796. 



VOL. II. 



Que fol ou que sage on m^&stime, 

Et que je soi^ Poete ou non, 
Toutefois si j^aime la rime, 

J'aime beaucoup mieux la raison. 

Jean du Nesme. 



PREFACE. 

In a former Preface my obligations to Akenside 
were acknowledged, with especial reference to the 
Hymn to the Penates ; the earliest of my Inscrip- 
tions also originated in the pleasure with which 
I perused those of this favorite author. Others 
of a later date bear a nearer resemblance to the 



general character of Chiabrera's epitaphs. Those 
which relate to the Peninsular War are part of a 
series which I once hoped to have completed. The 
epitaph for Bishop Butler was originally composed 
in the lapidary style, to suit the monument in 
Bristol Cathedral : it has been remodelled here, 
that I might express myself more at length, and 
in a style more accordant with my own judgment. 



PREFACE TO MINOR POEMS, VOL. II. 



159 



One thing remains to be explained, and I shall 
then have said all that it becomes me to say con- 
cerning these Minor Poems. 

It was stated in some of the newspapers that 
Walter Scott and myself became competitors for 
the Poet-Laureateship upon the death of Mr. Pye ; 
that we met accidentally at the Prince Regent's 
levee, each in pursuit of his pretensions, and that 
some words which were not over-courteous on 
either side passed between us on the occasion ; 
— to such impudent fabrications will those persons 
resort who make it their business to pander for 
public curiosity. The circumstances relating to 
that appointment have been made known in Mr. 
Lockhart's Life of Sir Walter. His conduct was, 
as it always was, characteristically generous, and 
in the highest degree friendly. Indeed, it was 
neither in his nature nor in mine to place ourselves 
in competition with any one, or ever to regard a 
contemporary as a rival. The world was wide 
enough for us all. 

Upon his declining the office, and using his 
influence, without my knowledge, to obtain it for 
me, his biographer says,* " Mr. Southey was in- 
vited to accept the vacant laurel ; and to the honor 
of the Prince Regent, when he signified that his 
acceptance must depend on the office being thence- 
forth so modified as to demand none of the old 
formal odes, leaving it to the Poet-Laureate to 
choose his own time for celebrating any great 
public event that might occur, his Royal Highness 
had the good sense and good taste at once to 
acquiesce in the propriety of this alteration. The 
office was thus relieved from the burden of ridicule 
which had, in spite of so many illustrious names, 
adhered to it." The alteration, however, was not 
brought about exactly in this manner. 

I was on the way to London when the corre- 
spondence upon this subject between Sir Walter 
Scott and Mr. Croker took place : a letter from 
Scott followed me thither, and on my arrival in 
town I was informed of what had been done. No 
wish for the Laureateship had passed across my 
mind, nor had I ever dreamt that it would be pro- 
posed to me. My first impulse was to decline it; 
not from any fear of ridicule, still less of obloquy, 
but because I had ceased for several years to write 
occasional verses: the inclination had departed; 
and though willing as a bee to work from morn 
till night in collecting honey, I had a great dislike 
to spinning like a spider. Other considerations 
overcame this reluctance, and made it my duty to 
accept the appointment. I then expressed a wish 
to Mr. Croker that it might be placed upon a foot- 
ing which would exact from the holder nothing 
like a school-boy's task, but leave him at liberty to 
write when, and in what manner, he thought best, 
and thus- render the office as honorable as it was 
originally designed to be. Upon this, Mr. Croker, 
whose friendliness to me upon every occasion I 
gladly take this opportunity of acknowledging, ob- 
served that it was not for us to make terms with 
the Prince Regent. "Go you," said he, "and 

* Vol. iii. p. 81. 



write your Ode for the New Year. You can never 
have a better subject than the present state of the 
war affiards you." He added that some fit time 
might be found for representing the matter to the 
Prince in its proper light. 

My appointment had no sooner been made 
known, than I received a note with Sir William 
Parsons's compliments, requesting that I would let 
him have the Ode as soon as possible, Mr. Pye 
having always provided him with it six weeks 
before the New Year's Day. I was not wanting 
in punctuality ; nevertheless, it v/as a great trouble 
to Sir Williazn that the office should have been 
conferred upon a poet who did not walk in the 
ways of his predecessor, and do according to all 
things that he had done ; for Mr. Pye had written 
his odes always in regular stanzas and in rhyme. 
Poor Sir William, though he had not fallen upon 
evil tongues and evil times, thought he had fallen 
upon evil ears when he was to set verses like mine 
to music. 

But the labor which the Chief Musician be- 
stowed upon the verses of the Chief Poet was so 
much labor lost. The performance of the Annual 
Odes had been suspended from the time of the 
King's illness, in 1810. Under the circumstances 
of his malady, any festal celebration of the birth- 
day would have been a violation of natural feeling 
and public propriety. On those occasions it was 
certain that nothing would be expected from me 
during the life of George III. But the New Year's 
performance might perhaps be called for, and for 
that, therefore, I always prepared. Upon the 
accession of George IV. I made ready an Ode for 
St. George's Day, which Mr. Shield, who was 
much better satisfied with his yoke-fellow than Sir 
William had been, thought happily suited for his 
purpose. It was indeed well suited for us both. 
All my other Odes related to the circumstances of 
the passing times, and could have been appropri- 
ately performed only when they were composed ; 
but this was a standing subject, and, till this should 
be called for, it was needless to provide any thing 
else. The annual performance had, however, by 
this time fallen completely into disuse ; and thus 
terminated a custom which may truly be said to 
have been more honored in the breach than in the 
observance. 

Kesicick, Dec. \1, 1837. 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



The followini!: Eclogues, I believe, bear no resemblance to 
any poems in our language. This species of composition 
has become popular in Germany, and 1 was induced to 
attempt it by what was told me of the German Idyls by my 
friend Mr. William Taylor of Norwich. So far, therefore, 
these pieces may be deemed imitations, though 1 am not 
acquainted with the German language at present, and have 
never seen any translations or specimens in this kind. 

With bad Eclogues I am sufficiently acquainted, from Tityrus 
and Corydon down to our English Strephons and Thirsisses. 
No kind of poetry can boast of more illustrious names, or is 



160 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



more distinguished by the servile dulness of imitated non- 
sense. Pastoral writers, " more silly than their sheep," 
have, like their sheep, gone on in the same track one after 
another. Gay struck into a new path His eclogues were 
the only ones which interested me when I was a boy, and 
did not know they were burlesque. The subject would 
furnish matter for an essay, but this is not the place for it. 
1799. 



THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE. 

STRANGER. 

Old friend ! why, you seem bent on parish duty, 
Breaking the highway stones, — and 'tis a task 
Somewhat too hard, methinks, for age like yours ! 

OLD BIAN. 

Why, yes ! for one with such a weight of years 
Upon his back ! — I 've lived here, man and boy, 
In this same parish, well nigh the full age 
Of man, being hard upon threescore and ten. 
I can remember, sixty years ago. 
The beautifying of this mansion here, 
When my late Lady's father, the old Squire, 
Came to the estate. 

STRANGER. 

Why, then you have outlasted 
All his improvements, for you see they're making 
Great alterations here. 

OLD MAN. 

Ay — great indeed ! 
And if my poor old Lady could rise up — 
God rest her soul ! — 'twould grieve her to behold 
What wicked work is here. 

STRANGER. 

They've set about it 
In right good earnest. All the front is gone ; 
Here's to be turf, they tell me, and a road [too 
Round to the door. There were some yew trees 
Stood in the court — 

OLD MAN. 

Ay, Master ! fine old trees ! 
Lord bless us ! I have heard my father say 
His grandfather could just remember back 
When they were planted there. It was my task 
To keep them trimm'd, and 'twas a pleasure to me ; 
All straight and smooth, and like a great green 

wall ! 
My poor old lady many a time would come 
And tell me where to clip, for she had play'd 
In childhood under them, and 'twas her pride 
To keep them in their beauty. Plague, I say. 
On their new-fangled whimseys ! we shall have 
A modern shrubbery here stuck full of firs 
And your pert poplar-trees; — I could as soon 
Have plough'd my father's grave as cut them down ! 

STRANGER. 

But 'twill be lighter and more cheerful now ; 
A fine smooth turf, and with a carriage road 



That sweeps conveniently from gate to gate. 
I like a shrubbery too, for it looks fresh ; 
And then there's some variety about it. 
In spring the lilac, and the snow-ball flower, 
And the laburnum with its golden strings 
Waving in the wind ; and when the autumn comes, 
The bright red berries of the mountain-ash. 
With pines enough in winter to look green. 
And show that something lives. Sure this is better 
Than a great hedge of ycAV, making it look 
All the year round like winter, and forever 
Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under 
Wither'd and bare. [boughs, 

OLD MAN. 

Ay ! so the new Squire thinks j 
And pretty work he makes of it ! What 'tis 
To have a stranger come to an old house ' 

STRANGER. 

It seems you know him not .' 



No, Sir, not I. 
They tell me he's expected daily now ; 
But in my Lady's time he never came 
But once, for they were very distant kin. 
If he had play'd about here when a child 
In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, 
And sate in the porch, threading the jessamine 

flowers. 
Which fell so thick, he had not had the heart 
To mar all thus ! 



STRANGER. 

Come ! come 
Those old dark windows — 



all is not wrong j 



OLD MAN. 

They're demolish'd too, — 
As if he could not see through casement glass • 
The very red-breasts, that so regular 
Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, 
Won't know the windows now ! 

STRANGER. 

Nay, they were small, 
And then so darken'd round with jessamine. 
Harboring the vermin ; — yet I could have wish'd 
That jessamine had been saved, which canopied, 
And bower'd, and lined the porch. 

OLD MAN. 

It did one good 
To pass within ten yards, when 'twas in blossom. 
There was a sweet-brier, too, that grew beside ; 
My Lady loved at evening to sit there 
And knit ; and her old dog lay at her feet 
And slept in the sun; 'twas an old favorite dog, — 
She did not love him less that he was old 
And feeble, and he always had a place 
By the fire-side : and when he died at last. 
She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. 
For she was good to all ! a woful day 
'Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



161 



STRANGER. 

They lost a friend then ? 

OLD MAN. 

You're a stranger here, 
Or you wouldn't ask that question. Were they 

sick ? 
She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs 
She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter, 
Wlien weekly she distributed the bread 
In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear 
The blessings on her ! and I warrant them 
They were a blessing to her when her wealth 
Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir ! 
It would have warm'd your heart if you had seen 
Her Christmas kitchen, — how the blazing fire 
Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs 
So cheerful red, — and as for mistletoe, — 
The finest bush that grew in the country round 
Was mark'd for Madam. Then her old ale went 
So bountiful about ! a Christmas cask. 
And 'twas a noble one ! — God help me, Sir ! 
But I shall never see such days again. 

STRANGER. 

Things may be better yet than you suppose, 
And you should hope the best. 

OLD MAN. 

It don't look well, — 
These alterations. Sir ! I'm an old man, 
And love the good old fashions; we don't find 
Old bounty in new houses. They've destroyd 
All that my Lady loved ; her favorite walk 
Grubb'd up, — and they do say that the great row 
Of elms behind the house, which meet a-top, 
They must fall too. Well ! well ! I did not tliink 
To live to see all this, and 'tis perhaps 
A comfort I shan't live to see it long. 

STRANGER. 

But sure all changes are not needs for the worse, 
JNIy friend.^ 

OLD MAN. 

Mayhap they mayn't. Sir; — for all that, 
I like what I've been used to. I remember 
All this from a child up ; and now to lose it, 
'Tis losing an old friend. There's nothing left 
As 'twas; — 1 go abroad, and only meet 
With men whose fathers I remember boys ; 
The brook that used to run before my door, 
That's gone to the great pond ; the trees I learnt 
To climb are down ; and I see nothing now 
That tells me of old times, — except the stones 
In the churchyard. You are young, Sir, and I 

hope 
Have many years in store, — but pray to God 
You mayn't be left the last of all your friends. 

STRANGER. 

Well ! well ! you've one friend more than you're 

aware of. 
If the Squire's taste don't suit with yours, I warrant 
21 



That's all you'll quarrel with : walk in and taste 
His beer, old friend ! and see if your old Lady 
E'er broach'd a better cask. You did not know me, 
But we're acquainted now. 'Twould not be easy 
To make you like the outside ; but within. 
That is not changed, my friend ! you'll always find 
The same old bounty and old welcome there. 

Westbury, 1798 



II. 



THE GRANDMOTHER'S TALE. 

JANE. 

Harry ! I'm tired of playing. We'll draw round 
The fire, and Grandmamma, perhaps, will tell us 
One of her stories. 



Ay — dear Grandmamma I 
A pretty story ! something dismal now ; 
A bloody murder. 



Or about a ghost. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Nay, nay, I should but frighten ye. You know 
The other night, when I was telling ye [bled 

About the light in the churchyard, how you trem- 
Because the screech-owl hooted at the window, 
And would not go to bed. 



Why, Grandmamma, 
You said yourself you did not like to hear him. 
Pray now ! — we won't be frightened. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Well, well, children ! 
But you've heard all my stories. — Let me see, — 
Did I never tell you how the smuggler murder'd 
The woman down at Pill .? 



No — never! never! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Not how he cut her head off in the stable .'' 



Oh — now 



HARRY. 

do tell us that ! 



GRANDMOTHER. 

You must have heard 
Your mother, children ! often tell of her. 
She used to weed in the garden here, and worm 
Your uncle's dogs,* and serve the house with coal ; 

* I know not whether this cruel and stupid custom is com- 
mon in other parts of England. It is supposed to prevent the 
dogs from doing any mischief, should they afterwards become 
mad. 



162 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



And glad enough she was in winter time 

To drive her asses here ! It was cold work 

To follow the slow beasts through sleet and snow ; 

And here she found a comfortable meal, 

And a brave fire to thaw her ; for poor Moll 

Was always welcome. 



Oh ! 'twas blear-eyed Moll, 
The collier woman, — a great, ugly woman ; 
I've heard of her. 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Ugly enough, poor soul ! 
At ten yards' distance, you could hardly tell 
If it were man or woman, for her voice 
Was rough as our old mastiff's, and she wore 
A man's old coat and hat : — and then her face ! 
There was a merry story told of her. 
How, when the press-gang came to take her husband. 
As they were both in bed, she heard them coming, 
Dress'd John up in her night-cap, and herself 
Put on his clothes, and went before the captain. 

JANE. 

And so they press'd a woman ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

'Twas a trick 
She dearly loved to tell ; and all the country 
Soon knew the jest, for she was used to travel 
For miles around. All weathers and all hours 
She cross'd the hill, as hardy as her beasts. 
Bearing the wind, and rain, and drifting snow. 
And if she did not reach her home at night. 
She laid her down in the stable with her asses, 
And slept as sound as they did. 



With her asses ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Yes ; and she loved her beasts. For though, poor 

wretch, 
She was a terrible reprobate, and swore 
Like any trooper, she was always good 
To the dumb creatures ; never loaded them 
Beyond their strength; and rather, I believe, 
Would stint herself than let the poor beasts want, 
Because, she said, they could not ask for food. 
I never saw her stick fall heavier on them 
Than just with its own weight. She little thought 
This tender-heartedness would cause her death ! 
There was a fellow who had oftentimes, 
As if he took delight in cruelty, 
111 used her beasts. He was a man who lived 
By smuggling, and, — for she had often met him. 
Crossing the down at night, — she threaten'd him. 
If ever he abused them more, to inform 
Of his unlawful ways. Well — so it was — 
'Twas what they both were born to ! he provoked 

her: 
She laid an information ; and one morning 
They found her in the stable, her throat cut 
From ear to ear, till the head only hung 
just Dy a bit of skin. 



JANE. 

Oh dear ! oh dear ' 

HARRY. 

I hope they hung the man ! 

GRANDMOTHER. 

They took him up; 
There was no proof; no one had seen the deed ; 
And he was set at liberty. But God, 
Whose eye beholdeth all things. He had seen 
The murder; and the murderer knew that God 
Was witness to his crime. He fled the place, — 
But nowhere could he fly the avenging hand 
Of Heaven, — but nowhere could the murderer 

rest ; — 
A guilty conscience haunted him ; by day, 
By night, in company, in solitude, 
Restless and wretched, did he bear upon him 
The Aveight of blood. Her cries were in his ears } 
Her stifled groans, as when he knelt upon her, 
Always he heard ; always he saw her stand 
Before his eyes ; even in the dead of night, 
Distinctly seen as though in the broad sun, 
She stood beside the murderer's bed, and yawn'd 
Her ghastly wound ; till life itself became 
A punishment at last he could not bear. 
And he confess'd it all, and gave himself 
To death ; so terrible, he said, it was 
To have a guilty conscience ! 



Was he hung, then ? 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Hung and anatomized. Poor wretched man ! 
Your uncles went to see him on his trial ; 
He was so pale, so thin, so hollow-eyed. 
And such a horror in his meagre face. 
They said he look'd like one who never slept. 
He begged the prayers of all who saw his end, 
And met his death with fears that well might warn 
From guilt, though not without a hope in Christ. 

Westbury, 1798. 



III. 
HANNAH. 



Passing across a green and lonely lane, 
A funeral met our view. It was not here 
A sight of every day, as in the streets 
Of some great city; and we stopp'd and ask'd 
Whom they were bearing to the grave. A girl. 
They answer'd, of the village, who had pined 
Through the long course of eighteen painful months, 
With such slow wasting, that the hour of death 
Came welcome to her. We pursued our way 
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk 
Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot, 
We wore away the time. But it was eve 
When homewardly I went, and in the air 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



163 



Was that cool freshness, that discoloring shade 
Which makes the eye turn inward : hearing then 
Over the vale the heavy toll of death 
Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead ; 
I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale. 

She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains, 
And he who should have cherish'd her, far off 
Sail'd on the seas. Left thus a wretched one, 
Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues 
Were busy with her name. She had to bear 
The sharper sorrow of neglect from him 
Whom she had loved too dearly. Once he wrote ; 
But only once that drop of comfort came 
To mingle with her cup of wretchedness ; 
And when his parents had some tidings from him, 
There was no mention of poor Hannah there, 
Or 'twas the cold inquiry, more unkind 
Than silence. So she pined and pined away, 
And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd; 
Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest 
From labor, knitting there with lifted arms. 
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother 
Omitted no kind office, working for her, 
Albeit her hardest labor barely earn'd 
Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong 
The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay 
On the sick bed of poverty, worn out 
With her long suffering and those painful thoughts 
Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, 
That she could make no effort to express 
Affection for her infant; and the child, 
Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, 
Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too 
Had grown indifferent to all things of earth, 
Finding her only comfort in the thought 
Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest. 
There had she now, in that last home, been laid, 
And all was over now, — sickness and grief, 
Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence, — 
Their work was done. The school-boys, as they 

sport 
In the churchyard, for awhile might turn aw^ay 
From the fresh grave till grass should cover it ; 
Nature would do that office soon ; and none 
Who trod upon the senseless turf would think 
Of what a world of woes lay buried there ! 

Burton, near Christ Church, 1797. 



IV. 



THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. 

WOMAN. 

Sir, for the love of God, some small relief 
To a poor woman ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Whither are you bound ? 
'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, 
No house for miles around us, and the way 
Dreary and wild. The evening wind already 



Makes one's teeth chatter; and the very Sun, 
Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, 
Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night ! 



Ay, Sir, 
'Tis cutting keen ! I smart at every breath ; 
Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, 
For the way is long before me, and my feet, 
God help me ! sore with travelling. I would gladly, 
If it pleased God, at once lie down and die. 

TRAVELLER. 

Nay, nay, cheer up ! a little food and rest 
Will comfort you ; and then your journey's end 
May make amends for all. You shake your head. 
And weep. Is it some mournful business then 
That leads you from your home .'' 



Sir, I am going 
To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt 
In the late action, and in the hospital 
Dying, I fear me, now. 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps your fears 
Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost, 
There may be still enough for comfort left ; 
An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart 
To keep life warm ; and he may live to talk 
With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, 
Proud of his loss. Old England's gratitude 
Makes the maim'd Sailor happy. 

W^OMAN. 

'Tis not that,— 
An arm or leg — I could have borne with that. 
It was no ball. Sir, but some cursed thing 
Which bursts* and burns, that hurt him. Some- 
thing, Sir, 
They do not use on board our English ships. 
It is so wicked ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Rascals ! a mean art 



Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain 



Yes, Sir ! and they should show no mercy to them 

For making use of such unchristian arms. 

I had a letter from the hospital ; 

He got some friend to write it ; and he tells me 

That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, 

Burnt out. Alas ! that I should ever live 

To see this wretched day ! — They tell me. Sir, 

There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed 



* The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the 
engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, aonae of our 
sailors were shockingly mangled by them : one, in particular, 
as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be 
right and humane to employ means of destruction, could they 
be discovered, powerful enough to destroy fleets and armies , 
but to use any thing that only inflicts additional torture upon 
the sufferers in war, is altogether wicked. 



164 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



Tis a hard journey that I go upon 
To such a dismal end ! 

TRAVELLER. 

He yet may live. 
But if the worst should chance, why, you must 

bear 
The will of Heaven with patience. Were it not 
Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen 
Fighting his country's cause ? and for yourself, 
You will not in unpitied poverty 
Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country, 
Amid the triumph of her victory, 
Remembers those who paid its price of blood, 
And with a noble charity relieves 
The widow and the orphan. 



God reward them 
God bless them ! It will help me in my age,— 
But, Sir ! it will not pay me for my child ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Was he your only child ? 



My only one, 
The stay and comfort of my widowhood, 
A dear, good boy ! — When first he went to sea, 
I felt what it would come to, — something told me 
I should be childless soon. But tell me, Sir, 
If it be true that for a hurt like his 
There is no cure. Please God to spare his life. 
Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful ! 
1 can remember there was a blind man 
Lived in our village, one from his youth up 
Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man ; 
And he had none to tend on him so well 
As I would tend my boy ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Of this be sure — 
His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help 
The land affords, as rightly is his due, 
Ever at hand. How happen'd it he left you ? 
Was a seafaring life his early choice .'' 

WOMAN. 

No, Sir! poor fellow, — he was wise enough 

To be content at home, and 'twas a home 

As comfortable. Sir ! even though I say it. 

As any in the country. He Avas left 

A little boy when his poor father died. 

Just old enough to totter by himself. 

And call his mother's name. We two were all. 

And as we were not left quite destitute. 

We bore up well. In the summer time I work'd 

Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting ; 

And in long winter nights my spinning-wheel 

Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbors too, 

And never felt distress. So he grew up 

A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed. 

I taught him well; there was not in the parish 



A child who said his prayers more regular, 
Or answered readier through his Catechism. 
If I had foreseen this ! but 'tis a blessing 
We don't know what we're born to ! 



TRAVELLER. 



But how came it 



He chose to be a Sailor ? 



You shall hear. Sir. 
As he grew up, he used to watch the birds 
In the corn, — child's work, you know, and easily 

done. 
'Tis an idle sort of task; so he built up 
A little hut of wicker-work and clay 
Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain ; 
And then he took, for very idleness. 
To making traps to catch the plunderers ; 
All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make, — 
Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, 
Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe 
Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly — 
And I, poor foolish woman ! I was pleased 
To see the boy so handy. You may guess 
What follow 'd, Sir, from this unlucky skill. 
He did what he should not when he was older : 
I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught 
In wiring hares at last, and had his choice, 
The prison or the ship. 

TRAVELLER. 

The choice at least 
Was kindly left him ; and for broken laws 
This was, metliinks, no heavy punishment. 

WOMAN. 

So I was told, Sir. And I tried to think so ; 
But 'twas a sad blow to me ! I was used 
To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child ; — 
Now, if the wind blcAV rough, it made me start, 
And think of my poor boy tossing about 
Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd 
To feel that it was hard to take him from me 
For such a little fault. But he was wrong. 
Oh, very wrong, — a murrain on his traps ! 
See what they've brought him to ! 

TRAVELLER. 

Well ! well ! take comfort. 
He will be taken care of, if he lives ; 
And should you lose your child, this is a country 
Where the brave Sailor never leaves a parent 
To weep for him in want. 



WOMAN. 

Sir, I shall want 
No succor long. In the common course of years 
I soon must be at rest ; and 'tis a comfort, 
When grief is hard upon me, to reflect 
It only leads me to that rest the sooner. 

Westbury, 1798. 



i 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



165 



THE WITCH. 

NATHANIEL. 

Father ! here, father ! I have found a horse-shoe ! 
Faith, it was just in time ; for t'other night 
I laid two straws across at Margery's door; 
And ever since I fear'd that she might do me 
A mischief for't. There was tlie Miller's boy. 
Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, — 
I met him upon crutches, and he told me 
'Twas all her evil eye. 

FATHER. 

'Tis rare good luck ! 
I would have gladly given a crown for one, [it.' 
If 'twould have done as well. But where didst find 

NATHANIEL. 

Down on the common; I was going a-field, 
And neighbor Saunders pass'd me on his mare ; 
He had hardly said " Good day," before I saw 
The shoe drop off. 'Twas just upon my tongue 
To call him back ; — it makes no difference, does it, 
Because I know whose 'twas .-* 

FATHER. 

Why, no, it can't. 
The shoe's the same, you know; and you did 
find it. 

NATHANIEL. 

That mare of his has got a plaguy road 

To travel, father ; — and if he should lame her, — 

For she is but tender-footed, — 

FATHER. 

Ay, indeed ! 
I should not like to see her limping back. 
Poor beast ! — But charity begins at home; 
And, Nat, there's our own horse in such a way 
This morning ! 

NATHANIEL. 

Why, he han't been rid again ! 
Last night I hung a pebble by the manger. 
With a hole through, and every body says 
That 'tis a special charm against the hags. 

FATHER. 

It could not be a proper, natural hole then. 
Or 'twas not aright pebble ; — for I found him 
Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb, 
And panting so ! Lord knows where he had been 
When we were all asleep, through bush and brake, 
Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch 
At such a deadly rate ! — 

NATHANIEL. 

By land and water, 
Over the sea, perhaps ! — I have heard tell 
'Tis many thousand miles off at the end 
Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. 
They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear 



Some ointment over them, and then away 
Out at the window ! but 'tis worse than all 
To worry the poor beast so. Shame upon it 
That in a Christian country they should let 
Such creatures live I 

FATHER. 

And when there's such plain proof! 
I did but threaten her because she robb'd 
Our hedge, and tlie next night there came a wind 
That made me shake to hear it in my bed. 
How came it that that storm unroof 'd my barn. 
And only mine in the parish? — Look at her. 
And that's enough ; she has it in her face ! — 
A pair of large, dead eyes, sunk in her head, 
Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles round; 
A nose and chin that scarce leave room between 
For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff; 
And when she speaks ! Id sooner hear a raven 
Croak at my door ! — She sits there, nose and knees, 
Smoke-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, 
With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes 
Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure 
It must be one of his imps 1 — Ay, nail it hard. 

NATHANIEL. 

I wish old Margery heard the hammer go ! 
She'd curse the music ! 

FATHER. 

Here's the Curate coming, 
He ought to rid the parish of such vermin ! 
In the old times they used to hunt them out, 
And hang them without mercy ; but. Lord bless us ! 
The world is grown so wicked ! 

CURATE. 

Good day, Farmer ■ 
Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold ? 

NATHANIEL. 

A horse-shoe. Sir; 'tis good to keep off witchcrafl 
And we're afraid of Margery. 



Poor old woman 



What can you fear from her ? 



FATHER. 

What can we fear ! 
Who lamed the Miller's boy 1 Avho raised the wind 
That blew my old barn's roof down.? who d'ye think 
Rides my poor horse a'nights? who mocks the 

hounds ? 
But let me catch her at that trick again. 
And I've a silver bullet ready for her. 
One that shall lame her, double how she will. 

NATHANIEL. 

What makes her sit tliere moping by herself. 
With no soul near her but that great black cat ? 
And do but look at her ! 



CURATE. 

Poor wretch 



half blind 



166 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



And crooked with her years, without a child 
Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed 
To have her very miseries made her crimes ! 
I met her but last week in that hard frost 
Which made my young limbs ache, and when I 

ask'd 
What brought her out in the snow, the poor old 

woman 
Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad 
And pick the hedges, just to keep herself 
From perishing with cold, — because no neighbor 
Had pity on her age ; and then she cried, 
And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, 
And wish'd that she were dead. 

FATHER, 

I wish she was ! 
She has plagued the parish long enough ! 

CURATE. 

Shame, Farmer ! 
Is that the charity your Bible teaches ? 

FATHER. 

My Bible does not teach me to love witches. 
I know what's charity ; who pays his tithes 
And poor-rates readier ,'' 

CURATE. 

Who can better do it ? 
You've been a prudent and industrious man, 
And God has blest your labor. 



Why, thank God, Sir, 
I've had no reason to complain of fortune. 

CURATE. 

Complain ? why, you are wealthy ! All the parish 
Look up to you. 

FATHER, 

Perhaps, Sir, I could tell 
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them. 

CURATE, 

You can afford a little to the poor ; 

And then, what's better still, you have the heart 

To give from your abundance. 



God forbid 



I should want charity 



Oh ! 'tis a comfort 
To think at last of riches well employ'd ! 
I have been by a death-bed, and know the worth 
Of a good deed at that most awful hour 
When riches profit not. 

Farmer, I'm going 
To visit Margery, She is sick, I hear ; — 
Old, poor, and sick ! a miserable lot ; 
And death will be a blessing. You might send her 
Some little matter, something comfortable, 



That she may go down easier to the grave, 
And bless you when she dies, 

FATHER, 

What ! is she going i 
Well, God forgive her then, if she has dealt 
In the black art ! I'll tell my dame of it, 
And she shall send her something. 



And take my thanks for hers. 



So I'll say ; 

[Goes. 



FATHER. 

That's a good man, 
That Curate, Nat, of ours, to go and visit 
The poor in sickness j but he don't believe 
In witchcraft, and that is not like a Christian. 

NATHANIEL. 

And so old Margery's dying ! 

FATHER. 

But you know 
She may recover : so drive t'other nail in. 

Westbury, 1798. 



VI. 



THE RUINED COTTAGE. 

Ay, Charles ! I knew that this would fix thine 

eye; — 
This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch. 
Its leaves j ust withering, yet one autumn flower 
Still fresh and fragrant ; and yon hollyhock 
That through the creeping weeds and nettles tall 
Peers taller, lifting, column-like, a stem 
Bright with its roseate blossoms, I have seen 
Many an old convent reverend in decay, 
And many a time have trod the castle courts 
And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike 
Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts 
As this poor cottage. Look ! its little hatch 
Fleeced with that gray and wintry moss ; the roof 
Part moulder'd in ; the rest o'ergrown with weeds. 
House-leek, and long thin grass, and greener moss ; 
So Nature steals on all the works of man j 
Sure conqueror she, reclaiming to herself 
His perishable piles, 

I led thee here, 
Charles, not without design ; for this hath been 
My favorite walk even since I was a boy; 
And I remember, Charles, this ruin here, 
The neatest comfortable dwelling-place ! 
That when I read in those dear books which first 
Woke in my heart the love of poesy. 
How with the villagers Erminia dwelt, 
And Calidore for a fair shepherdess 
Forsook his quest to learn the shepherd's lore. 
My fancy drew from this the little hut 
Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love, 
Or where the gentle Calidore at eve 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES 



167 



Led Pastorella home. Tlaere was not then 

A weed where all these nettles overtop 

The garden- wall ; but sweet-brier, scenting sweet 

The morning air ; rosemary and marjoram, 

All wholesome herbs ; and then, that woodbine 

wreathed 
So lavishly around the pillar'd porch 
Its fragrant jflowers, that when I past this way, 
After a truant absence hastening home, 
I could not choose but pass with slaoken'd speed 
By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed 
Is this poor cottage ! and its dwellers, Charles ! — 
Theirs is a simple, melancholy tale, — 
There's scarce a village but can fellow it: 
And yet, methinks, it will not weary thee. 
And should not be untold. 

A widow here 
Dwelt with an orphan grandchild : just removed 
Above the reach of pinching poverty. 
She lived on some small pittance, which sufficed, 
In better times, the needful calls of life, 
Not withoiit comfort. I remember her 
Sitting at evening in that open door-way. 
And spinning in the sun. Methinks I see her 
Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles 
To see the passer-by, yet ceasing not 
To twirl her lengthening thread ; or in the garden, 
On some dry summer evening, walking round 
To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd 
Upon the ivory handle of her stick, 
To some carnation whose o'erheavy head 
Needed support ; while with the watering-pot 
Joanna follow 'd, and refresh'd and trimm'd 
The drooping plant ; Joanna, her dear child, 
As lovely and as happy then as youth 
And innocence could make her. 

Charles, it seems 
As though I were a boy again, and all 
The mediate years, with their vicissitudes, 
A half- forgotten dream. 1 see the Maid 
So comely in her Sunday dress ! her hair. 
Her bright, brown hair, wreathed in contracting 

curls ; 
And then her cheek ! it was a red and white 

1 That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome. 
The countrymen, who on their way to church 

' Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear 
The bell's last summons, and in idleness 
Watching the stream below, would all look up 

I When she passed by. And her old Grandam, 
Charles, — 

j When I have heard some erring infidel 

j Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed, 

i Inspiring superstitious wretchedness, 
Her figure has recurr'd ; for she did love 

1 The Sabbath-day ; and many a time hath cross 'd 

j These fields in rain and through the winter snows. 
When I, a graceless boy, and cold of foot, 
Wishing the weary service at its end, [there, 

Have wonder'd wherefore that good dame came 
Who, if it pleased her, might have staid beside 
A comfortable fire. 

One only care 
Hung on her aged spirit. For herself, 
Her path was plain before her, and the close 



Of her long journey near. But then her child 
Soon to be left alone in this bad world, — 
That was a thought which many a winter night 
Had kept her sleepless ; and when prudent love 
In something better than a servant's state 
Had placed her well at last, it was a pang 
Like parting life to part with her dear girl. 

One summer, Charles, when at the holydays 
Return'd from school, I visited again 
My old, accustom'd walks, and found in them 
A joy almost like meeting an old friend, 
I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds 
Already crowding the neglected flowers. 
Joanna, by a villain's wiles seduced. 
Had play'd the wanton, and that blow had reach'd 
Her grandam's heart. She did not suffer long ; 
Her age was feeble, and this mortal grief 
Brought her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave> 

I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes, 
And think of other days. It wakes in me 
A transient sadness ; but the feelings, Charles, 
Which ever with these recollections rise, ^ 
I trust in God they will not pass awaj. 

IVestbunj, 1799, 



VII. 

THE LAST OF THE FAMILY. 

JAMES. 

What, Gregory, you are come, I see, to join up 
On this sad business. 

GREGORY. 

Ay, James, I am com« 
But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man ! 
Where shall we meet the corpse ,'' 

JAMES. 

Some hour from hence , 
By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. 
This is not as it should be, Gregory, 
Old men to follow young ones to the grave ! 
This morning, when I heard the bell strike out, 
I thought that I had never heard it toll 
So dismally before. 

GREGORY. 

Well, well ! my friend, 
'Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. 
But when a young man dies, in the prime of life 
One born so well, who might have blest us all 
Many long years I — 

JAMES. 

And then the family 
Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name 
Only to be remember' d on a tomb-stone ! 
A name that has gone down from sire to son 
So many generations ! — Many a time 



168 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



Poor master Edward, who is now a corpse, 

When but a chikl, would come to me and lead me 

To the great family -tree, and beg of me 

To tell him stories of his ancestors, 

Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land 

With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry 

Who fought at Cressy in King Edward's wars; 

And then his little eyes would kindle so 

To hear of their brave deeds ! I used to think 

The bravest of them all would not out-do 

My darling boy. 

GREGORY. 

This comes of your great schools 
And college-breeding. Plague upon his guardians. 
That would have made him wiser than his fathers ! 



If his poor father, Gregory, had but lived, 
Things would not have been so. He, poor good man, 
Had little of book-learning ; but there lived not 
A kinder, nobler-hearted gentleman, 
One better to his tenants. When he died 
There was not a dry eye for miles around. 
Gregory, I thought that I could never know 
A sadder day than that ; but what was that, 
Compared with this day's sorrow ? 

GREGORY. 

I remember, 
Eight months ago, when the young Squire began 
To alter the old mansion, they destroy 'd 
The martins' nests, that had stood undisturb'd 
Under that roof, — ay ! long before my memory. 
I shook my head at seeing it, and thought 
No good could follow. 

JAMES. 

Poor young man ! 1 loved him 
Like my own child. I loved the family ! 
Come Candlemas, and I have been their servant 
For five-and-forty years. I lived with them 
When his good father brought my Lady home ; 
And when the young Squire was born, it did me good 
To hear the bells so merrily announce 
An heir. This is indeed a heavy blow — 
I feel it, Gregory, heavier than the weight 
Of threescore years. He was a noble lad ; 
I loved him dearly. 



Every body loved him ; 
Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth ! 
When he came home from school at holydays, 
How I rejoiced to see him ! He was sure 
To come and ask of me what birds there were 
About my fields ; and when I found a covey, 
There's not a testy Squire preserves his game 
More charily, than I have kept them safe 
For Master Edward. And he look'd so well 
Upon a fine, sharp morning after them, 
His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd 
With such a wholesome ruddiness, — ah, James, 
But he was sadly changed when he came down 
To keep his birth-day. 



Changed ! why, Gregory, 
'Twas like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd 
Out of the carriage. He was grown so thin, 
His cheek so delicate sallow, and his eyes 
Had such a dim and rakish hollowness ; 
And when he came to shake me by the hand, 
And spoke as kindly to me as he used, 
I hardly knew the voice. 



It struck a damp 
On all our merriment. 'Twas a noble Ox 
That smoked before us, and the old October 
Went merrily in overflowing cans ; 
But 'twas a skin-deep merriment. My heart 
Seem'd as it took no share. And when we drank 
His health, the thought came over me what cause 
We had for wishing that, and spoilt the draught. 
Poor Gentleman ! to think, ten months ago 
He came of age, and now! — 

JABIES. 

I fear'd it then ! 
He look'd to me as one that was not long 
For this world's business. 

GREGORY. 

When the Doctor sent him 
Abroad to try the air, it made me certain 
That all was over. There's but little hope, 
Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man 
When his own mother-country will not do. 
The last time he came down, these bells rung so, 
I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple 

down; 
And now that dismal toll ! I would have staid 
Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty : 
I am an old tenant of the family, 
Born on the estate ; and now that I've outlived it, 
Why, 'tis but right to see it to the grave. 
Have you heard aught of the new Squire ? 

JAMES. 

But little, 
And that not well. But be he what he may, 
Matters not much to me. The love I bore 
To the old family will not easily fix 
Upon a stranger. What's on the opposite hill ? 
Is it not the funeral ? 

GREGORY. 

'Tis, I think, some horsemen. 
Ay ! there are the black cloaks; and now I see 
The white plumes on the hearse. 



Between the trees 



'Tis hid behind them now. 



GREGORY. 

Ay ! now we see it, 
And there's the coaches following ; we shall meet 
About the bridge. Would that this day were over ' 
I wonder whose turn's next. 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



169 



JAMES. 

God above knows. 
When youth is summon'd, what must age expect ! 
God make us ready, Gregory, when it comes ! 

Westbunj, 1799. 



VIIL 
THE WEDDING. 

TRAVELLER. 

I PRAY you, wherefore are the village bells 
Ringing so merrily ? 

WOMAN. 

A wedding. Sir, — 
Two of the village folk. And they are right 
To make a merry time on't while they may ! 
Come twelve-months hence, I warrant them 

they'd go 
To church again more willingly than now, 
If all might be undone. 

TRAVELLER. 

An ill-match 'd pair. 
So I conceive you. Youth perhaps and age ? 

WOMAN. 

No, — both are young enough. 

TRAVELLER. 

Perhaps the man, then, 
A lazy idler, — one who better likes 
The alehouse than his work ? 

WOMAN. 

Why, Sir, for that. 
He always was a well-condition'd lad. 
One who'd work hard and well ; and as for drink. 
Save now and then, mayhap, at Christmas time, 
Sober as wife could wish. 

TRAVELLER. 

Then is the girl 
A shrew, or else untidy; — one to welcome 
Her husband with a rude, unruly tongue, 
Or drive him from a foul and wretched home 
To look elsewhere for comfort. Is it so .'' 



She's notable enough ; and as for temper. 
The best good-humor'd girl ! You see yon house. 
There by the aspen-tree, whose gray leaves shine 
In the wind ? she lived a servant at the farm. 
And often, as I came to weeding here, 
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows 
So cheerfully. I did not like to hear her, 
Because it made me think upon the days 
When I had got as little on my mind, 
And was as cheerful too. But she would marry. 
And folks must reap as they have sown. God 
help her ! 

2S 



TRAVELLER. 

Why, Mistress, if they both are well inclined, 
Why should not both be happy ? 

WOMAN. 

They've no money. 

TRAVELLER. 

But both can work ; and sure as cheerfully 
She'd labor for herself as at the farm. 
And he won't work the worse because he knows 
That she will make his fire-side ready for him, 
And watch for his return. 



A little while. 



All very well, 



TRAVELLER. 

And what if they are poor .'' 
Riches can't always purchase happiness ; 
And much we know will be expected there 
Where much was given. 

WOMAN. 

All this I have heard at church ! 
And when I walk in the church-yard, or have 

been 
By a death-bed, 'tis mighty comforting. 
But when I hear my children cry for hunger. 
And see them shiver in their rags, — God help me ! 
I pity those for whom these bells ring up 
So merrily upon their wedding-day, 
Because I think of mine. 

TRAVELLER. 

You have known trouble ; 
These haply may be happier. 

WOMAN. 

Why, for that, 
I've had my share ; some sickness and some sorrow. 
Well will it be for them to know no worse. 
Yet I had rather hear a daughter's knell 
Than her wedding-peal. Sir, if I thought her fate 
Promised no better things. 

TRAVELLER. 

Sure, sure, good woman, 
You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes ! 
All have their cares } those who are poor want 

wealth ; 
They who have wealth want more ; so are we all 
Dissatisfied ; yet all live on, and each 
Has his own comforts. 

WOMAN. 

Sir ! d'ye see that horse 
Turn'd out to common here by the way-side ? 
He's high in bone ; you may tell every rib 
Even at this distance. Mind him ! how he turns 
His head, to drive away the flies that feed 
On his gall'd shoulder ! There's just grass enough 
To disappoint his whetted appetite. 
You see his comforts, Sir ! 



170 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



TRAVELLER, 

A wretched beast ! 
Hard labor and worse usage he endures 
From some bad master. But the lot of the poor 
Is not like his. 

WOMAN. 

In truth it is not, Sir ! 
For when the horse lies down at night, no cares 
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams : 
He knows no quarter-day ) and when he gets 
Some musty hay or patch of hedge-row grass, 
He has no hungry children to claim part 
Of his half-meal ! 

TRAVELLER. 

'Tis idleness makes want, 
And idle habits. If the man will go 
And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire, 
Whom can he blame if there be want at home "i 



Ay ! idleness ! the rich folks never fail 

To find some reason why the poor deserve 

Their miseries ! — Is it idleness, I pray you, 

That brings the fever or the ague fit .? 

That makes the sick one's sickly appetite 

From dry bread and potatoes turn away .-' 

Is it idleness that makes small wages fail 

For growing wants ? — Six years agone, these bells 

Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told 

What 1 might look for ; but I did not heed 

Good counsel. I had lived in service. Sir; 

Knew never what it was to want a meal ; 

Lay down without one thought to keep me sleepless. 

Or trouble me in sleep ; had for a Sunday 

My linen gown, and when the pedler came, 

Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband, — 

A towardly young man, and well to do, — 

He had his silver buckles and his watch ; 

There was not in the village one who look'd 

Sprucer on holydays. We married, Sir, 

And we had children ; but while wants increased, 

Wages stood still. The silver buckles went; 

So went the watch ; and when the holyday coat 

Was worn to work, no new* one in its place. 

For me — you see my rags ! but I deserve them, 

For wilfully, like this new-married pair, 

1 went to my undoing. 

TRAVELLER. 

But the parish — 

WOMAN. 

Ay, it falls heavy there ; and yet their pittance 

* A farmer once told the author of Malvern Hills, " that 
he almost constantly remarked a gradation of changes in 
those men he had been in the habit of employing. Young 
men, he said, were generally neat in their appearance, active 
and cheerful, till they became married and had a family, 
•when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles, and 
watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday clothes 
became common, without any other to supply their place, — 
iut, said he, some, good comes from this^for they will then work 
fur whatever they can get." 

Note to Cottle's Malvern Hills. 



Just serves to keep life in. A blessed prospect, 
To slave while there is strength ; in age the work- 
house ; 
A parish shell at last, and the little bell 
Toll'd hastily for a pauper's funeral ! 



TRAVELLER. 



Is this your child .'' 



Ay, Sir ; and were he dress'd 
And clean'd, he'd be as fine a boy to look on 
As the Squire's young master. These thin rags 

of his 
Let comfortably in the summer wind ; 
But when the winter comes, it pinches me 
To see the little wretch. I've three besides; 
And, — God forgive me ! but I often wish 
To see them in their coffins — God reward you! 
God bless you for your charity ! 

TRAVELLER. 

You have taught me 
To give sad meaning to the village bells ! 

Bristol, 1800. 



IX. 



THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL. 

STRANGER. 

Whom are they ushering from the world, with all 
This pageantry and long parade of death .^ 

TOWNSMAN. 

A long parade, indeed. Sir, and yet here 

You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches 

A furlong further, carriage behind carriage. 

STRANGER. 

'Tis but a mournful sight ; and yet the pomp 
Tempts me to stand a gazer. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Yonder schoolboy, 
Who plays the truant, says the proclamation 
Of peace was nothing to the show ; and even 
The chairing of the members at election 
Would not have been a finer sight than this ; 
Only that red and green are prettier colors 
Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold 
One of the red-gown'd worthies of the city, 
The envy and the boast of our exchange ; — 
Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half-million, 
Screw'd down in yonder hearse ! 

STRANGER, 

Then he was born 
Under a lucky planet, who to-day 
Puts mourning on for his inheritance. 

TOWNSMAN. 

When first I heard his death, that very wish 
Leap'd to my lips ; but now the closing scene 



ENGLISH ECLOGUES. 



171 



Of tlie comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts; 
And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave, 
There will not be the weight of wealth like his 
To sink me down. 

STRANGER. 

The camel and the needle, — 
Is that then in your mind .? 

TOWNSMAN. 

Even so. The text 
Is Gospel-wisdom. I would ride the camel, — 
Yea, leap him, flying, through the needle's eye, 
As easily as such a pamper'd soul 
Could pass the narrow gate. 

STRANGER. 

Your pardon, Sir, 
But sure this lack of Christian charity 
Looks not like Christian truth. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Your pardon too, Sir, 
If, with this text before me, I should feel 
In the preaching mood ! But for these barren fig- 
trees, 
With all their flourish and their leafiness, 
We have been told their destiny and use. 
When the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
Cumber the earth no longer. 

STRANGER. 

Was his wealth 
Stored fraudfully, — the spoil of orphans wrong'd. 
And widows who had none to plead their right.'' 

TOWNSMAN. 

All honest, open, honorable gains. 

Fair, legal interest, bonds and mortgages, 

Ships to the East and West. 



STRANGER. 



So hardly of the dead i 



Why judge you then 



TOWNSMAN. 

For what he left 
Undone ; — for sins, not one of which is written 
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him. 
Believed no other Gods than those of the Creed; 
Bow'd to no idols, but his money-bags; 
Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house; 
Kept the Sabbath idle ; built a monument 
To honor his dead father ; did no murder ; 
Never sustain'd an action for crim-con; 
Never pick'd pockets; never bore false witness ; 
And never, with that all-commanding wealth. 
Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass ! 

STRANGER. 

You knew him, then, it seems.' 

TOWNSMAN. 

As all men know 
The virtues of your hundred-thousanders ; 
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel. 



STRANGER. 

Nay, nay, uncharitable Sir ! for often 
Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen, 
Freshening and giving life along its course. 

TOWNSMAN. 

We track the streamlet by the brighter green 
And livelier growth it gives; — but as for this — 
This was a pool that stagnated and stunk ; 
The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it 
But slime and foul corruption. 

STRANGER. 

Yet even these 
Are reservoirs whence public charity 
Still keeps her channels full, 

TOWNSMAN. 

Now, Sir, you touch 
Upon the point. This man of half a million 
Had all these public virtues which you praise : 
But the poor man rung never at his door. 
And the old beggar, at the public gate. 
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand, 
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye 
To that liard face. Yet he was always found 
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
Your benefactors in the newspapers. 
His alms were money put to interest 
In the other world, — donations to keep open 
A running charity account with Heaven, — 
Retaining fees against the Last Assizes, 
When, for the trusted talents, strict account 
Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-Lawyer 
Plead his own cause as plaintiflT. 

STRANGER. 

I must needs 
Believe you, Sir: — these are your witnesses, 
These mourners here, who from their carriages 
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind 
Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes 
Some decent rheum ; the very hireling mute 
Bears not a face more blank of all emotion 
Than the old servant of the family ! 
How can this man have lived, that thus his death 
Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief.' 

TOWNSMAN. 

Who should lament for him. Sir, in whose heart 

Love had no place, nor natural charity ? 

The palor spaniel, when she heard his step. 

Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside 

With creeping pace ; she never raised her eyes 

To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 

Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. 

How could it be but thus .' Arithmetic 

Was the sole science he was ever taught; 

The multiplication-table was his Creed, 

His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue. 

When yet he was a boy, and should have breatheu 

The open air and sunshine of the fields. 

To give his blood its natural spring and play, 

He in a close and dusky counting-house 



172 



NONDESCRIPTS. 



Smoke-dried, and sear'd, and shrivell'd up his heart. 
So from the way in which he was train' d up 
His feet departed not ; he toil'd and moil'd, 
Poor muck- worm! through his threescore years 

and ten ; 
And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him, 
If that which served him for a soul were still 
Witliin its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt. 

STRANGER. 

Yet your next newspapers will blazon him 
For industry and honorable wealth 
A bright example. 

TOWNSMAN. 

Even half a million 
Gets him no other praise. But come this way 
Some twelve months hence, and you will find his 

virtues 
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines, 
Faith with her torch beside, and little Cupids 
Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. 

Bristol, 1803. 



NONDESCRIPTS 



WRITTEN THE WINTER AFTER THE 

INSTALLATION AT OXFORD. 1793. 

Toll on, toll on, old Bell ! I'll neither pass 

The cold and weary hour in heartless rites. 

Nor doze away the time. The fire burns bright; 

And, bless the maker of this Windsor-Chair ! 

(Of polish'd cherry, elbow'd, saddle-seated,) 

This is the throne of comfort. I will sit 

And study here devoutly; — not my Euclid, — 

For Heaven forbid that I should discompose 

That Spider's excellent geometry ! 

I'll study thee. Puss ! Not to make a picture; 

I hate your canvass cats, and dogs, and fools, 

Themes that disgrace the pencil. Thou shaltgive 

A moral subject, Puss. Come, look at me ; — 

Lift up thine emerald eyes I Ay, purr away ! 

For I am praising thee, 1 tell thee, Puss, 

And Cats as well as Kings like flattery. 

For three whole days I heard an old Fur-gown 

Bepraised, that made a Duke a Chancellor ; 

Bepraised in prose it was, bepraised in verse ; 

Lauded in pious Latin to the skies ; 

Kudos'd egregiously in heathen Greek; 

In Sapphics sweetly incensed ; glorified 

In proud alcaics ; in hexameters 

Applauded to the very Galleries, 

That did applaud again, whose thunder-claps, 

Higher and longer, with redoubling peals, 

Rung when they heard the illustrious furbelow'd 

Heroically in Popean rhyme 



Tee-ti-tum'd, in Miltonic blank bemouth'd ; 
Prose, verse, Greek, Latin, English, rhyme and 
Apotheosi-chancellor'd in all, [blank, 

Till Eulogy, with all her wealth of words, 
Grew bankrupt, all-too-prodigal of praise, 
And panting Panegyric toil'd in vain, 
O'er-task'd in keeping pace with such desert. 

Though I can poetize right willingly. 

Puss, on thy well-streak'd coat, to that Fur-gown 

I was not guilty of a single line : 

'Twas an old furbelow, that would hang loose, 

And wrap round any one, as it were made 

To fit him only, so it were but tied 

With a blue ribbon. 

What a power there is 
In beauty ! Within these forbidden walls 
Thou hast thy range at will, and when perchance 
The Fellows see thee. Puss, they overlook 
Inhibitory laws, or haply think 
The statute was not made for Cats like thee ; 
For thou art beautiful as ever Cat 
That wantoned in the joy of kittenhood. 
Ay, stretch thy claws, thou democratic beast, — 
I like thine independence. Treat thee well, 
Thou art as playful as young Innocence ; 
But if we act the governor, and break j 

The social compact. Nature gave those claws, ^ 

And taught thee how to use them. Man, methinks, - 
Master and slave alike, might learn from thee 
A salutary lesson : but the one 
Abuses wickedly his power unjust ; 
The other crouches, spaniel-like, and licks 
The hand that strikes him. Wiser animal, 
I look at thee, familiarized, yet free ; 
And, thinking that a child with gentle hand 
Leads by a string tlie large-limb'd Elephant, 
With mingled indignation and contempt 
Behold his drivers goad the biped beast 



II. 

SNUFF. 



A DELICATE pinch ! oh, how it tingles up 

The titillated nose, and fills the eyes 

And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze 

The full-collected pleasure bursts at last ! 

Most rare Columbus ! thou shalt be for this 

The only Christopher in my Calendar. 

Why, but for thee the uses of the Nose 

Were half unknown, and its capacity 

Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath, 

At midnoon glowing with the golden gorse, 

Bears its balsamic odor, but provokes. 

Not satisfies the sense ; and all the flowers, 

That with their unsubstantial fragance tempt 

And disappoint, bloom for so short a space, 

That half the year the Nostrils would keep Lent, 

But that the kind tobacconist admits 

No winter in his work ; when Nature sleeps. 

His wheels roll on, and still administer 

A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell. 



i 



NONDESCRIPTS. 



]73 



What are Peru and those Golcondan mines 
To thee, Virginia? Miserable realms, 
The produce of inhuman toil, they send 
Gold for the greedy, jewels for the vain. 
But thine are common comforts ! — To omit 
Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise, 
Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives, 
Europe, and far above Pizarro's name 
Write Raleigh in thy records of renown ! 
Him let the school-boy bless if he behold 
His master's box produced ; for when he sees 
The thumb and finger of Authority 
Stuff d up the nostrils; when hat, head, and wig 
Shake all ; when on the v/aistcoat black, brown dust, 
From the oft-reiterated pincli profuse 
Profusely scattered, lodges in its folds, 
And part on the magistral table lights, 
Part on the open book, soon blown away, — 
Full surely soon shall then the brow severe 
Relax ; and from vituperative lips 
Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise. 
And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed. 

Westbury, 1799. 



m. 



COOL REFLECTIONS 

DURING A MIDSUMMER WALK FROM AVARMINSTER 
TO SHAFTESBURY. 1799. 

O SPARE me — spare me, Phoebus! if indeed 

Thou hast not let another Phaeton 

Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car ; 

Mercy ! I melt ! I melt ! No tree, no bush. 

No shelter, not a breath of stirring air 

East, West, or North, or South ! Dear God of day. 

Put on thy nightcap; crop thy locks of light. 

And be in the fashion ; turn thy back upon us, 

And let thy beams flow upward ; make it night 

Instead of noon ; — one little miracle. 

In pity, gentle Phoebus ! 

What a joy. 
Oh what a joy, to be a seal and flounder 
On an ice island ! or to have a den 
With the white bear, cavern 'd in polar snow ! 
It were a comfort to shake hands with Death, — 
He has a rare cold hand ! — to wrap one's self 
In the gift shirt Dejanira sent, 
Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep 
The sun off; or toast cheese for Beelzebub, — 
That were a cool employment to this journey 
Along a road Avhose white intensity 
Would now make platina uncongealable 
Like quicksilver. 

Were it midnight, I should walk 
Self-lantern'd, saturate with sunbeams. Jove ! 
O gentle Jove ! have mercy, and once more 
Kick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven; 
Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roar 
For cardamum, and drink down peppermint, 
Making what's left as precious as Tokay ; 
Send Mercury to salivate the sky 



Till it dissolve in rain. O gentle Jove ! 
But some such little kindness to a wretch 
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat, — 
Who swells with calorique as if a Prester 
Had leaven'd every limb with poison-yeast; — 
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings 
And fan me, and I will build temples to thee, 
And turn true Pagan. 

Not a cloud nor breeze, — 

you most heathen Deities ! if ever 

My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them, 
It hath resolved itself into a dew,) 

1 shall have learnt owl- wisdom. Thou vile Phoebus, 
Set me a Persian sun-idolater 

Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him 

With no inquisitorial argument 

But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, w^retch, 

That I was in a heretic country born ! 

Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach. 

And burn away the calx of their offences 

In that great Purgatory crucible. 

Help me. O Jupiter ! my poor complexion 1 

I am made a copper-Indian of already ; 

And if no kindly cloud will parasol me. 

My very cellular membrane will be changed, — 

I shall be negrofied. 

A brook ! a brook ! 
O what a sweet, cool sound ! 

'Tis very nectar ! 
It runs like life through every strengthen'd limb ! 
Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer. 

1799. 



IV. 

THE PIG. 

A COLLOQUIAL POEM. 

Jacob ! I do not like to see thy nose 
Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder Pig. 
It would be well, my friend, if we, like him, 
Were perfect in our kind ! — And why despise 
The sow-born grunter .'' — He is obstinate, 
Thou ansvverest; ugly, and the filthiest beast 
That banquets upon offal. — Now, I pray you, 
Hear the Pig's Counsel. 

Is he obstinate .'' 
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words ; 
We must not take them as unheeding hands 
Receive base money at the current worth, 
But with a just suspicion try their sound. 
And in the even balance weigh them w^ell. 
See now to what this obstinacy comes ; 
A poor, mistreated, democratic beast. 
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek 
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt 
That Pigs were made for Man, — born to be brawn'd 
And baconized ; that he must please to give 
Just what his gracious masters please to take ; 
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave 
For self-defence, the general privilege; 
Perhaps, — hark, Jacob ! dost thou hear that horn .' 



174 



NONDESCRIPTS. 



Woe to the young posterity of Pork ! 
Their enemy is at hand. 

Again. Thou say'st 
The Pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him ! 
Those eyes have taught the Lover flattery. 
His face, — nay, Jacob, Jacob ! were it fair 
To judge a Lady in her dishabille .'' 
Fancy it dress'd, and with saltpetre rouged. 
Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that 
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse : 
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair 
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. 
And what is beauty, but the aptitude 
Of parts harmonious .? Give thy fancy scope, 
And thou wilt find that no imagined change 
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end 
The starry glories of the Peacock's pride, 
Give him the Swan's white breast; for his horn- 
hoofs 
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves 
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss 
When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose ; — 
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him ! 
All alteration man could think, would mar 
His Pig-perfection. 

The last charge, — he lives 
A dirty life. Here 1 could shelter him 
With noble and right-reverend precedents, 
And show by sanction of authority 
That 'tis a very honorable thing 
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest 
On better ground the unanswerable defence : 
The Pig is a philosopher, who knows 
No prejudice. Dirt ? — Jacob, what is dirt ? 
If matter, — why the delicate dish that tempts 
An o'ergorged Epicure to the last morsel 
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. 
If matter be not, but, as Sages say, 
Spirit is all, and all things visible 
Are one, the infinitely modified. 
Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mire 
Wherein he stands knee-deep ! 

And there ! the breeze 
Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile 
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossora'd field 
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. 

Westbury, 1799. 



THE DANCING BEAR. 

RECOMBIENDED TO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE 
SLAVE-TRADE. 

Rare music ! I would rather hear cat-courtship 

Under my bed-room window in the night, 

Than this scraped catgut's screak. Rare dancing 

too! 
Alas, poor Bruin ! How he foots the pole. 
And waddles round it with unwieldy steps. 
Swaying from side to side ! — The dancing-master 



Hath had as profitless a pupil in him 
As when he would have tortured my poor toes 
To minuet grace, and made them move like clock- 
In musical obedience. Bruin I Bruin ! [work 
Thou art but a clumsy biped ! — And the mob 
With noisy merriment mock his heavy pace, 
And laugh to see him led by the nose ! — themselves 
Led by the nose, embruted, and in the eye 
Of Reason from their nature's pm-poses 
As miserably perverted. 

Bruin-Bear ! 
Now could I sonnetize thy piteous plight, 
And prove how much my sympathetic heart 
Even for the miseries of a beast can feel, 
In fourteen lines of sensibility. 
But we are told all things were made for man ; 
And I'll be sworn there's not a fellow here 
Who would not swear 'twere hanging blasphemy 
To doubt that truth. Therefore, as thou wert born, 
Bruin ! for Man, and Man makes nothing of thee 
In any other way, — most logically 
It follows, thou wert born to make him sport ; 
That that great snout of thine was form'd on 

purpose 
To hold a ring ; and that thy fat was given thee 
For an approved pomatum ! 

To demur 
Were heresy. And politicians say 
(Wise men who in the scale of reason give 
No foolish feelings weight) that thou art here 
Far happier than thy brother Bears who roam 
O'er trackless snow for food ; that being born 
Inferior to thy leader, unto him 
Rightly belongs dominion ; that the compact 
Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet 
First fell into the snare, and he gave up 
His right to kill, conditioning thy life 
Should thenceforth be his property; — besides, 
'Tis wholesome for thy morals to be brought 
From savage climes into a civilized state, 
Into the decencies of Christendom — 
Bear ! Bear ! it passes in the Parliament 
For excellent logic, this ! What if we say 
How barbarously Man abuses power .'' 
Talk of thy baiting, it will be replied, 
Thy welfare is thy owner's interest, 
But were thou baited it would injure thee, 
Therefore thou art not baited. For seven years 
Hear it, O Heaven, and give ear, O Earth ! 
For seven long years this precious syllogism 
Hath baffled justice and humanity ! 

Westbury, 1799. 



VI. 

THE FILBERT. 

Nay, gather not that Filbert, Nicholas , 
There is a maggot there, — it is his house, 
His castle, — oh, commit not burglary ! 
Strip him not naked, — 'tis his clothes, his shell, 
His bones, the case and armor of his life. 
And thou shalt do no murder, Nicholas ! 



NONDESCRIPTS 



175 



It were an easy thing to crack that nut, 

Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth ; 

So easily may all things be destroy'd ! 

But 'tis not in the power of mortal man 

To mend the fracture of a filbert shell. 

There were two great men once amused themselves 

Watching two maggots run their wriggling race, 

And wagering on their speed ; but, Nick, to us 

It were no sport, to see the pamper'd worm 

Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat, 

Like to some Barber's leathern powder-bag 

Vv'herewith he feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers 

Spruce Beau, or Lady fair, or Doctor grave. 

Enough of dangers and of enemies 

Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordain'd ; 

Increase not thou the number ! Him the Mouse ; 

Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shell's defence. 

May from his native tenement eject ; 

Him may the Nut-hatch, piercing with strong bill. 

Unwittingly destroy ; or to his hoard 

The Squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd. 

Man also hath his dangers and his foes, 

As this poor Maggot hath ; and when I muse 

Upon the aches, anxieties, and fears, 

The Maggot knows not, Nicholas, methinks 

It were a happy metamorphosis 

To be enkernell'd thus : never to hear 

Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots. 

Kings, Jacobines, and Tax-commissioners; 

To feel no motion but the wind that shook 

The Filbert Tree, and rock'd us to our rest; 

And in the middle of such exquisite food 

To live luxurious ! The perfection this 

Of snugness ! it were to unite at once 

Hermit retirement, Aldermanic bliss. 

And Stoic independence of mankind. 

Westburij, 1799. 



VII. 
THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 

DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY. 

" How does the Water 

Come down at Lodore ^ ' ' 

My little boy ask'd me 

Thus, once on a time ; 

And moreover he task'd me 

To tell him in rhyme. 

Anon at the word. 

There first came one daughter, 

And then came another, 

To second and third 

The request of their brother, 

And to hear how the Water 

Comes down at Lodore, 
With its rush and its roar, 

As many a time 

They had seen it before. 

So I told them in rhyme. 

For of rhymes I had store ; 



And 'twas in my vocation 

For their recreation 

That so I should sing ; 

Because I was Laureate 

To them and the King. 

From its sources which well 

In the Tarn on the fell ; 

From its fountains 

In the mountains, 

Its rills and its gills ; 

Through moss and through brake, ^ 

It runs and it creeps 

For awhile, till it sleeps 

In its own little Lake. 

And thence at departing. 

Awakening and starting. 

It runs through the reeds. 

And away it proceeds. 

Through meadow and glade, 

In sun and in shade. 

And through the wood-shelter, 

Among crags in its flurry, 

Helter-skelter, 

Hurry-scurry. 

Here it comes sparkling. 

And there it lies darkling; 

Now smoking and frothino- 

Its tumult and wrath in. 

Till in this rapid race 

On which it is bent, 

It reaches the place 

Of its steep descent. 

The Cataract strong 

Then plunges along, 

Striking and raging 

As if a war waging 

Its caverns and rocks araono- ; 

Rising and leaping. 

Sinking and creeping, 

Swelling and sweeping. 

Showering and springing, 

Flymg and flinging. 

Writhing and ringing. 

Eddying and whisking, 

Spouting and frisking. 

Turning and twisting. 

Around and around 

With endless rebound : 

Smiting and fighting, 

A sight to delight in ; 

Confounding, astounding. 

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 

Collecting, projecting. 
Receding and speeding, 
And shocking and rocking. 
And darting and parting. 
And threading and spreading, 
And whizzing and hissing. 
And dripping and skipping. 
And hitting and splitting. 
And shining and twining. 
And rattling and battling. 
And shaking and quaking, 



176 



NONDESCRIPTS 



And pouring and roaring, 
And waving and raving, 
And tossing and crossing, 
And flowing and going, 
And running and stunning. 
And foaming and roaming, 
And dinning and spinning, 
And dropping and hopping. 
And working and jerking. 
And guggling and struggling, 
And heaving and cleaving. 
And moaning and groaning ; 

And glittering and frittering, 
And gathering and feathering, 
And whitening and brightening. 
And quivering and shivering, 
And hurrying and skurrying. 
And thundering and floundering ; 

^Dividing and gliding and sliding. 
And falling and brawling and sprawling. 
And driving and riving and striving, 
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
And sounding and bounding and rounding. 
And bubbling and troubling and doubling. 
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. 
And clattering and battering and shattering ; 

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, 
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing. 
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling. 
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and 

beaming. 
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing. 
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, 
And thumping and plumping and bumping and 

jumping, 
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clash- 
ing ; 
And so never ending, but always descending. 
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending. 
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, 
And this way the Water comes down at Lodore. 

Keswick, 1820. 



VIII. 
ROBERT THE RHYMER'S 

TRUE AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

Robert the Rhymer, who lives at the Lakes, 
Describes himself thus, to prevent mistakes ; 
Or rather, perhaps, be it said, to correct them. 
There being plenty about for those who collect them. 
He is lean of body, and lank of limb ; 
The man must walk fast who would overtake him. 
His eyes are not yet much the worse for the wear. 
And time has not thinn'd nor straighten'd his hair, 



Notwithstanding that now he is more than halfway 

On the road from Grizzle to Gray. 

He hath a long nose with a bending ridge ; 

It might be worthy of notice on Strasburg bridge. 

He sings like a lark when at morn he arises. 

And when evening comes he nightingalizes. 

Warbling house-notes wild from throat and gizzard, 

Which reach from A to G, and from G to Izzard. 

His voice is as good as when he was young, 

And he has teeth enough left to keep-in his tongue. 

A man he is by nature merry. 

Somewhat Tom-foolish, and comical, very ; 

Who has gone through the world, not mindful of 

pelf, 
Upon easy terms, thank Heaven, with himself, 
Along by-paths and in pleasant ways. 
Caring as little for censure as praise ; 
Having some friends whom he loves dearly. 
And no lack of foes, whom he laughs at sincerely. 
And never for great, nor for little things, 
Has he fretted his guts to fiddle-strings. 
He might have made them by such folly 
Most musical, most melancholy. 

Sic cecinit Robertus, anno aetatis suae 55. 



THE DEVIL'S WALK 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

After the Devil's Tlioughts had been published by Mr. 
Coleridge in the collection of his Poetical Works, and the 
statement with which he accompanied it, it might have been 
supposed that the joint authorship of that Siamese production 
had been sufficiently authenticated, and that no supposititious 
claim to it would again be advanced. The following extract, 
however, appeared in the John Bull of Feb. 14, 1830 : — 

"In the Morning Post of Tuesday, we find the following 
letter : — 

" ' 7^0 the Editor of the Morning Post. 

" ' Sir, — Permit me to correct a statement which appeared 
in a recent number of the Mm Bull, wherein it is made to 
appear that Dr. Southey is the author of the Poem entitled 
The DeviPs Walk. I have the means of settling this ques- 
tion, since I possess the identical MS. copy of verses, as they 
were written by my uncle, the late Professor Porson, during 
an evening party at Dr. Beloe's. 

" ' I am, Sir, your very obedient servant, 

" ' R. C. Porson. 

" ' Bayswatcr Terrace, Feb. 6, 1830.' 

" We are quite sure that Mr. Porson, the writer of the 
above letter, is convinced of the truth of tlie statement it 
contains ; but although The DeviPs Walk is perhaps not a 
work of which either Mr. Southey or Mr. Porson need be 
very proud, we feel it due to ourselves to restate the fact of 
its being from the pen of Mr. Southey. If we are wrong, Mr. 
Porson may apply to Mr. Southey ; for although Mr. Person's 
eminent uncle is dead, the Poet Laureate is alive and merry. 

"The Lines — Poem they can scarcely be called — were 
written by Mr. Southey one morning before breakfast, the 
idea having struck him while he was shaving ; they were 
subsequently shown to Mr. Coleridge, who, we believe, 
pointed some of the stanzas, and perhaps added one or two. 

" We beg to assure Mr. R. C. Porson that we recur to this 
matter out of no disrespect either to the memory of his, uncle, 
which is not likely to be affected one way or another, by the 
circumstance 3 or to his own veracity, being, as we said, quite 



THE DEVIL'S WALK 



177 



assured tliat lie believes tho statenienl he inaki ; 
object is to set ourselves rigiit." 



our only 



" Our readers, perliaps, may smile at the following, which 
appears in yesterday's Court Journal -. — 

" ' VVe have received a letter, signed " W. Marshall," and 
dated " York ; " claiming for its writer the long-contested 
authorship of tho^e celebrated verses, which are known by 
the title of The DeviPs Walk on Earth, and to which atten- 
tion has lately been directed anew, by Lord Byron's imitation 
of them. There have been so many mystifications connected 
with the authorship of these clever verses, that, for any thing 
we know to the contrary, this letter may be only one more.' " 
******* 

A week afterwards there was the following notice : — 
»' We cannot waste any more time about The Devil's Walk. 
We happ;^n to know that it is Mr. Southey's ; but as he is 
alive, we refer any body, who is not yet satisfied, to the emi- 
nent person himself — we do not mean the Devil — but the 
Doctor." 

The same newspaper contained the ensuing advertisement: 
— "On Tuesd ly next, uniform with Robert Cruikshank's 
Monsieur Tonson, price one shilling: The Devil's Walk, a 
Poem, by Prolessor Porson. With additions and variations 
by Southey and Coleridge : illustrated by seven engravings 
from R. Cruikshank. London, Marsh and Miller, 137, Oxford 
Street ; and Constable and Co., Edinburgh." 

Professor Porson never had any pnrt in these verses as a 
writer, and it is for the first time that he now appears in them 
as the subject of two or three stanzas written some few years 
ago, when the fabricated story of his having composed them 
during an evening party at Dr. Vincent's (for that was the 
origmal habitat of this falsehood) was revived. A friend of 
one of the authors, more jealous tor him than he has ever been 
for himself, urg(!d him then to put the matter out of doubt, (for 
■t was before Mr. Coleridge had done so ;) and as much to 
please that friend as to amuse himself and his domestic 
circle, in a sportive mood, the part which relates the rise and 
progress of the Poem was thrown oflT, and that also touching 
the aforesaid Professor. The old vein having thus been 
opened, some other passages were added 3 and so it grew to 
its present length. 



THE DEVIL'S WALK. 



1. 



From his brimstone bed at break of day 

A walking the Devil is gone, 
To look at his little, snug farm of the World, 

And see how his stock went on. 



Over the hill and over the dale, 

And he went over the plain ; 
And backward and forward he swish'd his tail, 

As a gentleman swishes a cane. 



How then was the Devil dress'd ? 

Oh, he was in his Sunday's best; 
His coat was red, and his breeches were blue. 
And there was a hole where his tail came through. 



A lady drove by in her pride, 

In whose face an expression he spied. 

For which he oould have kiss'd her ; 
Such a flourishing, fine, clever creature was she, 
With an eye as wicked as wicked can be : 
I should take her for my Aunt, thought he ; 

If my dam had had a sister. 
23 



He met a lord of high degree, — 
No matter what was his name, — 
Whose face with his own when he came to compare 
The expression, the look, and the air. 
And the character too, as it seem'd to a hair, — 
Such a tv/in-likeness there was in the pair. 
That it made the Devil start and stare ; 
For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there 
But he could not see the frame. 

6. 
He saw a Lawyer killing a viper 

On a dunghill beside his stable ; 
Ho ! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind 

Of the story of Cain and Abel. 



An Apothecary on a white horse 

Rode by on his vocation ; 
And the Devil thought of his old friend 

Death in the Revelation. 



He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, 

A cottage of gentility; 
And he own'd with a grin 
That his favorite sin 

Is pride that apes humility. 

9. 
He saw a pig rapidly 

Down a river float; 
The pig swam well, but every stroke 

Was cutting his own throat ; — 

10. 
And Satan gave thereat his tail 

A twirl of admiration ; 
For he thought of his daughter War 

And her suckling babe Taxation. 

IL 

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth. 
And nothing the v/orse for the jest; 

But this was only a first thought ; 
And in this he did not rest: 

Another came presently into his head; 

And here it proved, as has often been said, 
That second thoughts are best 

12. 

For as Piggy plied, with wind and tide, 

His way with such celerity. 
And at every stroke the water dyed 
With his own red blood, the Devil cried 
Behold a swinish nation's pride 

In cotton-spun prosperity ' 

13. 

He walk'd into London leisurely; 

The streets were dirty and dim ; 
But there he saw Brothers the Prophet, 

And Brothers the Prophet saw him.* 

* " After this T was in a vi>ion, having the angel of God 
near me, and saw Satan walking leisurely into London." — 
Brothers^ Prophecies, part i. p. 41 . 



178 



THE DEVIL'S WALK 



14. 

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop ; 

Quoth he, We are both of one college, 
For I myself sate like a Cormorant once 

Upon the Tree of Knowledge. 

15. 

As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields, he look'd 

At a solitary cell ; 
And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint 

For improving the prisons of Hell. 

16. 

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands 

With a cordial tug and jerk ; 
Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move 

When his heart is in his work. 

17. 

He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man 

With little expedition ; 
And he chuckled to think of his dear slave trade. 
And the long debates and delays that were made 

Concerning its abolition. 

18. 
He met one of his favorite daughters 

By an Evangelical Meeting ; 
And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, 

He would have accosted her outright. 

And given her a fatherly greeting. 

19. 
But she tipp'd him a wink, drew back, and cried, 

Avaunt! my name's Religion! 
And then she turn'd to the preacher, 

And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon. 

20. 
A fine man and a famous Professor was he, 
As the great Alexander now may be. 
Whose fame not yet o'erpast is ; 
Or that new Scotch performer 
Who is fiercer and warmer. 
The great Sir Arch-Bombastes ; 

21. 

With throbs and throes, and ahs and ohs. 
Far famed his flock for frightening ; 

And thundering with his voice, the while 
His eyes zigzag like lightning. 

22. 
This Scotch phenomenon, 1 trow, 

Beats Alexander hollow ; 
Even when most tame. 
He breathes more flame 

Than ten Fire-Kings could swallow. 

23. 
Another daughter he presently met: 
With music of fife and drum. 
And a consecrated flag. 
And shout of tag and rag, 



And march of rank and file, 
Which had fill'd the crowded aisle 

Of the venerable pile. 
From church he saw her come. 

24. 

He call'd her aside, and began to chide. 
For what dost thou here .'' said he ; 
My city of Rome is thy proper home, 
And there's work enough there for thee. 

25, 

Thou hast confessions to listen, 

And bells to christen. 
And altars and dolls to dress ; 

And fools to coax, 

And sinners to hoax. 
And beads and bones to bless ; 

And great pardons to sell 

For those who pay well. 
And small ones for those who pay less. 

26. 
Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post. 
She answered ; and thou wilt allow. 
That the great Harlot, 
Who is clothed in scarlet. 
Can very well spare me now. 

27. 
Upon her business I am come here. 
That we may extend her powers ; 
Whatever lets down this church that we hate, 
Is something in favor of ours. 

28. 
You will not think, great Cosmocrat ! 

That I spend my time in fooling ; 
Many irons, my Sire, have we in the fire. 

And I must leave none of them cooling; 
For you must know state-councils here 
Are held which I bear rule in. 
When my liberal notions 
Produce mischievous motions, 
There's many a man of good intent. 
In either house of Parliament, 
Whom I shall find a tool in ; 
And I have hopeful pupils too 
Who all this while are schooling. 

29. 
Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions, 
My Utilitarians, 
My all sorts of — inians 
And all sorts of — arians; 
My all sorts of — ists, 
And my Prigs and my Whigs, 
Who have all sorts of twists, 
Train'd in the very way, I know. 
Father, you would have them go; 
High and low, 
Wise and foolish, great and small, 
March-of- Intellect-Boys all. 



THE DEVIL'S WALK 



179 



30. 
Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day, 
When the caldron of mischief boils, 
And I bring them forth in battle array, 

And bid them suspend their broils. 
That they may unite and fall on the prey. 
For which we are spreading our toils. 
How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call, 

Hark away ! hark away to the spoils ! 
My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks, 
My Shields and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Don- 
nells. 
My joke-smith Sidney, and all of his kidney, 
My Humes and my Broughams, 
My merry old Jerry, 
My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles ! 

31. 

At this good news, so great 
The Devil's pleasure grew, 
That with a joyful swish he rent 

The hole where his tail came through. 

32. 

His countenance fell for a moment 

When he felt the stitches go ; 
Ah ! thought he, there's a job now 

That I've made for my tailor below. 

33. 

Great news ! bloody news I cried a newsman ; 

The Devil said. Stop, let me see ! 
Great new3? bloody news? thought the Devil, 

The bloodier the better for me. 

34. 

So he bought the newspaper, and no news 

At all for his money he had. 
Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick ! 

But it's some satisfaction, my lad. 
To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick. 

For the sixpence I gave thee is bad. 

35. 

And then it came into his head. 

By oracular inspiration, 
That what he had seen and what he had s?id, 

In the course of this visitation, 
Would be published in the Morning Post 

For all this reading nation. 

36. 
Therewith in second-sight he saw 

The place, and the manner and time, 
In which this mortal story 

Would be put in immortal rhyme. 

37. 

That it would happen when two poets 

Should on a time be met 
In the town of Nether Stowey, 

In the shire of Somerset. 



38. 



There, while the one was shaving. 
Would he the song begin ; 



And the other, when he heard it at breakfast, 
In ready accord join in. 

39. 
So each would help the other, 
Two heads being better than one; 
And the phrase and conceit 
Would in unison meet, 
And so with glee the verse flow free 

In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, 
Till the whole were merrily done. 

40. 
And because it was set to the razor, 

Not to the lute or harp, 
Therefore it was that the fancy 
Should be bright, and the wit be sharp. 

41. 

But then, said Satan to himself. 

As for that said beginner. 
Against my infernal Majesty 

There is no greater sinner. 

42. 
He hath put me in ugly ballads 

With libellous pictures for sale ; 
He hath scofFd at my hoofs and my horns, 

And has made very free with my tail. 

43. 
But this Mister Poet shall find 

I am not a safe subject for whim ; 
For I'll set up a School of my own, 

And my Poets shall set upon him. 

44. 
He went to a coffee-house to dine. 

And there he had soy in his dish ; 
Having ordered some soles for his dinner, 

Because he was fond of flat fish. 

45. 

They are much to my palate, thought he, 
And now guess the reason who can. 

Why no bait should be better than place, 
When I fish for a Parliament-man. 

46. 
But the soles in the bill were ten shillings ; 

Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; 
If he charges at this rate for all things, 

He must be in a pretty good way. 

47. 

But mark ye, said he to the waiter, 

I'm a dealer myself in this line. 
And his business, between you and me, 

Nothing like so extensive as mine. 

48. 
Now soles are exceedingly cheap ; 

Which he xvill not attempt to deny, 
When I see him at my fish-market, 

I warrant him, by and by. 



180 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



49. 
As he went along the Strand 

Between three in the morning and four, 
He observed a queer-looking person 

Who stagger'd from Perry's door. 

50. 
And he thought that all the world over 

In vain for a man you might seek, 
Who could drink more like a Trojan, 

Or talk more like a Greek. 



51. 
The Devil then he prophesied 
It would one day be matter of talk, 
That with wine when smitten, 
And with wit moreover being happily bitten. 
This erudite bibber was he who had written 
The story of this Walk. 

52. 

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil ; 
A pretty mistake, I opine ! 
I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth ; 
He will never put good ones in mine. 

53. 

And v/hoever shall say that to Porson 

These best of all verses belong, 
He is an untruth-telling whoreson. 

And so shall be call'd in the song. 

54. 

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, 
Any one else should put in a claim 

In this comical competition. 
That excellent poem will prove 

A man-trap for such foolish ambition. 
Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, 
And exposed in a second edition. 

55. 

Now the morning air was cold for him, 

Who was used to a warm abode ; 
And yet he did not immediately wish, 

To set out on his homeward road. 

56. 

For he had some morning calls to make 

Before he went back to Hell ; 
So, thought he, I'll step into a gaming-house. 

And that will do as well ; 
But just before he could get to the door 

A wonderful chance befell. 



57. 

For all on a sudden, in a dark place, 
He came upon General 's burning face 

And it struck him with such consternation. 
That home in a hurry his way did he take. 
Because he thought by a slight mistake 

'Twas the general conflagration. 



INSCRIPTIONS 



The three utilities of Poetry : the praise of Virtue and 
Goodness, the memory of things remarkable, and to invigorate 
the Affections. TVelsli Triad. 



1. 



FOR A COLUMN AT NEWBURY. 

Callest thou thyself a Patriot? — On this field 
Did Falkland fall, the blameless and the brave. 
Beneath the banners of that Charles whom thou 
xA.bhorrest for a Tyrant. Dost thou boast 
Of loyalty ? The field is not far off 
Where, in rebellious arms against his King, 
Hambden was kill'd, that Hambden at whose name 
The heart of many an honest Englishman 
Beats Avith congenial pride. Both uncorrupt,' 
Friends to their common country both, they foiight, 
They died in adverse armies. Traveller I 
If with thy neighbor thou shouldst not accord. 
Remember these, our famous countrymen. 
And quell all angry and injurious thoughts. 

Bristol, 1796. 



II. 

FOR A CAVERN THAT OVERLOOKS 
THE RIVER AVON. 

Enter this cavern. Stranger ! Here, awhile 

Respiring from the long and steep ascent. 

Thou mayst be glad of rest, and haply too 

Of shade, if from the summer's westering sun 

Shelter'd beneath this beetling vault of rock. 

Round the rude portal clasping its rough arms 

The antique ivy spreads a canopy. 

From whose gray blossoms the wild bees collect 

In autumn their last store. The Muses love 

This spot; believe a Poet who hath felt 

Their visitation here. The tide below 

Rising or refluent scarcely sends its sound 

Of waters up ; and from the heights beyond. 

Where the high-hanging forest waves and sways. 

Varying before the wind its verdant hues, 

The voice is music here. Here thou mayst feel 

How good, how lovely, Nature ! And when hence 

Returning to the city's crowded streets. 

Thy sickening eye at every step revolts 

From scenes of vice and wretchedness, reflect 

That Man creates the evil he endures. 

Bristol, 1796. 



HI. 



FOR A TABLET AT SILBURY-HILL. 

This mound, in some remote and dateless day 
Rear'd o'er a Chieftain of the Age of flills, 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



181 



May here detain thee, Traveller ! from thy road 
Not idly lingering. In his narrow house 
Some Warrior sleeps below, whose gallant deeds 
Haply at many a solemn festival 
The Scald hath sung; but perish'd is the song 
Of praise, as o'er these bleak and barren downs 
The wind that passes and is heard no more. 
Go, Traveller, and remember, when the pomp 
Of earthly Glory fades, that one good deed. 
Unseen, unheard, unnoted by mankind, 
Lives in the eternal register of Heaven. 

Bristol, 1796. 



IV. 

FOR A MONUMENT IN THE NEW 
FOREST. 

This is the place where William's kingly power 
Did from their poor and peaceful homes expel, 
Unfriended, desolate, and shelterless. 
The habitants of all the fertile track 
Far as these wilds extend. He levell'd down 
Their little cottages ; he bade their fields 
Lie waste, and forested the land, that so 
More royally might he pursue his sports. 
If that thine heart be human. Passenger! 
Sure it will swell within thee, and thy lips 
Will mutter curses on him. Think thou then 
What cities flame, what hosts unsepulchred 
Pollute the passing wind, when raging Power 
Drives on his blood-hounds to the chase of Man; 
And as thy thoughts anticipate that day 
When God shall judge aright, in charity 
Pray for the wicked rulers of mankind. 

Bristol, 1796. 



V. 



FOR A TABLET ON THE BANKS OF A 
STREAM. 

Stranger ! awhile upon this mossy bank 
Recline thee. If the Sun rides high, the breeze, 
That loves to ripple o'er the rivulet, 
Will play around thy brow, and the cool sound 
Of running waters soothe thee. Mark how clear 
They sparkle o'er the shallows, and behold 
Where o'er their surface wheels with restless 



[speed 



Yon glossy insect, on the sand below 
How its swift shadow flits. In solitude 
The rivulet is pure, and trees and herbs 
Bend o'er its salutary course refresh'd; 
But passing on amid the haunts of men, 
It finds pollution there, and rolls from thence 
A tainted stream. Seek'st thou for Happiness 
Go, Stranger, sojourn in the woodland cot 
Of Innocence, and thou shalt find her there. 

Bristol 1796. 



VI. 

FOR THE CENOTAPH AT ERMENON- 
VILLE. 

Stranger ! the Man of Nature lies not here: 
Enshrined far distant by the Scoffer's * side 
His relics rest, there by the giddy throng 
With blind idolatry alike revered. 
Wiselier directed have thy pilgrim feet 
Explored the scenes of Ermenonville. Rousseau 
Loved these calm haunts of Solitude and Peace ; 
Here he has heard the murmurs of the lake, 
And the soft rustling of the poplar grove. 
When o'er its bending boughs the passing wind 
Swept a gray shade. Here, if thy breast be full, 
If in thine eye the tear devout should gush, 
His Spirit shall behold thee, to thine home 
From hence returning, purified of heart. 

Bristol, 1796. 



VII. 



FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD. 

Here Latimer and Ridley in the flames 
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walk'd 
Uprightly through the world, just thoughts of joy 
May fill thy breast in contemplating here 
Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved 
From the straight path of even rectitude, 
Fearful in trying seasons to assert 
The better cause, or to forsake the worse 
Reluctant, when perchance therein enthrall 'd 
Slave to false shame, oh ! thankfully receive 
The sharp, compunctious motions that this spot 
May wake within thee, and be wise in time, 
And let the future for the past atone. 

Batn, 1797. 



VIII. 

FOR A MONUMENT IN THE VALE OF 
EWIAS. 

Here was it. Stranger, that the patron Saint 

Of Cambria pass'd his age of penitence, 

A solitary man ; and here he made 

His hermitage, the roots his food, his drink 

Of Hodney's mountain stream. Perchance thy 

youth 
Has read wuth eager wonder how the Knight 
Of Wales in Ormandine's enchanted bower 
Slept the long sleep ; and if that in thy veins 
Flow the pure blood of Britain, sure that blood 
Hath flow'd with quicker impulse at the tale 
Of David's deeds, when through the press of war 
His gallant comrades follow 'd his green crest 
To victory. Stranger! Hatterill's mountain heights, 
And this fair vale of Ewias, and the stream 

* Voltaire. 



182 



INSCRIPTIONS 



Of Hodney, to thine after-thoughts will rise 
More grateful, thus associate with the name 
Of David and the deeds of other days. 

Bath, 1798. 



IX. 



EPITAPH ON ALGERNON SYDNEY. 

Here Sydney lies, he whom perverted law, 
The pliant jury, and the bloody judge, 
Doom'd to a traitor's death. A tyrant King 
Required, an abject country saw and shared 
The crime. The noble cause of Liberty 
He loved in life, and to that noble cause 
In death bore witness. But his Country rose 
Like Samson from her sleep, and broke her chains. 
And proudly with her worthies she enroll'd 
Her murder'd Sydney's name. The voice of man 
Gives honor or destroys ; but earthly power 
Gives not, nor takes away, the self-applause 
Which on the scaffold suffering virtue feels, 
Nor that which God appointed its reward. 

Westbury, 1798. 



X. 



EPITAPH ON KING JOHN. 

John rests below. A man more infamous 
Never hath held the sceptre of these realms, 
And bruised beneath the iron rod of Power 
The oppressed men of England. Englishman ! 
Curse not his memory. Murderer as he was, 
Coward and slave, yet he it was who sign'd 
That Charter which should make thee morn and 

night 
Be thankful for thy birthplace : — Englishman ! 
That holy Charter, which shouldst thou permit 
Force to destroy, or Fraud to undermine. 
Thy children's groans will persecute thy soul, 
For they must bear the burden of thy crime. 

Westbury, 1798. 



XI. 

IN A FOREST. 

Stranger ! whose steps have reach'd this solitude. 

Know that this lonely spot was dear to one 

Devoted with no unrequited zeal 

To Nature. Here, delighted, he has heard 

The rustling of these woods, that now perchance 

Melodious to the gale of summer move ; 

And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock, 

With gray and yellow lichens overgrown. 

Often reclined ; watching the silent flow 

Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals 

Along its verdant course, — till all around 



Had fill'd his senses with tranquillity. 

And ever soothed in spirit he return'd 

A happier, better man. Stranger ! perchance, 

Therefore the stream more lovely to thine eye 

Will glide along, and to the summer gale [then 

The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou 

The weeds and mosses from this letter' d stone. 

Westbury, 1798. 



XII. 



FOR A MONUMENT AT TORDESILLAS. 

Spaniard ! if thou art one who bows the knee 
Before a despot's footstool, hie thee hence ! 
This ground is holy : here Padilla died. 
Martyr of Freedom. But if thou dost love 
Her cause, stand then as at an altar here. 
And thank the Almighty that thine honest heart, 
Full of a brother's feelings for mankind. 
Revolts against oppression. Not unheard 
Nor unavailing shall the grateful prayer 
Ascend; for honest impulses will rise. 
Such as may elevate and strengthen thee 
For virtuous action. Relics silver-shrined. 
And chaunted mass, would wake within the soul 
Thoughts valueless and cold compared with these. 

Bristol, 1796. 



XIII. 

FOR A COLUMN AT TRUXILLO. 

PizARRO here was born ; a greater name 

The list of Glory boasts not. Toil and Pain, 

Famine and hostile Elements, and Hosts 

Embattled, fail'd to check him in his course, 

Not to be wearied, not to be deterr'd. 

Not to be overcome. A mighty realm 

He overran, and with relentless arm 

Slew or enslaved its unoffending sons. 

And wealth, and power, and fame, were his rewards. 

There is another world, beyond the Grave, 

According to their deeds where men are judged. 

O Reader ! if thy daily bread be earn'd 

By daily labor, — yea, however low. 

However painful be thy lot assign'd. 

Thank thou, with deepest gratitude, the God 

Who made thee, that thou art not such as he. 

Bristol, 1796. 



FOR THE 
CORK 



XIV. 

CELL OF HONORIUS, AT THE 
CONVENT, NEAR CINTRA. 



Here, cavern'd like a beast, Honorius pass'd. 
In self-affliction, solitude, and prayer. 
Long years of penance. He had rooted out 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



183 



All human feelings from his heart, and fled 
With fear and loathing from all human joys. 
Not thus in making known his will divine 
Hath Christ enjoin'd. To aid the fatherless, 
Comfort the sick, and be the poor man's friend, 
And in the wounded heart pour gospel-balm, — 
These are the injunctions of his holy law. 
Which whoso keeps shall have a joy on earth, 
Calm, constant, still increasing, preluding 
The eternal bliss of Heaven. Yet mock not thou, 
Stranger, the Anchorite's mistaken zeal ! 
He painfully his painful duties kept. 
Sincere, though erring. Stranger, do thou keep 
Thy better and thine easier rule as well. 

Bristol, 1798. 



XV. 

FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON. 

They sufFer'd here whom JefFeries doom'd to death 
In mockery of all justice, when the Judge 
Unjust, subservient to a cruel King, 
Perforin'd his work of blood. They sufFer'd here. 
The victims of that Judge, and of that King ; 
In mockery of all justice here they bled, 
Unheard. But not unpitied, nor of God 
Unseen, the innocent suffered ; not unheard 
The innocent blood cried vengeance ; for at length 
The indignant Nation in its power arose, 
Resistless. Then that wicked Judge took flight, 
Disguised in vain : — not always is the Lord 
Slow to revenge ! A miserable man, 
He fell beneath the people's rage, and still 
The children curse his memory. From the throne 
The obdurate bigot who commission'd him. 
Inhuman James, was driven. He lived to drag 
Long years of frustrate hope, he lived to load 
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne, 
Let Londonderry tell his guilt and shame ; 
And that immortal day when on thy shores, 
La Hogue, the purple ocean dash'd the dead ! 

Westbury, 1798. 



XVI. 

FOR A TABLET AT PENSHURST. 

Are days of old familiar to thy mind, 
O Reader ? Hast thou let the midnight hour 
Pass unperceived, whilst thou in fancy lived 
With high-born beauties and enamor'd chiefs, 
Sharing their hopes, and with a breathless joy 
Whose expectation touch'd the verge of pain, 
Following their dangerous fortunes ? If such lore 
Hath ever thrill'd thy bosom, thou wilt tread, 
As with a pilgrim's reverential thoughts. 
The groves of Penshurst. Sydney here was born, 
Sydney, than whom no gentler, braver man 
His own delightful genius ever feign'd, 
Illustrating the vales of Arcady 



With courteous courage and with loyal loves. 
Upon his natal day an acorn here 
Was planted : it grew up a stately oak. 
And in the beauty of its strength it stood 
And flourish'd, when his perishable part 
Had moulder'd, dust to dust That stately oak 
Itself hath moulder'd now, but Sydney's fame 
Endureth in his own immortal works. 

Westbury, 1799. 



XVII. 

EPITAPH. 

This to a mother's sacred memory 

Her son hath hallow'd. Absent many a year 

Far over sea, his sweetest dreams were still 

Of that dear voice which soothed his infancy ; 

And after many a fight against the Moor 

And Malabar, or that fierce cavalry 

Which he had seen covering the boundless plain, 

Even to the utmost limits where the eye 

Could pierce the far horizon, — his first thought 

In safety was of her, who, when she heard 

The tale of that day's danger, would retire 

And pour her pious gratitude to Heaven 

In prayers and tears of joy. The lingering hour 

Of his return, long-look'd-for, came at length, 

And full of hope he reach'd his native shore. 

Vain hope that puts its trust in human life ! 

For ere he came, the number of her days 

Was full. O Reader, what a world were this, 

How unendurable its weight, if they 

Whom Death hath sunder'd did not meet again ' 

Keswick, 1810. 



XVIIL 
EPITAPH. 



Here, in the fruitful vales of Somerset, 
Was Emma born, and here the Maiden grew 
To the sweet season of her womanhood. 
Beloved and lovely, like a plant whose leaf, 
And bud, and blossom, all are beautiful. 
In peacefulness her virgin years were past ; 
And when in prosperous wedlock she was given. 
Amid the Cumbrian mountains far away 
She had her summer Bower. 'Twas like a dream 
Of old Romance to see her when she plied 
Her little skiff on Derwent's glassy lake ; 
The roseate evening resting on the hills, 
The lake returning back the hues of heaven, 
Mountains, and vales, and waters, all imbued 
With beauty, and in quietness ; and she, 
Nymph-like, amid that glorious solitude 
A heavenly presence, gliding in her joy. 
But soon a wasting malady began 
To prey upon her, frequent in attack. 
Yet with such flattering intervals as mock 
The hopes of anxious love, and most of all 



184 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



The sufferer, self-deceived. During those days 

Of treacherous respite, many a time hath he, 

Who leaves this record of his friend, drawn back 

Into the shadow from her social board. 

Because too surely in her cheek he saAv 

The insidious bloom of death ; and then her smiles 

And innocent mirth excited deeper grief 

Than when long-look'd-for tidings came at last, 

That, all her sufferings ended, she was laid 

Amid Madeira's orange groves to rest. 

O gentle Emma ! o'er a lovelier form 

Than thine Earth never closed ; nor e'er did Heaven 

Receive a purer spirit from the world. 

Keswick, 1810. 



XIX. 

FOR A MONUMENT AT ROLISSA. 

Time has been when Rolissa was a name 

Ignoble, by the passing traveller heard, 

And then forthwith forgotten ; now in war 

It is renown'd. For when to her ally. 

In bondage by perfidious France oppress'd, 

England sent succor, first within this realm 

The fated theatre of their long strife 

Confronted, here the hostile nations met. 

Laborde took here his stand ; upon yon point 

Of Mount Saint Anna was his Eagle fix'd} 

The veteran chief, disposing well all aid 

Of height and glen, possess'd the mountain straits, 

A post whose strength thus mann'd and profited 

Seem'd to defy the enemy, and make 

The vantage of assailing numbers vain. 

Here, too, before the sun should bend his course 

Adown the slope of heaven, so had their plans 

Been timed, he look'd for Loison's army, rich 

With spoils from Evora and Beja sack'd. 

That hope the British Knight, areeding well, 

With prompt attack prevented; and nor strength 

Of ground, nor leader's skill, nor discipline 

Of soldiers practised in the ways of war, 

Avail'd that day against the British arm. 

Resisting long, but beaten from their stand, 

The French fell back ; they join'd their greater host 

To suffer fresh defeat, and Portugal 

First for Sir Arthur wreathed her laurels here. 



XX. 



FOR A MONUMENT AT VIMEIRO. 

This is Vimeiro ; yonder stream, which flows 
Westward through heathery highlands to the sea, 
Is call'd Maceira, till of late a name. 
Save to the dwellers of this peaceful vale, 
Known only to the coasting mariner ; 
Now in the bloody page of war inscribed. 
When to the aid of injured Portugal 
Struggling against the intolerable yoke 
Of treacherous France, England, her old ally, 



Long tried and always faithful found, went forth, 

The embattled hosts in equal strength array 'd 

And equal discipline, encountered here. 

Junot, the mock Abrantes, led the French, 

And, confident of skill so oft approved. 

And vaunting many a victory, advanced 

Against an untried foe. But when the ranks 

Met in the shock of battle, man to man. 

And bayonet to bayonet opposed. 

The flower of France, cut down along their line, 

Fell like ripe grass before the mower's scythe. 

For the strong arm and rightful cause prevail'd. 

That day deliver'd Lisbon from the yoke. 

And babes were taught to bless Sir Arthur's name. 



XXI. 
AT CORUNA. 



When from these shores the British army first 

Boldly advanced into the heart of Spain, 

The admiring people who beheld its march 

Call'd it "the Beautiful." And surely well 

Its proud array, its perfect discipline, 

Its ample furniture of war complete. 

Its powerful horse, its men of British mould. 

All high in heart and hope, all of themselves 

Assured, and in their leaders confident. 

Deserved the title. Few short weeks elapsed 

Ere hither that disastrous host return 'd, 

A fourth of all its gallant force consumed 

In hasty and precipitate retreat. 

Stores, treasure, and artillery, in the wreck 

Left to the fierce pursuer, horse and man 

Founder'd, and stiffening on the mountain snows. 

But when the exulting enemy approach'd, 

Boasting that he would drive into the sea 

The remnant of the wretched fugitives. 

Here, ere they reach'd their ships, they turn'datbay. 

Then was the proof of British courage seen ; 

Against a foe far overnumbering them, 

An insolent foe, rejoicing in pursuit. 

Sure of the fruit of victory, whatsoe'er 

Might be the fate of battle, here they stood, 

And their safe embarkation — all they sought — 

Won manfully. That mournful day avenged 

Their sufferings, and redeem'd their country's 

And thus Coruna, which in this retreat [name ; 

Had seen the else indelible reproach 

Of England, saw the stain effaced in blood. 



XXII. 
EPITAPH. 



He who in this unconsecrated ground 
Obtain'd a soldier's grave, hath left a name 
Which will endure in history : the remains 
Of Moore, the British General, rest below. 
His early prowess Corsica beheld. 
When, at Mozello, bleeding, through the breach 



INSCRIPTIOMS. 



185 



He passed victorious; the Columbian isles 
Then saw him tried; upon the sandy downs 
Of Holland was his riper worth approved; 
And leaving on the Egyptian shores his blood, 
He gathered there fresh palms. High in repute 
A gallant army last he led to Spain, 
In arduous times ; for moving in his strength, 
With all his mighty means of war complete, 
The Tyrant Bonaparte bore down all 
Before him; and the British Chief beheld. 
Where'er he look'd, rout, treason, and dismay, 
All sides with all embarrassments beset. 
And danger pressing on. Hither he came 
Before the far outnumbering hosts of France 
Retreating to her ships, and close pursued ; 
Nor were there wanting men who counsell'd him 
To offer terms, and from the enemy 
Purchase a respite to embark in peace, 
At price of such abasement, — even to this, 
Brave as they were, by hopelessness subdued. 
That shameful counsel Moore, in happy hour 
Remembering what was due to England's name, 
Refused : he fought, he conquer'd, and he fell. 



XXHI. 



MEMORY OF PAUL BURRARD, 

MORTALLY WOUNDED IN THE BATTLE OF CORUNA. 

Mtsterious are the ways of Providence I — 

Old men, who have grown gray in camps, and 

wish'd. 
And pray'd, and sought in battle to lay down 
The burden of their age, have seen the young 
Fall round, themselves untouch'd; and balls beside 
The graceless and the unblest head have past, 
Harmless as hail, to reach some precious life. 
For which clasp'd hands, and supplicating eyes, 
Duly at morn and eve were raised to Heaven ; 
And, in the depth and loneness of the soul, 
(Then boding all too truly,) midnight prayers 
Breathed from an anxious pillow wet with tears. 
But blessed, even amid their grief, are they 
Who, in the hour of visitation, bow 
Beneath the unerring will, and look toward 
Their Heavenly Father, merciful as just ! 
They, while they own his goodness, feel that whom 
He chastens, them he loves. The cup he gives. 
Shall they not drink it ? Therefore doth the draught 
Resent of comfort in its bitterness, 
And carry healing with it. What but this 
Could have sustain'd the mourners who were left. 
With life-long yearnings, to remember him 
Whose early death this monumental verse 
Records ? For never more auspicious hopes 
Were nipp'd in flower, nor finer qualities 
From goodliest fabric of mortality 
Divorced, nor virtues worthier to adorn [time 

The world transferr'd to heaven, than when, ere 
Had measured him the space of nineteen years, 



Paul Burrard on Coruna's fatal field 

Received his mortal hurt. Not unprepared 

The heroic youth was found ; for in the ways 

Of piety had he been trained ; and what 

The dutiful child upon his mother's knees 

Had learnt, the soldier faithfully observed. 

In chamber or in tent, the Book of God 

Was his beloved manual ; and his life 

Beseem'd the lessons which from thence he drew. 

For, gallant as he was, and blithe of heart, 

Expert of hand, and keen of eye, and prompt 

In intellect, religion was the crown 

Of all his noble properties. When Paul 

Was by, the scoffer, self-abased, restrain'd 

The license of his speech ; and ribaldry 

Before his virtuous presence sate rebuked. 

And yet so frank and affable a form 

His virtue wore, that wheresoe'er he moved, 

A sunshine of good- will and cheerfulness 

Enliven'd all around. Oh! marvel not. 

If, in the morning of his fair career. 

Which promised all that honor could bestow 

On high desert, the youth was summon 'd hence ! 

His soul required no further discipline. 

Pure as it was, and capable of Heaven. 

Upon the spot from whence he just had seen 

His General borne away, the appointed ball 

Reach'd him. But not on that Gallician ground 

Was it his fate, like many a British heart. 

To mingle with the soil ; the sea received 

His mortal relics, — to a watery grave 

Consign'd so near his native shore, so near 

His father's house, that they who loved him best, 

Unconscious of its import, heard the gun 

Which fired his knell. — Alas ! if it were known, 

When, in the strife of nations, dreadful Death 

Mows dov;n with indiscriminating sweep 

His thousands ten times told, — if it were known 

What ties are sever'd then, what ripening hopes 

Blasted, what virtues in their bloom cut off; 

How far the desolating scourge extends ; 

How wide the misery spreads ; what hearts beneath 

Their grief are broken, or survive to feel 

Always the irremediable loss, — 

Oh ! who of woman born could bear the thought .'' 

Who but would join with fervent piety 

The prayer that asketh in our time for peace ? — 

Nor in our time alone ! — Enable us. 

Father which art in heaven ! but to receive 

And keep thy word : thy kingdom then should 

come. 
Thy wull be done on earth ; the victory 
Accomplished over Sin as well as Death, 
And the great scheme of Providence fulfill'd. 



XXIV. 
FOR THE BANKS OF THE DOURO. 

Crossing in unexampled enterprise 

This great and perilous stream, the English host 

Effected here their landing, on the day 

When Soultfrom Porto with his troops was driven 



186 



INSCRIPTIONS 



No sight so joyful ever had been seen [sent 

From Douro's banks, — not when the mountains 

Their generous produce down, or homeward fleets 

Entered from distant seas their port desired } 

Nor e'er were shouts of such glad mariners 

So gladly heard, as then the cannon's peal, 

And short, sharp strokes of frequent musketry, 

By the delivered habitants that hour. 

For they who, beaten then and routed, fled 

Before victorious England, in their day 

Of triumph, had, like fiends let loose from hell, 

Fill'd yon devoted city with all forms 

Of horror, all unutterable crimes ; 

And vengeance now had reach'd the inhuman race 

Accurs'd. Oh, what a scene did Night behold 

Within those rescued walls, when festal fires. 

And torches, blazing through the bloody streets, 

Stream'd their broad light where horse and man 

in death 
Unheeded lay outstretch'd ! Eyes which had wept 
In bitterness so long, shed tears of joy, 
And from the broken heart thanksgiving, mix'd 
With anguish, rose to Heaven. Sir Arthur then 
Might feel how precious in a righteous cause 
Is victory, how divine the soldier's meed 
When grateful nations bless the avenging sword ! 



XXV. 
TALAVERA. 

FOR THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

YoN wide-extended town, whose roofs, and towers, 

And poplar avenues are seen far off", 

In goodly prospect over scatter'd woods 

Of dusky ilex, boasts among its sons 

Of Mariana's name, — he who hath made 

The splendid story of his country's wars 

Through all the European kingdoms known. 

Yet in his ample annals thou canst find 

No braver battle chronicled, than here 

Was waged, when Joseph, of the stolen crown. 

Against the hosts of England and of Spain 

His veteran armies brought. By veteran chiefs 

Captain'd, a formidable force they came. 

Full fifty thousand. Victor led them on, 

A man grown gray in arms, nor e'er in aught 

Dishonored, till by this opprobrious cause. 

He, over rude Alverche's summer stream 

Winning his way, made first upon the right 

His hot attack, where Spain's raw levies, ranged 

In double line, had taken their strong stand 

In yonder broken ground, by olive groves 

Cover'd and flank'd by Tagus. Soon from thence, 

As one whose practised eye could apprehend 

All vantages in war, his troops he drew ; 

And on this hill, the battle's vital point. 

Bore with collected power, outnumbering 

The British ranks twice told. Such fearful odds 

Were balanced by Sir Arthur's master mind 

And by the British heart. Twice during night 

The fatal spot the v storm' d, and twice fell back, 



Before the bayonet driven. Again at morn 

They made their fiery onset, and again 

Repell'd, again at noon renew'd the strife. 

Yet was their desperate perseverance vain, 

Where skill by equal skill was countervail'd, 

And numbers by superior courage foil'd ; 

And when the second night drew over them 

Its sheltering cope, in darkness they retired, 

At all points beaten. Long in the red page 

Of war shall Talavera's famous name 

Stand forth conspicuous. While that name endures. 

Bear in thy soul, O Spain, the memory 

Of all thou suflered'st from perfidious France, 

Of all that England in thy cause achieved. 



XXVI. 

FOR THE DESERTO DE BUSACO. 

Reader, thou standest upon holy ground, 
Which Penitence hath chosen for itself, 
And war, disturbing the deep solitude. 
Hath left it doubly sacred. On these heights 
The host of Portugal and England stood, 
Arrayed against Massena, when the chief, 
Proud of Rodrigoo and Almeida won, 
Press'd forward, thinking the devoted realm 
Full sure should fall a prey. He in his pride 
Scorn'd the poor numbers of the English foe. 
And thought the children of the land would fly 
From his advance, like sheep before the wolf, 
Scattering, and lost in terror. Ill he knew 
The Lusitanian spirit ! Ill he knew 
The arm, the heart of England ! Ill he knew 
Her Wellington ! He learnt to know them here, 
That spirit and that arm, that heart, that mind, 
Here on Busaco gloriously display'd. 
When hence repulsed the beaten boaster wound 
Below his course circuitous, and left 
His thousands for the beasts and ravenous fowl. 
The Carmelite who in his cell recluse 
Was wont to sit, and from a skull receive 
Death's silent lesson, wheresoe'er he walk. 
Henceforth may find his teachers. He shall find 
The Frenchmen's bones in glen and grove, on rock 
And height, where'er the wolves and carrion birds 
Have strewn them, wash'd in torrents, bare and 

bleach 'd 
By sun and rain, and by the winds of heaven. 



XXVII. 



FOR THE LINES OF TORRES VEDRAS. 

Through all Iberia, from the Atlantic shores 

To far Pyrene, Wellington hath left 

His trophies ; but no monument records 

To after-time a more enduring praise. 

Than this which marks his triumph here attain'd 

By intellect, and patience to the end 

Holding through good and ill its course assign'd. 



INSCRIPTIONS 



187 



The stamp and seal of greatness. Here the chief 
Perceived in foresight Lisbon's sure defence, 
A vantage ground for all reverse prepared, 
Where Portugal and England might defy 
All strength of hostile numbers. Not for this 
Of hostile enterprise did he abate. 
Or gallant purpose : w^itness the proud day 
Which saw Soult's murderous host from Porto 

driven; 
Bear witness, Talavera, made by him 
Famous forever ; and that later fight 
When from Busaco's solitude the birds, 
Tlien first affrighted in their sanctuary, 
Fled from the thunders and the fires of war. 
But when Spain's feeble counsels, in delay 
As erring, as in action premature. 
Had left him in the field without support, 
And Bonaparte having trampled down 
The strength and pride of Austria, this way turn'd 
His single thought and undivided power. 
Retreating hither the great General came ; 
And proud Massena, when the boastful chief 
Of plundered Lisbon dreamt, here found himself 
Stopp'd suddenly in his presumptuous course. 
From Ericeyra on the western sea. 
By Mafra's princely convent, and the heights 
Of Montichique, and Bucellas famed 
For generous vines, the formidable works 
Extending, rested on the guarded shores 
Of Tagus, that ricli river who received 
Into his ample and rejoicing port 
The harvests and the wealth of distant lands, 
Secure, insulting with the glad display 
The robber's greedy sight. Five months the foe 
Beheld these lines, made inexpugnable 
By perfect skill, and patriotic feelings here 
With discipline conjoind, courageous hands. 
True spirits, and one comprehensive mind 
All overseeing and pervading all. 
Five months, tormenting still his heart with hope. 
He saw his projects frustrated ; the power 
Of the blaspheming tyrant whom he served 
Fail in the proof; his thousands disappear. 
In silent and inglorious war consumed ; 
Till hence retreating, madden'd with despite. 
Here did the self-styled Son of Victory leave, 
Never to be redeem'd, that vaunted name. 



XXVIII. 

AT SANTAREM. 

Four months Massena had his quarters here, 
When by those lines deterr'd where Wellington 
Defied the power of France, but loath to leave 
Rich Lisbon yet unsack'd, he kept his ground, 
Till from impending famine, and the force 
Array'd in front, and that consuming war 
Which still the faithful nation, day and night, 
And at all hours, was waging on his rear, 
He saw no safety, save in swift retreat. 
Then of his purpose frustrated, this child 
Of Hell— so fitlier than of Victory call'd — 



Gave his own devilish nature scope, and let 
His devilish army loose. The mournful rolls 
That chronicle the guilt of human-kind. 
Tell not of aught more hideous than the deeds 
With which this monster and his kindred troops 
Track'd their inhuman way — all cruelties, 
All forms of horror, all deliberate crimes, 
Which tongue abhors to utter, ear to hear. 
Let this memorial bear Massena's name 
For everlasting infamy inscribed. 



XXIX. 
AT FUENTES D'ONORO. 

The fountains of Onoro, which give name 

To this poor hamlet, were distain'd with blood, 

What time Massena, driven from Portugal 

By national virtue in endurance proved. 

And England's faithful aid, against the land 

Not long delivered, desperately made 

His last fierce effort here. That day, bestreak'd 

With slaughter Coa and Agueda ran. 

So deeply had the open veins of war 

Purpled their mountain feeders. Strong in means, 

With rest, and stores, and numbers reenforced, 

Came the ferocious enemy, and ween'd 

Beneath their formidable cavalry 

To trample down resistance. But there fought 

Against them here, with Britons side by side, 

The children of regenerate Portugal, 

And their own crimes, and all-beholding Heaven. 

Beaten, and hopeless thenceforth of success, 

The inhuman Marshal, never to be named 

By Lusitanian lips without a curse 

Of clinging infamy, withdrew and left 

These Fountains famous for his overthrow. 



XXX. 

AT BARROSA. 

Though the four quarters of the world have seen 

The British valor proved triumphantly 

Upon the French, in many a field far-famed, 

Yet may the noble Island in her rolls 

Of glory write Barrosa's name. For there. 

Not by the issue of deliberate plans 

Consulted well, was the fierce conflict won. 

Nor by the leader's eye intiiitive, 

Nor force of either arm of war, nor art 

Of skill'd artillerist, nor the discipline 

Of troops to absolute obedience train'd ; 

But by the spring and impulse of the heart. 

Brought fairly to the trial, when all else 

Seem'd, like a wrestler's garment, thrown aside ; 

By individual courage and the sense 

Of honor, their old country's, and their own. 

There to be forfeited, or there upheld ; — 

This warm'd the soldier's soul, and gave his hand 

The strength that carries with it victory. 



188 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



More to enhance their praise, the day was fought 
Against all circumstance ; a painful march, 
Through twenty hours of night and day prolong'd, 
Forespent the British troops ; and hope delay'd 
Had left their spirits pall'd. But when the word 
Was given to turn, and charge, and win the 

heights, 
The welcome order came to them, like rain 
Upon a traveller in the thirsty sands. 
Rejoicing, up the ascent, and in the front 
Of danger, they with steady step advanced, 
And with the insupportable bayonet 
Drove down the foe. The vanquished Victor saw 
And thought of Talavera, and deplored 
His eagle lost. But England saw, well-pleased, 
Her old ascendency that day sustained ; 
And Scotland, shouting over all her hills, 
Among her worthies rank'd another Graham. 



XXXI. 
FOR A MONUMENT AT ALBUHERA. 

Seven thousand men lay bleeding on these 

heights, 
When Beresford in strenuous conflict strove 
Against a foe whom all the accidents 
Of battle favored, and who knew full well 
To seize all offers that occasion gave. 
Wounded or dead, seven thousand here were 

stretch'd, 
And on the plain around a myriad more, 
Spaniard, and Briton, and true Portuguese, 
Alike approved that day ; and in the cause 
Of France, with her flagitious sons compelled, 
Pole and Italian, German, Hollander, 
Men of all climes and countries, hither brought, 
Doing and suffering for the work of war. 
This point, by her superior cavalry, 
France from the Spaniard won, the elements 
Aiding her powerful efforts; here awhile 
She seemed to rule the conflict ; and from hence 
The British and the Lusitanian arm 
Dislodged with irresistible assault 
The enemy, even when he deem'd the day 
Wa^ written for his own. But not for Soult, 
But not for France was that day in the rolls 
Of war to be inscribed by Victory's hand, 
Not for the inhuman chief, and cause unjust ; 
She wrote for after-times, in blood, the names 
Of Spain and England, Blake and Beresford. 



XXXII. 

TO THE MEMORY OF SIR WILLIAM 
MYERS. 

Spaniard or Portuguese ! tread reverently 
Upon a soldier's grave ; no common heart 
Lies mingled with the clod beneath thy feet. 
To honors and to ample wealth was Myers 



In England born ; but leaving friends beloved, 

And all allurements of that happy land. 

His ardent spirit to the field of war 

Impell'd him. Fair was his career. He faced 

The perils of that memorable day, 

When through the iron shower and fiery storm 

Of death, the dauntless host of Britain made 

Their landing at Aboukir ; then not less 

Illustrated, than when great Nelson's hand, 

As if insulted Heaven, with its own wrath. 

Had arm'd him, smote the miscreant Frenchmen's 

fleet. 
And with its wreck wide-floating many a league, 
Strew'd the rejoicing shores. What then his youth 
Held forth of promise, amply was confirmed 
When Wellesley, upon Talavera's plain, 
On the mock monarch won his coronet : 
There, when the trophies of the field were reap'd. 
Was he for gallant bearing eminent 
When all did bravely. But his valor's orb 
Shone brightest at its setting. On the field 
Of Albuhera he the fusileers 
Led to regain the heights, and promised them 
A glorious day ; a glorious day was given ; 
The heights were gained, the victory was achieved, 
And Myers received from death his deathless 

crown. 
Here to Valverde was he borne, and here 
His faithful men, amid this olive grove. 
The olive emblem here of endless peace, 
Laid him to rest. Spaniard or Portuguese, 
In your good cause the British soldier fell j 
Tread reverently upon his honor'd grave. 



XXXIII. 

EPITAPH. 

Steep is the soldier's path ; nor are the heights 

Of glory to be won without long toil 

And arduous efforts of enduring hope, 

Save when Death takes the aspirant by the hand, 

And, cutting short the work of years, at once 

Lifts him to that conspicuous eminence. 

Such fate was mine. — The standard of the Buffs 

I bore at Albuhera, on that day 

When, covered by a shower, and fatally 

For friends misdeem'd, the Polish lancers fell 

Upon our rear. Surrounding me, they claimed 

My precious charge. — "Not but with life!" 1 

cried, 
And life was given for immortality. 
The flag which to my heart I held, when wet 
With that heart's blood, was soon victoriously 
Regain'd on that great day. In former times, 
Marlborough beheld it borne at Ramilies ; 
For Brunswick and for liberty it waved 
Triumphant at CuUoden ; and hath seen 
The lilies on the Caribbean shores 
Abased before it. Then, too, in the front 
Of battle did it flap exultingly. 
When Douro, with its wide stream interposed, 
Saved not the French invaders from attack, 



IiNSCRlPTIONS. 



189 



Discomfiture, and ignominious rout. 
Mv name is Thomas: undisgraced have I 
Transmitted it. >le who in days to come 
May bear the honor'd banner to the field, 
Will think of Albuhera, and of me. 



XXXIV. 



FOR THE WALLS OF CIUDAD RODRIGO. 

Herk Craufurd fell, victorious, in the breach, 

Leading his countrymen in that assault 

Which won from haughty France these rescued 

walls ; 
And here entomb'd, far from his native land 
And kindred dust, his honor'd relics rest. 
Well was he versed in war, in the Orient train'd 
Beneath Cornwallis ; then, for many a year. 
Following through arduous and ill-fated fields 
The Austrian banners; on the sea-like shores 
Of Plata next, still by malignant stars 
Pursued ; and in that miserable retreat, 
For which Coruiiia witness'd on her hills 
The pledge of vengeance given. At length he 

saw. 
Long woo'd and well-deserved, the brighter face 
Of Fortune, upon Coa's banks vouchsafed, 
Before Almeida, when Massena found 
The fourfold vantage of his numbers foil'd, 
Before the Briton, and the Portugal, 
There vindicating first his old renown. 
And Craufurd's mind that day presiding there. 
Again was her auspicious countenance 
Upon Busaco's holy heights reveal'd ; 
And when by Torres Vedras, Wellington, 
Wisely secure, defied the boastful French, 
With all their power ; and when Onoro's springs 
Beheld that execrable enemy 
Again chastised beneath the avenging arm. 
Too early here his honorable course 
He closed, and won his noble sepulchre. 
Where should the soldier rest so worthily 
As where he fell .' Be thou his monument, 
O City of Rodrigo, yea, be thou. 
To latest time, his trophy and his tomb ! 
Sultans, or Pharaohs of the elder world, 
Lie not in Mosque or Pyramid enshrined 
Thus gloriously, nor in so proud a grave. 



XXXV. 



TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR-GENERAL 
MACKINNON. 

Son of an old and honorable house, 
Henry Mackinnon from the Hebrides 



Drew his descent, but upon English ground 

An English mother bore him. Dauphiny 

Beheld the blossom of his opening years; 

For hoping in that genial clime to save 

A child of feebler frame, his parents there 

Awhile their sojourn fix'd : and thus it chanced 

That in that generous season, when the heart 

Yet from the world is pure and undefiled. 

Napoleon Bonaparte was his friend. 

The adventurous Corsican, like Henry, then 

Young, and a stranger in the land of France, 

Their frequent and their favor'd guest became, 

Finding a cheerful welcome at all hours. 

Kindness, esteem, and in the English youth 

Quick sympathy of apprehensive mind 

And lofty thought heroic. On the way 

Of life they parted, not to meet again. 

Each follow 'd war, but, oh ! how differently 

Did the two spirits, which till now had grown 

Like two fair plants, it seem'd, of kindred seed, 

Develop in that awful element! 

For never had benignant nature shower'd 

More bounteously than on Mackinnon's head 

Her choicest gifts. Form, features, intellect, 

Were such as might at once command and win 

All hearts. In all relationships approved. 

Son, brother, husband, father, friend, his life 

Was beautiful ; and when in tented fields, 

Such as the soldier sliould be, in the sight 

Of God and man, was he. Poor praise it were 

To speak his worth evinced upon the banks 

Of Douro, Talavera's trophied plain, 

Busaco's summit, and what other days, 

Many and glorious all, illustrated 

His bright career. Worthier of him to say 

That in the midst of camps his manly breast 

Retain'd its youthful virtue ; that he walk'd 

Through blood and evil uncontaminate, 

And that the stern necessity of war 

But nurtured with its painful discipline 

Thoughtful compassion in that gentle soul, 

And feelings such as man should cherish still 

For all of woman born. He met his death 

When at Rodrigo on the breach he stood 

Triumphant; to a soldier's wish it came 

Instant, and in the hour of victory. 

Mothers and maids of Portugal, oh bring 

Your garlands here, and strew his grave with 

flowers ; 
And lead the children to his monument, 
Gray-headed sires, for it is holy ground ! 
For tenderness and valor in his heart, 
As in your own Nunalures, had made 
Their habitation ; for a dearer life 
Never in battle hath been offered up. 
Since in like cause, and in unhappy day, 
By Zutphen's walls the peerless Sydney fell. 
'Tis said that Bonaparte, when he heard 
How thus among the multitude, whose blood 
Cries out to Heaven upon his guilty head. 
His early friend had fallen, was touch'd with grief 
If aught it may avail him, be that thought, 
That brief recurrence of humanity 
In his hard heart, remember'd in his hour. 



190 



INSCRIPTIONS 



XXXVI. 

FOR THE AFFAIR AT ARROYO MOLI- 
NOS. 

He who may chronicle Spain's arduous strife 

Against the Intruder, hath to speak of fields 

Profuselier fed with blood, and victories 

Borne wider on the wings of glad report ; 

Yet shall this town, which from the mill-stream takes 

Its humble name, be storied as the spot 

Where the vain Frenchman, insolent too long 

Of power and of success, first saw the strength 

Of England in prompt enterprise essayed, 

And felt his fortunes ebb, from that day forth 

Swept back upon the refluent tide of war, 

Girard lay here, who late from Caceres, 

Far as his active cavalry could scour, 

Had pillaged and oppress'd the country round ; 

The Spaniard and the Portuguese he scorn'd. 

And deem'd the British soldiers all too slow 

To seize occasion, unalert in war. 

And therefore brave in vain. In such belief 

Secure at night he laid him down to sleep, 

Nor dreamt that these disparaged enemies 

With drum and trumpet should in martial charge 

Sound his reveille. All day their march severe 

They held through wind and drenching rain ; all 

The autumnal tempest unabating raged, [night 

While in their comfortless and open camp 

They cheer'd themselves with patient hope : the 

storm 
Was their ally, and moving in the mist, 
W^hen morning open'd, on the astonish'd foe 
They burst. Soon routed horse and foot, 

French, 
On all sides scattering, fled, on every side 
Beset, and every where pursued, with loss 
Of half their numbers captured, their whole stores, 
And all their gathered plunder. 'Twas a day 
Of surest omen, such as fill'd with joy 
True English hearts. No happier peals have e'er 
Been roll'd abroad from town and village tower 
Than gladden'd then with their exultant sound 
Salopian vales ; and flowing cups were brimm'd 
All round the Wrekin to Sir Rowland's name. 



the 



XXXVII. 



WRITTEN IN AN UNPUBLISHED VOL- 
UME OF LETTERS AND MISCELLA- 
NEOUS PAPERS, BY BARRE CHARLES 
ROBERTS. 

Not often hath the cold, insensate earth 
Closed over such fair hopes, as when the grave 
Received young Barry's perishable part ; 
Nor death destroyed so sweet a dream of life. 
Nature, who sometimes lavisheth her gifts 
With fatal bounty, had conferred on him 
Even such endowments as parental love 



Might in its wisest prayer have ask'd of Heaven , 

An intellect that, choosing for itself 

The better part, went forth into the fields 

Of knowledge, and with never-sated thirst 

Drank of the living springs ; a judgment calm 

And clear ; a heart affectionate ; a soul 

Within whose quiet sphere no vanities 

Or low desires had place. Nor were the seeds 

Of excellence thus largely given, and left 

To struggle with impediment of clime 

Austere, or niggard soil ; all circumstance 

Of happy fortune was to him vouchsafed ; 

His way of life was as through garden-walks 

Wherein no thorns are seen, save such as grow, 

Types of our human state, with fruits and flowers. 

In all things favored thus auspiciously. 

But in his father most. An intercourse 

So beautiful no former record shows 

In such relationship displayed, where through 

Familiar friendship's perfect confidence, 

The father's ever-watchful tenderness 

Meets ever in the son's entire respect 

Its due return devout, and playful love 

Mingles with every thing, and sheds o'er all 

A sunshine of its own. Should we then say 

The parents purchased at too dear a cost 

This deep delight, the deepest, purest joy [saw 

Which Heaven hath here assign'd us, when they 

Their child of hope, just in the May of life, 

Beneath a slow and cankering malady. 

With irremediable decay consumed. 

Sink to the untimely grave ? Oh, think not thus I 

Nor deem that such long anguish, and the grief 

Which in the inmost soul doth strike its roots 

There to abide through time, can overweigh 

The blessings which have been, and yet shall be ' 

Think not that He in whom we live, doth mock 

Our dearest aspirations ! Think not love. 

Genius, and virtue should inhere alone 

In mere mortality, and Earth put out 

The sparks which are of Heaven ! We are not left 

In darkness, nor devoid of hope. The Light 

Of Faith hath risen to us : the vanquish'd Grave 

To us the great consolatory truth 

Proclaim'd that He who wounds will heal; and 

Death 
Opening the gates of Immortality, 
The spirits whom it hath dissevered here, 
In everlasting union reunite. 

Keswick, 1814. 



XXXVIII. 
EPITAPH. 



Time and the world, whose magnitude and weight 

Bear on us in this Now, and hold us here 

To earth enthrall'd, — what are they in the Past.? 

And in the prospect of the immortal Soul 

How poor a speck ! Not here her resting-place, 

Her portion is not here ; and happiest they 

Who, gathering early all that Earth can give, 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



19X 



Shake off its mortal coil, and speed for Heaven. 
Such fate had he whose relics moulder here. 
Few were his years, but yet enough to teach 
Love, duty, generous feelings, high desires, 
Faith, hope, devotion : and what more could length 
Of days have brought him ? What, but vanity, 
Joys frailer even than health or human life; 
Temptation, sin and sorrow, both too sure, 
Evils that wound, and cares that fret the heart. 
Repine not, therefore, ye who love the dead. 



XXXIX. 



EPITAPH. 



Some there will be to whom, as here they read, 
While yet these lines are from the chisel sharp. 
The name of Clement Francis, will recall 
His countenance benign; and some who knew 
What stores of knowledge and what humble 

thoughts, 
What wise desires, what cheerful piety, 
In happy union form'd the character 
Which faithfully impress'd his aspect meek. 
And others too there are, who in their hearts 
Will bear the memory of his worth enshrined, 
For tender and for reverential thoughts, 
When grief hath had its course, a life-long theme. 
A little while, and these, who to the truth 
Of this poor tributary strain could bear 
Their witness, will themselves have past away, 
And this cold marble monument present 
Words which can then within no living mind 
Create the ideal form they once evoked ; 
This, then, the sole memorial of the dead. 
So be it. Only that which was of earth 
Hath perish'd ; only that which was infirm, 
Mortal, corruptible, and brought with it 
The seed connate of death. A place in Time 
Is given us, only that we may prepare 
Our portion for Eternity : the Soul 
Possesseth there what treasures for itself. 
Wise to salvation, it laid up in Heaven. 
O Man, take thou this lesson from the Grave ! 
There too all true affections shall revive. 
To fade no more ; all losses be restored. 
All griefs be heal'd, all holy hopes fulfill'd. 



INSCRIPTIONS FOR THE CALEDO- 
NIAN CANAL. 



XL. 



1. AT CLACHNACHARRY. 

Athwart the island here, from sea to sea, 
Between these mountain barriers, the Great Glen 
Of Scotland offers to the traveller. 



Through wilds impervious else, an easy path, 

Along the shore of rivers and of lakes. 

In line continuous, whence the waters flow 

Dividing east and west. Thus had they held 

For untold centuries their perpetual course 

Unprofited, till in the Georgian age 

This mighty work was plann'd, which should unite 

The lakes, control the innavigable streams. 

And through the bowels of the land deduce 

A way, where vessels which must else have braved 

The formidable Cape, and have essayed 

The perils of the Hyperborean Sea, 

Might from the Baltic to the Atlantic deep 

Pass and repass at will. So when the storm 

Careers abroad, may they securely here. 

Through birchen groves, green fields, and pastoral 

hills. 
Pursue their voyage home. Humanity 
May boast this proud expenditure, begun 
By Britain in a time of arduous war; 
Through all the efforts and emergencies 
Of that long strife continued, and achieved 
After her triumph, even at the time 
When national burdens bearing on the state 
Were felt with heaviest pressure. Such expense 
Is best economy. In growing wealth. 
Comfort, and spreading industry, behold 
The fruits immediate ! And, in days to come, 
Fitly shall this great British work be named 
AVith whatsoe'er of most magnificence 
For public use, Rome in her plenitude 
Of power effected, or all-glorious Greece, 
Or Egypt, mother-land of all the arts. 



XLI. 

2. AT FORT AUGUSTUS. 

Thou who hast reach 'd this level where the glede, 
Wheeling between the mountains in mild air, 
Eastward or westward, as his gyre inclines, 
Descries the German or the Atlantic Sea, 
Pause here; and, as thou seest the ship pursue 
Her easy way serene, call thou to mind 
By what exertions of victorious art 
The way was open'd. Fourteen times upheaved. 
The vessel hath ascended, since she changed 
The salt sea water for the highland lymph; 
As oft in imperceptible descent 
Must, step by step, be lower'd, before she woo 
The ocean breeze again. Thou hast beheld 
What basins, most capacious of their kind, 
Enclose her, while the obedient element 
Lifts or depones its burden. Thou hast seen 
The torrent, hurrying from its native hills. 
Pass underneath the broad canal inhumed. 
Then issue harmless thence ; the rivulet. 
Admitted by its intake peaceably. 
Forthwith by gentle overfall discharged : 
And haply too thou hast observed the herds 
Frequent their vaulted path, unconscious they 
That the wide waters on the long, low arch 
Above them lie sustained. What other works 



192 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



Science, audacious in emprise, hath wrought. 

Meet not the eye, but well may fill the mind. 

Not from the bowels of the land alone. 

From lake and stream hath their diluvial wreck 

Been scoop'd to form this navigable way ; 

Huge rivers were controll'd, or from their course 

Shoulder'd aside ; and at the eastern mouth, 

Where the salt ooze denied a resting-place. 

There were the deep foundations laid, by weight 

On weight immersed, and pile on pile down-driven, 

Till steadfast as the everlasting rocks 

The massive outwork stands. Contemplate now 

What days and nights of thought, what years of toil, 

What inexhaustive springs of public wealth 

The vast design required ; the immediate good, 

The future benefit progressive still; 

And thou wilt pay thy tribute of due praise 

To those whose counsels, whose decrees, whose 

care, 
For after ages formed the generous work. 



XLII. 

3. AT BANAVIE. 

Where these capacious basins, by the laws 

Of the subjacent element receive 

The ship, descending or upraised, eight times, 

From stage to stage with unfelt agency 

Translated ; fitliest may the marble here 

Record the Architect's immortal name. 

Telford it was, by whose presiding mind 

The whole great work was plann'd and perfected 

Telford, who o'er the vale of Cambrian Dee, 

Aloft in air, at giddy height upborne, 

Carried his navigable road, and hung 

High o'er Menai's straits the bending bridge; 

Structures of more ambitious enterprise 

Than minstrels in the age of old romance 

To their own Merlin's magic lore ascribed. 

Nor hath he for his native land perform' d 

Less in this proud design; and where his piers 

Around her coast from many a fisher's creek 

Unshelter'd else, and many an ample port. 

Repel the assailing storm ; and where his roads 

In beautiful and sinuous line far seen, 

Wind with the vale, and win the long ascent, 

Now o'er the deep morass sustain'd, and now 

Across ravine, or glen, or estuary. 

Opening a passage through the wilds subdued. 



XLIII. 

EPITAPH IN BUTLEIGH CHURCH. 

Divided far by death were they, whose names 
In honor liere united, as in birth. 
This monumental verse records. They drew 
In Dorset's healthy vales their natal breath. 
And from these shores beheld the ocean first, 
Whereon, in early youth, with one accord 



They chose their way of fortune ; to that course 

By Hood and Bridport's bright example drawn, 

Their kinsmen, children of this place, and sons 

Of one, who in his faithful ministry 

Inculcated within these hallowed walls 

The truths in mercy to mankind reveal'd. 

Worthy were these three brethren each to add 

New honors to the already honor'd name; 

But Arthur, in the morning of his day, 

Perish'd amid the Caribbean sea. 

When the Pomona, by a hurricane 

Whirl'd, riven and overwhelmed, with all her crew 

Into the deep went down. A longer date 

To Alexander was assign'd, for hope. 

For fair ambition, and for fond regret, 

Alas, how short ! for duty, for desert. 

Sufficing ; and, while Time preserves the roll 

Of Britain's naval feats, for good report. 

A boy, with Cook he rounded the great globe ; 

A youth, in many a celebrated fight 

With Rodney had his part ; and having reach'd 

Life's middle stage, engaging ship to ship. 

When the French Hercules, a gallant foe, 

Struck to the British Mars his three-striped flag, 

He fell, in the moment of his victory. 

Here his remains in sure and certain hope 

Are laid, until the hour when Earth and Sea 

Shall render up their dead. One brother yet ^ 

Survived, with Keppel and with Rodney train'd 

In battles, with the Lord of Nile approved. 

Ere in command he worthily upheld 

Old England's high prerogative. In the east, 

The west, the Baltic and the Midland seas. 

Yea, wheresoever hostile fleets have plough'd 

The ensanguined deep, his thunders have been 

heard. 
His flag in brave defiance hath been seen ; 
And bravest enemies at Sir Samuel's name 
Felt fatal presage, in their inmost heart, 
Of unavertible defeat foredoom'd. 
Thus in the path of glory he rode on, 
Victorious alway, adding praise to praise ; 
Till full of honors, not of years, beneath 
The venom of the infected clime he sunk, 
On Coromandel's coast, completing there 
His service, only when his life was spent. 

To the three brethren, Alexander's son, 
(Sole scion he in whom their line survived,) 
With English feeling, and the deeper sense 
Of filial duty, consecrates this tomb. 

1827. 



XLIV. 
EPITAPH. 



To Butler's venerable memory. 

By private gratitude for public worth. 

This monument is raised, here where twelve years 

Meekly the blameless Prelate exercised 

His pastoral charge ; and whither, though removed 

A little while to Durham's wider See, 



INSCRIPTIONS. 



193 



His mortal relics were conveyed to rest. 

Born in dissent, and in the school of schism 

Bred, he withstood the withering influence 

Of that unwholesome nurture. To the Church, 

In strength of mind mature and judgment clear, 

A convert, in sincerity of heart 

Seeking the truth, deliberately convinced. 

And finding there the truth he sought, he came. 

In honor must his high desert be held 

While there is any virtue, any praise ; 

For he it was whose gifted intellect 

First apprehended, and developed first 

The analogy connate, which in its course 

And constitution Nature manifests 

To the Creator's word and will divine ; 

And in the depth of that great argument 

Laying his firm foundation, built thereon 

Proofs never to be shaken of the truths 

Reveal'd from Heaven in mercy to mankind ; 

Allying thus Philosophy with Faith, 

And finding in things seen and known the type 

And evidence of those within the veil. 



XLV. 

DEDICATION OF THE AUTHOr's COLLOQUIES 

ON THE PROGRESS AND PROSPECTS 

OF SOCIETY. 



TO THE 

MEMORY OF THE REV. HERBERT HILL, 

Formerly Student of Christ Church, Oxford; successively 
Chaplain to the British Factories at Porto and at Lisbon ; 
and late Rector of Streathain ; wlio was released from tliis 
life, Sept. 19, 1828, in the 80th year of his age. 

Not upon marble or sepulchral brass 
Have I the record of thy worth inscribed, 
Dear Uncle ! nor from Chantrey's chisel ask'd 
A. monumental statue, which might wear 
Through many an age thy venerable form. 
Such tribute, were I rich in this world's wealth, 
Should rightfully be rendered, in discharge 
3f grateful duty, to the world evinced 
When testifying so by outward sign 
[ts deep and inmost sense. But what I can 
[s rendered piously, prefixing here 
Thy perfect lineaments, two centuries 
Before thy birth by Holbein's happy hand 
Prefigured thus. It is the portraiture 
3f More, the mild, the learned, and the good; 
Traced in that better stage of human life, 
tVhen vain imaginations, troublous thoughts, 
^nd hopes and fears have had their course, and left 
The intellect composed, the heart at rest, 
'for yet decay hath touch'd our mortal frame. 
3uch was the man whom Henry, of desert 
^ppreciant alway, chose for highest trust ; 
Vhom England in that eminence approved ; 
Vhom Europe honored, and Erasmus loved. 
25 



Such was he ere heart-hardening bigotry 
Obscured his spirit, made him with himself 
Discordant, and contracting then his brow, 
With sour defeature marr'd his countenance. 
What he was, in his best and happiest time, 
Even such wert thou, dear Uncle ! such thy look 
Benign and thoughtful ; such thy placid mien ; 
Thine eye serene, significant, and strong, 
Bright in its quietness, yet brightening oft 
With quick emotion of benevolence. 
Or flash of active fancy, and that mirth 
Which aye with sober wisdom well accords. 
Nor ever did true Nature, with more nice 
Exactitude, fit to the inner man 
The fleshly mould, than when she stamp'd on thme 
Her best credentials, and bestow 'd on thee 
An aspect, to whose sure benignity 
Beasts with instinctive confidence could trust, 
Which at a glance obtain'd respect from men, 
And won at once good will from all the good. 

Such as in semblance, such in word and deed 

Lisbon beheld him, when for many a year 

The even tenor of his spotless life 

Adorn'd the English Church, — her minister, 

In that stronghold of Rome's Idolatry, 

To God and man approved. What Englishman, 

Who in those peaceful days of Portugal 

Resorted thither, curious to observe 

Her cities, and the works and ways of men. 

But souglit him, and from his abundant stores 

Of knowledge profited.'' What stricken one. 

Sent thither to protract a living death, 

Forlorn perhaps, and friendless else, but found 

A friend in him ? What mourners, — who had seen 

The object of their agonizing hopes 

In that sad cypress ground deposited. 

Wherein so many a flower of British growth, 

Untimely faded and cut down, is laid. 

In foreign earth compress'd, — but bore away 

A life-long sense of his compassionate care, 

His Christian goodness ? Faithful shepherd he, 

And vigilant against the wolves, who, there, 

If entrance might be won, would straight beset 

The dying stranger, and with merciless zeal 

Bay the death-bed. In every family 

Throughout his fold was he the welcome guest. 

Alike to every generation dear. 

The children's favorite, and the grandsire's friend, 

Tried, trusted and beloved. So liberal, too. 

In secret alms, even to his utmost means. 

That they who served him, and who saw in part 

The channels where his constant bounty ran, 

Maugre their own uncharitable faith, 

Believed him, for his works, secure of Heaven. 

It would have been a grief for me to think 

The features, which so perfectly express'd 

That excellent mind, should irretrievably 

From earth have past away, existing now 

Only in some few faithful memories 

Insoul'd, and not by any limner's skill 

To be imbodied thence. A blessing then 

On him, in whose prophetic counterfeit 

Preserved, the children now, who were the crown 

Of his old age, may see their father's face, 



194 



CARMEN TRIUMPHALE. 



Here to the very life portray 'd, as when 
Spain's mountain passes, and her ilex woods, 
And fragant wildernesses, side by side, 
With him 1 traversed, in my morn of youth. 
And gather'd knowledge from his full discourse. 
Often, in former years, I pointed out, 
Well-pleased, the casual portrait, which so well 
Assorted in all points ; and haply since, 
While lingering o'er this meditative work. 
Sometimes that likeness, not unconsciously, 
Hath tinged the strain ; and therefore, for the sake 
Of this resemblance, are these volumes now 
Thus to his memory properly inscribed. 

O friend ! O more than father ! whom I found 

Forbearing alway, alway kind ; to whom 

No gratitude can speak the debt I owe ; 

Far on their earthly pilgrimage advanced 

Are they who knew thee when we drew the breath 

Of that delicious clime ! The most are gone ; 

And whoso yet survive of those who then 

Were in their summer season, on the tree 

Of life hang here and there like wintry leaves, 

Which the first breeze will from the bough bring 

down. 
1, too, am in the sear, the yellow leaf. 
And yet (no wish is nearer to my heart) 
One arduous labor more, as unto thee 
In duty bound, full fain would I complete, 
(So Heaven permit,) recording faithfully 
The heroic rise, the glories, the decline, 
Of that fallen country, dear to us, wherein 
The better portion of thy days was past ; 
And where, in fruitful intercourse with thee. 
My intellectual life received betimes 
The bias it hath kept. Poor Portugal, 
In us thou harboredst no ungrateful guests ! 
We loved thee well ; Mother magnanimous 
Of mighty intellects and faithful hearts, — 
For such in other times thou wert, nor yet 
To be despair'd of, for not yet, methinks, 
Degenerate wholly, — yes, we loved thee well ! 
And in thy moving story, (so but life 
Be given me to mature the gathered store 
Of thirty years,) poet and politic, 
And Christian sage, (only philosopher 
Who from the Well of living water drinks 
Never to thirst again,) shall find, I ween, 
For fancy, and for profitable thought, 
Abundant food. 

Alas ! should this be given, 
Such consummation of my work will now 
Be but a mournful close, the one being gone, 
Whom to have satisfied was still to me 
A pure reward, outweighing far all breath 
Of public praise. O friend revered, O guide 
And fellow-laborer in this ample field, 
How large a portion of myself hath past 
With thee, from earth to heaven ! — Thus they 

who reach 
Gray hairs die piecemeal. But in good old age 
Thou hast departed ; not to be bewail'd, — 
Oh no ! The promise on the Mount vouchsafed, 
Nor abrogate by any later law 
Reveal'd to man, — that promise, as by thee 



Full piously deserved, was faithfully 
In thee fulfill'd, and in the land thy days 
Were long. 1 would not, as I saw thee latst, 
For a king's ransom, have detain'd thee here, — 
Bent, like the antique sculptor's limbless trunk. 
By chronic pain, yet with thine eye unquench'd, 
The ear undimm'd, the mind retentive still. 
The heart unchanged, the intellectual lamp 
Burning in its corporeal sepulchre. 
No ; not if human wishes had had power 
To have suspended Nature's constant work. 
Would they who loved thee have detain'd thee thus. 
Waiting for death. 

That trance is over. Thou 
Art enter'd on thy heavenly heritage ; 
And I, whose dial of mortality 
Points to the eleventh hour, shall follow soon. 
Meantime, with dutiful and patient hope, 
I labor that our names conjoin'd may long 
Survive, in honor one day to be held 
Where old Lisboa from her hills o'erlooks 
Expanded Tagus, with its populous shores 
And pine woods, to Palmella's crested height : 
Nor there alone ; but in those rising realms 
Where now the offsets of the Lusian tree 
Push forth their vigorous shoots, — from central 

plains. 
Whence rivers flow divergent, to the gulf 
Southward, where wild Parana disembogues 
A sea-like stream ; and northward, in a world 
Of forests, where huge Orellana clips 
His thousand islands with his thousand arms. 



CARMEN TRIUMPHALE, 

FOR THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE YEAR 1814; 



Mi justitiam confirmavere triumphi, 
Prasentes docuere Deos. 

Claudian. 



I. 

In happy hour doth he receive 

The Laurel, meed of famous Bards of yore, 

Which Dry den and diviner Spenser wore, — 

In happy hour, and well may he rejoice, 

Whose earliest task must be 

To raise the exultant hymn for victory, 

And join a nation's joy with harp and voice, 

Pouring the strain of triumph on the wind. 

Glory to God, his song, Deliverance for Mankind 

II. 

Wake, lute and harp ! My soul, take up the strain , 

Glory to God ! Deliverance for Mankind ! 

Joy — for all Nations, joy ! But most for thee, | 

Who hast so nobly fill'd thy part assign'd, 

O England ! O my glorious native land ! 

For thou in evil days didst stand 

Against leagued Europe all in arms array'd, 

Single and undismay'd. 

Thy hope in Heaven and in thine own right hand 



CARMEN TRIUMPHALE 



195 



Now are thy virtuous efforts overpaid ; 
Thy generous counsels now their guerdon find ; 
Glory to God I Deliverance for Mankind ! 

III. 

Dread was the strife ; for mighty was the foe 

Who sought with his whole strength thy overthrow. 

The Nations bow'd before him ; some in war 

Subdued, some yielding to superior art; 

Submiss, they follow'd his victorious car. 

Their Kings, like Satraps, waited round his throne, 

For Britain's ruin and their own. 

By force or fraud in monstrous league combined. 

Alone, in that disastrous hour, 

Britain stood firm, and braved his power ; 

Alone she fought the battles of mankind. 

IV. 

O virtue which, above all former fame. 

Exalts her venerable name ! 

O joy of joys for every British breast ! 

That with that mighty peril full in view. 

The Queen of Ocean to herself was true ! 

That no weak heart, no abject mind possess'd 

Her counsels, to abase her lofty crest, 

(Then had she sunk in everlasting shame,) 

But ready still to succor the oppress'd. 

Her Red Cross floated on the waves unfurl'd, 

Offering Redemption to the groaning world. 



First from his trance the heroic Spaniard woke ; 

His chains he broke. 

And casting off his neck the treacherous yoke. 

He call'd on England, on his generous foe : 

For well he knew that wheresoe'er 

Wise policy prevail'd, or brave despair, 

Thither would Britain's liberal succors flow. 

Her arm be present there. 

Then, too, regenerate Portugal display 'd 

Her ancient virtue, dormant all-too-long. 

Rising against intolerable wrong. 

On England, on her old ally, for aid 

The faithful nation call'd in her distress : 

And well that old ally the call obey'd. 

Well was that faithful friendship then repaid. 

VI. 

Say, from thy trophied field, how well, 

Vimeiro ! Rocky Douro, tell ! 

And thou, Busaco, on whose sacred height 

The astonished Carmelite, 

While those unwonted thunders shook his cell, 

Join'd with his prayers the fervor of the fight. 

Bear witness those Old Towers, where many a 

day 

Waiting with foresight calm the fitting hour. 

The Wellesley, gathering strength in wise delay. 

Defied the Tyrant's undivided power. 

Swore not the boastful Frenchman, in his might. 

Into the sea to drive his Island foe ^ 

Tagus and Zezere, in secret night. 

Ye saw that host of ruffians take their flight ! 

And in the Svm's broad light 

Onoro's Springs beheld their overthrow. 



VII. 

Patient of loss, profuse of life, 

Meantime had Spain endured the strife ; 

And though she saw her cities yield, 

Her armies scatter'd in the field, 

Her strongest bulwarks fall ; 

The danger undismay'd she view'd, 

Knowing that nought could e'er appal 

The Spaniard's fortitude. 

What though the Tyrant, drunk with power, 

Might vaunt himself, in impious hour, 

Lord and Disposer of this earthly ball.? 

Her cause is just, and Heaven is over all. 

VIII. 

Therefore no thought of fear debased 

Her judgment, nor her acts disgraced. 

To every ill, but not to shame resign'd, 

All sufferings, all calamities she bore. 

She bade the people call to mind 

Their heroes of the days of yore, 

Pelayo and the Campeador, 

With all who, once in battle strong, 

Lived still in story and in song. 

Against the Moor, age after age, 

Their stubborn warfare did they wage ; 

Age afler age, from sire to son. 

The hallowed sword was handed down ; 

Nor did they from that warfare cease. 

And sheathe that hallowed sword in peace, 

Until the work was done. 

IX. 

Thus, in the famous days of yore. 

Their fathers triumph'd o'er the Moor. 

They gloried in his overthrow, 

But touch'd not with reproach his gallant name; 

For fairly, and with hostile aim profest. 

The Moor had rear'd his haughty crest. 

An open, honorable foe ; 

But as a friend the treacherous Frenchman came, 

And Spain received him as a guest. 

Think what your fathers were ! she cried ; 

Think what ye are, in sufferings tried ; 
And think of what your sons must be — 
Even as ye make them — slaves or free ! 



Strains such as these from Spain's thrte seas, 

And from the farthest Pyrenees, 

Rung through the region. Vengeance was the 

word ; 

One impulse to all hearts at once was given ; 

From every voice the sacred cry was heard. 

And borne abroad by all the winds of Heaven. 

Heaven, too, to whom the Spaniards look'd for aid, 

A spirit equal to the hour bestow'd ; 

And gloriously the debt they paid, 

Which to their valiant ancestors they owed ; 

And gloriously against the power of France 

Maintain'd their children's proud inheritance. 

Their steady purpose no defeat could move. 

No horrors could abate their constant mind ; 

Hope had its source and resting-place above. 



196 



CARMEN TRIUMPHALE, 



And they, to loss of all on earth resign'd, 

SufFer'd, to save their country and mankind. 

What strain heroic might suffice to tell 

How Zaragoza stood, and how she fell ? 

Ne'er since yon sun began his daily round, 

Was higher virtue, holier valor, found. 

Than on that consecrated ground. 

XI. 

Alone the noble Nation stood, 
When from Coruiia, in the main. 
The star of England set in blood. 

Erelong on Talavera's plain. 

That star resplendent rose again ; 

And though that day was doom'd to be 

A day of frustrate victory. 

Not vainly bled the brave ; 

For French and Spaniard there might see 

That England's arm was strong to save ; 

Fair promise there the Wellesley gave, 

And well in sight of Earth and Heaven, 

Did he redeem the pledge which there was given. 

XH. 

Lord of Conquest, heir of Fame, 

From rescued Portugal he came. 

Rodrigo's walls in vain oppose; 

In vain thy bulwarks, Badajoz ; 

And Salamanca's heights proclaim 

The Conqueror's praise, the Wellesley's name. 

Oh, had the sun stood still that hour. 

When Marmont and his broken power 

Fled from their field of shame ! 

Spain felt through all her realms the electric blow; 

Cadiz in peace expands her gates again ; 

And Betis, who, to bondage long resign'd, 

Flow'd mournfully along the silent plain. 

Into her joyful bosom unconfined, 

Receives once more the treasures of the main. 

XIII. 

What now shall check the Wellesley, when at 

length 

Onward he goes, rejoicing in his strength ? 

From Douro, from Castile's extended plain, 

The foe, a numerous band. 

Retire ; amid the heights which overhang 

Dark Ebro's bed, they think to make their stand. 

He reads their purpose, and prevents their speed; 

And still, as they recede, 

Impetuously he presses on their way ; 

Till by Vittoria's walls they stood at bay, 

And drew their battle up in fair array. 

XIV. 

Vain their array, their valor vain : 

There did the practised Frenchman find 

A master arm, a master mind ! 

Behold his veteran army driven 

Like dust before the breath of Heaven, 

Like leaves before the autumnal wind ! 

Now, Britain, now thy brow with laurels blind ; 

Raise now the song of joy for rescued Spain ! 

And, Europe, take thou up the awakening strain — 

Glory to God ! Deliverance for Mankind ! 



XV. 

From Spain the living spark went forth : 

The flame hath caught, the flame is spread ! 

It warms, — it fires the farthest North. 

Behold ! the awaken' d Moscovite 

Meets the Tyrant in his might; 

The Brandenburg, at Freedom's call, 

Rises more glorious from his fall ; 

And Frederic, best and greatest of the name, 

Treads in the path of duty and of fame. 

See Austria from her painful trance awake ! 

The breath of God goes forth, — the dry bones shake ! 

Up, Germany ! — with all thy nations, rise I 

Land of the virtuous and the wise. 

No longer let that free, that mighty mind 

Endure its shame ! She rose as from the dead, 

She broke her chains upon the oppressor's head — 

Glory to God ! Deliverance for Mankind ! 

XVI. 

Open thy gates, O Hanover ! display 

Thy loyal banners to the day ; 

Receive thy old illustrious line once more ! 

Beneath an Upstart's yoke oppress'd, 
Long hath it been thy fortune to deplore 
That line, whose fostering and paternal sway 

So many an age thy grateful children blest. 

The yoke is broken now : — A mightier hand 

Hath dash'd — in pieces dash'd — the iron rod. 

To meet her Princes, the deliver'd land 

Pours her rejoicing multitudes abroad; 

The happy bells, from every town and tower. 

Roll their glad peals upon the joyful wind; 

And from all hearts and tongues, with one consent. 

The high thanksgiving strain to Heaven is sent, — 

Glory to God ! Deliverance for Mankind ! 

XVII. 

Egmont and Horn, heard ye that holy cry, 

Martyrs of Freedom, from your seats in Heaven .!* 

And William the Deliverer, doth thine eye 

Regard from yon empyreal realm the land 

For which thy blood was given .? 

What ills hath that poor Country suffer'd long ! 

Deceived, despised, and plunder'd, and oppress'd, 

Mockery and insult aggravating wrong ! 

Severely she her errors hath atoned, 

And long in anguish groan'd, 

Wearing the patient semblance of despair, 

While fervent curses rose with every prayer ; 

In mercy Heaven at length its ear inclined ; 

The avenging armies of the North draw nigh ; 

Joy for the injured Hollander ! — the cry 

Of Orange rends the sky ! 

All hearts are now in one good cause combined, 

Once more that flag triumphant floats on high, — 

Glory to God I Deliverance for Mankind I 

XVIII. 

When shall the Dove go forth ? Oh, when 
Shall Peace return among the Sons of Men ? 
Hasten, benignant Heaven, the blessed day ! 

Justice must go before. 
And Retribution must make plain the way ; 



NOTES TO CARMEN TRI U MPH AL E. 



107 



Force must be crushed by Force, 

The power of Evil by the power of Good, 

Ere Order bless the suffering world once more, 

Or Peace return again. 

Hold then right on in your auspicious course. 

Ye Princes, and ye People, hold right on ! 

Your task not yet is done ; 

Pursue the blow, — ye know your foe, — 

Complete the happy work so well begun. 

Hold on, and be your aim, with all your strength, 

Loudly proclam'd and steadily pursued ; 

So shall this fatal Tyranny at length 

Before the arms of Freedom fall subdued. 

Then, when the waters of the flood abate, 

The Dove her resting-place secure may find ; 

And France restored, and shaking off her chain. 

Shall join the Avengers in the joyful strain, 

Glory to God ! Deliverance for Mankind ! 



NOTES 



Tliat no weaJc heart, no abject mind possessed 
Her counsels. — IV. 

" Can any man of sense," said the Edinburgh Review, 
" does any plain, unaffected man, above the level of a drivel- 
ling courtier, or a feeble fanatic, dare to say he can look at 
this impending contest, without trembling, every inch of him, 
for the result ? »— JVo. XXir. p. 441. 

With all proper deference to so eminent a critic, I would 
venture to observe, that trembling has been usually supposed 
to be a symptom of feebleness, and tliat the case in point has 
certainly not belied the received opinion. 



Onoro^s Springs. — V. 

Fuentes d'Onoro. This name has sometimes been ren- 
dered Fountains of Honor, by an easy mistake, or a pardon- 
able license. 



Bear witness, those Old Toicers. — VI. 

Torres Vedias. Turres Vcteres, — a name so old as to 
have been given when the Latin tongue was the language of 
Portugal. This town is said to have been founded by the 
Turduli, a short time before the commencement of the 
Christian era. 

In remembering the lines of Torres Vedras, the opinion 
of the wise men of the North ought not to be forgotten — " If 
they (the French) do not make an effort to drive us out of 
Portugal, it is because we are better there than any where 
else. We fear they will not leave us on the Tagus many 
days longer than suits their own purposes." — Edinburgh Rev. 
JVo. XXVII. p. 263. 

The opinion is delivered with happy precision of language. 
— Our troops were indeed, to use tiie same neat and felici- 
tous expression, ' better there than any where else.^ 



And thou, Bttsaco, on whose sacred height 

Tlie astonished Carmelite, 
While those unwonted thunders shook hli cell, 
Join'd with his prayers the fervor of the fight. — VI. 

Of Busaco, which is now as memorable in the military, as 
it has long been in the monastic history of Portugal, I have 
given an account in the second volume of Omniana. Dona 
Bernarda Ferreira's poem upon this venerable place contains 
much interesting and some beautiful description. The first 
iHtellij^ence of the battle which reached England was in a 



letter written from tliis Convent by a Portuguese Commissary. 
" I have the happiness to acquaint you," said the writer, 
" that this night the French lost nine thousand men near the 
Convent of Busaco. — I beg you not to consider this news as 
a fiction, — for I, from wliere I am, saw them fall. This 
place appears like the antechamber of Hell." — What a con- 
trast to the images which the following extracts present 1 

Es pequena aquella Iglesia, 

Mas para pobres bastante ; 

Pobre de todo adere^o 

Con que el rico suele oruarse. 
No ay alii plata, ni oro, 

Telas y sedas no valen 

Donde reyna la pobreza, 

Q,ue no para en bienes tales 
Asperando a los del Cielo 

Los demas tiene por males, 

Y rica de altos desseos 
Menosprecia vanidades 

En el retablo se mira 

El soberano estandarte, 

Lecho donde con la Iglesia 

Ciuiso Christo desposarse j 
La tabla donde se salva 

El misero naufragante 

Del pielugo de la culpa, 

Y a puerto glorioso sale. 
Con perfecion y concierto 

Se adere^an los altares 

(por manos de aquellos santos) 

De bellas flores suaves. 
En toscos vasos de corcho 

Lustran texidos con arte 

Los variados ramilletes 

Mas que en el oro el esmalte. 
La florida rama verde 

Que en aquellos bosques nace, 

Da colgaduras al templo, 

Y los brocados abate 
En dias de mayor fiesta 

Esto con excesses hazen, 

Y al suclo por alcatifas 
Diversas flores reparten. 

Huele el divino aposento, 

Hurtando sutil el ayre 

A las rosas y boninas 

Mil olores que derrame. 
Humildes estan las celdas 

De aquellos humildes padres, 

Cercando al sacro edificio 

Do tienen su caro amante 
Cada celda muy pequena 

Encierra pobreza grande. 

Que en competencia sus dueSos 

Gustan de mortificarse. 
Despues que alii entro el silencio, 

No quiso que mas sonasse 

Ruydo que aquel que forma 

Entre los ramos el ayre ; 
El de las fuentes y arroyos, 

Y de las parleras aves, 
Porque si ellos por Dios lloran, 
Ellas sus lagrimas canten. 

De corcho tosco las puertas, 

Tambien de pobreza imagen, 

Son mas bellas en sus ojos 

Que los Toscanos portales. 
Es su cama estrecha tabla 

Do apenas tendidos caben, 

Porque hasta en ella durmiendo, 

Crucificados descansen. 
Una Cruz, y calavara 

Quf» *ienen siempre delante, 

Con asperas disciplinas 

Tenidas de propria sangre, 
Son alhajas de su casa ; 

Y en aquellas soledades 
Hablando con sabios mudo« 



198 



NOTES ro CARMEN TRIUMPHALE. 



Suelen ltd vez aliviarse ; 

due a los hijos de Theresa 
Tanto los libros aplacen, 
Clue en los yermos mas lemotos 
Les dan del dia una parte. 

Tiene cada qual un huerto 

(porque en el pueda ocuparse) 
De arboles de espino, y flores 
Siempre de olor liberales. 

Libres ansi del tumulto 

Q,ue embara^a los mortales, 
Ferverosas oraciones 
Mandan a Dios cada instante. 

Sus devotos exercicios 

No se los perturba nadie ; 
Ni sus peniteneias hallan 
Testigos que las estranen. 

Q.ual con cadenas de puas 

Tan duras como diamantes, 
Agudas y rigurosas 
Cine su afligida carne 5 

Qual con cilicios y sogas 

Asperrimas, intractables, 
De que jamas se les quitan 
Las cavernosas senales. 



Aquel divino desierto 

Que Busaco denoraina, 
Y es tambien denominado 
Del arbol de nuestra vida, 

Se muestra sembrado a trechos 
De solitarias Ermitas, 
Que en espacios desiguales 
Unas de las otras distan. 

Parece tocan las nubes, 

Para servirles de sillas, 
Las que coronando peSas 
Apenas toca la vista. 

Yazen otras por los valles 
En las entraSas benignas 
De nuestra madre comun 
Que humilde se las inclina. 

Qual en las concavidades 
De las rocas escondida, 
Que labro naturaleza 
Con perfecion infinita. 

Qual entre las arboledas 
De verde rama vestida, 
Informandoles de gracias 
Sus formas vegetativas. 

Qual del cristalino arroyo 

Las bellas margenes pisa, 
Por lavar los pies descal^os 
Entre sus Candidas guijas, 

Qual en el tronco del arbol 

Dentro en sus cortezas mismas, 
Por veneer en gracia al arte 
Naturaleza fabrica. 

Unas aprieta con lazos 

Aquella planta lasciva 

Que hasta las piedras abra^a 

Con ser tan duras y frias. 

Otras de amarillos musgos 
Por el techo se matizan, 
Verdes, obscures, y negros, 

Y de color de ceniza. 
Toscos alii los portales 

De yerva y moho se pintan, 

Y de salitre se labran 
Que en gotas al agua imita 

Cada ErmitaSo a la puerta 

Tiene una pequona esquila, 
En el ramo de algun arbol 
Donde pendiente se arrima 

O en el resquicio gracioso 
De alguna piedra metida, 

Y quando toca la Iglesia 
Todas a tocar se aplican. 



Tagus and Zezere, in secret night, 
Ye saw the baffled ruffian take his flight! — VI. 

Beacons of infamy, they light the w^ay 
Where cowardice and cruelty unite, 
To damn with double shame their ignominious flight. 

O, triumph for the Fiends of lust and wrath I 

Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be forgot. 
What wanton horrors mark their wrackful path ! 

The peasant butcher'd in his ruin'd cot, 
The hoary priest even at the altar shot. 

Childhood and age given o'er to sword and flame, 
Woman to infamy ; no crime forgot, 

By which inventive demons might proclaim 
Immortal hate to Man, and scorn of God's great name. 

The rudest sentinel, in Britain born. 
With horror paused to view the havock done. 

Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch forlorn, 
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer grasp'd his gun. 

Scott's Vision of Don Roderick. 

No cruelties recorded in history exceed those which were 
systematically committed by the French during their retreat 
from Portugal. " Their conduct, (says Lord Wellington, in 
his despatch of the 14th of March, 1811,) throughout this 
retreat, has been marked by a barbarity seldom equalled, and 
never surpassed. 

" Even in the towns of Torres Novas, Thomar, and Femes, 
in which the head-quarters of some of the corps had been for 
four months, and in which the inhabitants had been induced, 
by promises of good treatment, to remain, they were plun- 
dered, and many of their houses destroyed on the night the 
enemy withdrew from their position; and they have since 
burnt every town and village through which they have passed. 
The Convent of Alcoba^a was burnt by order from the French 
head-quarters. The Bishop's Palace, and the whole town of 
Leyria, in which General Drouet had had his head-quarters, 
shared the same fate ; and there is not an inhabitant of the 
country, of any class or description, who has had any dealing 
or communication with the French army, who has not had 
reason to repent of it, or to complain of them. This is the 
mode in which the promises have been performed, and the 
assurances have been fulfilled, which were held out in the 
proclamation of the French commander-in-chief, in which he 
told the inhabitants of Portugal, that he was not come to 
make war upon them, but with a powerful army of one 
hundred and ten thousand men to drive the English into the 
sea. It is to be hoped that the example of what has occurred 
in this country will teach the people of this and other nations 
what value they ought to place on such promises and assur- 
ances, and that there is no security for life, or for any thing 
that renders life valuable, except in decided resistance to the 
enemy." 

As exact an account of these atrocities was collected as it 
was possible to obtain, — and that record will forever make 
the French name detested in Portugal. In the single diocese 
of Coimbra, 2969 persons, men, women, and children, were 
murdered, — every one with some shocking circumstance of 

aggravated cruelty JVem huma so das 2969 mortes commet- 

tldas pelo hiimlgo, deixou de ser atroz e dolorosissima. (Breve 
Memoria dos Estragos Causados no Bispado de Coimbra pelo 
Exercito Francez, commandado pelo General Massena. Ex- 
trahida das Enforma^oens que deram os Reverendos Parocos, 
e remettida a Junta dos Socorros da Subscripsam Britannica, 
pelo Reverendo Provisor Governador do mesmo Bispado, p. 12.) 
Some details are given in this brief Memorial, ji de tclforfaits, 
says J. J. Rousseau, celui qui dctoume ses regards est un l&che, 
un deserteur de la justice ; la veritable hwmanite les envisage pour 
les connoitre, poiir les juger, pour les detester. (Le Levite 
d'Epbraim.) I will not, however, in this place repeat abom- 
inations which at once outrage humanity and disgrace human 
nature. 

When the French, in 1792, entered Spire, some of them 
began to commit excesses which would soon have led to a 
general sack. Custine immediately ordered a captain, two 
officers, and a whole company to be shot. This dreadful 
example, he told the National Convention, he considered as 
the only means of saving the honor of the French nation, — 
I and it met with the approbation of tlie whole army. But tha 



NOTES TO CARMEN TRIUMPHALE. 



199 



French armies liad not then been systematically brutalized. 
It was reserved for Bonaparte to render them infamous, as 
well as to lead thorn to destruction. 

The French soldier, says Capmany, is executioner and 
robber at the same time : he leaves the unhappy wretch, who 
is delivered over to his mercy, naked to the skin, — stripping 
off the clothes that they may not be torn by the musket-shot ! 
— The pen falls from my hand, and I cannot proceed ! 

Para que nejuiite a esta crueldud la mayor iiifamia, el soldado 
Frances c^ verdugo y ladron en una pieza ; dexa en cueros vivos 
al malaoeiUurado que entregtLn a au, du>crccio7i, quitandole la rupa 
antes que los fusilazos se la destrozen. La yluiua se cae dc la 
mam, y no puede proseguir. — Centinela, contra Franceses, 
P. 2, p. 35. 

Yet the Edinburgh Review says, " The hatred of the name 
of a Frenclmian in Spain has been such as tlie reality will by 
no means justify ; and the detestation of the French govern- 
ment has, among the inferior orders, been carried to a pitch 
wholly unauthorized by its proceedings towards them." JVu. 
XXVH. p. 2(J2. This passage might be read with astonisli- 
ment, if any thing absurd, any thing mischievous, or any thing 
false, could excite surprise when it comes from that quarter. 



What though the Tyrant, drunk with power, 
Might vaunt himself, in impious hour. 
Lord and Disposer of this earthly ball ? — VII. 

Lo he dicho varias veces, y la repito ahora, que las tres epocas 
tcrribles en los annales del mundo son, el diluvio universal, Ma- 
homa, y Buonaparte. Aque pretendia convcrtir todas las religi- 
ones en una, y este todas las naciones, para ser el su cabeza. 
Aquel predicaba la unidad dc Dios con la cimitarra ; y este no Is 
nombrauno ni trinOjpucs solo prcdica, o hacc prcdicar supro- 
pia divinidad, dexandose darde sus infamcs y sacrilegos adura- 
dores, los periodistus Franceses, el dictado de Todo-poderoso. 
El mismo se ha llegado a creer tal, y se ha hccho crcer la cobar- 
dia y vileza de las naciones que se han dcxado subyugar. Solo 
la Espana le ha obligado a reconnocerse, que no era antes, ni 
es ahora, sino un hombre, y hombre may pcqueno, a quien la 
fortuna ciega ha hecho grande a los ojos de los pueblos espanta- 
dos del terror de su nombre, que midcn la grandeia del poder 
yor la de las utrocidadcs. — Centinela, contra Franceses, p. 48. 

" I have sometimes said, and I repeat it now, that the three 
terrible epochs in the annals of the World are the General 
Deluge, Mahommed, and Bonaparte. Mahommed pretend- 
ed to convert all religions into one, and this man all nations 
into one, in order to make himself their head. Mahommed 
preached the unity of God with the cimcter ; and this man 
neither liis Unity nor his Trinity, for he neither preaches, 
nor causes to be preached, any thing except his own Divinity, 
letting his infamous and sacrilegious adorers, the French 
journalists, give liim tlie appellation of Ahuighty. He has 
gone 60 far as to believe himself such, and the cowardice and 
baseness of the nations who have suffered themselves to be 
subdued, have made him believe it. Spain alone has com- 
pelled him to know himself, that he neither was formerly nor 
is now any thing more than a mere man, and a very little one, 
whom blind Fortune has made appear great in the eyes of 
people astonished at the terror of his name, and measuring 
the greatness of his power by tliat of his atrocities." 



Knowing that nought could e'er appall 
The Spaniard's fortitude. — VII. 

*' The fate of Spain, we think, is decided, and that fine and 
misguided country has probably yielded, by this time, to the 
fate which has fallen on the greater part of continental Eu- 
rope. Her European dominions have yielded already to the 
unrelazing grasp of the insatiable conqueror." — Edinburgh 
Review, No. XXVI. p. 298. 

" The fundamental position which we ventured to lay down 
respecting the Spanish question was this : — that the spirit 
of the people, however enthusiastic and universal, was in 
its nature more uncertain and short-lived, more likely to be 
extinguished by reverses, or to go out of itself amidst the 
delays of a protracted contest, than the steady, regular, mod- 
erate feeling which calls out disciplined troops, and marshals 



them under known leaders, and supplies them by systematic 
arrangements : — a proposition so i)lain and obvious, that if it 
escaped ridicule as a truism, it might have been reasonably 
expected to avoid the penalties of heresy and paradox. The 
event has indeed wofully proved its truth.'" — Edinburgh Rev. 
No. XXVII. p. 246. 

These gentlemen could see no principle of permanence in 
the character of the Spaniards, and no proof of it in theii 
history ; — and they could discover no principle of dissolution 
in the system of Bonaparte ; — a system founded upon force 
and falsehood, in direct opposition to the interests of his own 
subjects and to the feelings of human nature. 



The Campeador. — Yin. 

The Cid, Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar. The word has been 
variously explained, but its origin seems to be satisfactorily 
traced by Verstegan in his explanation of some of our English 
surnames. 

" Cemp or Kemp, properly one that fightcth hand to hand, 
whereunto the name in Teutonic of Kemp-fight accordeth, 
and in French of Combat. 

" Certain among the ancient Germans made profession of 
being Camp-fighters or Kemp-fighters, for all is one ; and 
among the Danes and Swedes were the like, as Scarcater, 
Arngrim, Arnerod, Haldan, and sundry others. They were 
also called Kempanas, whereof is derived our name of Cam- 
pion, which, after the French orthography, some pronounce 
Champion." 

"Dene or Den is the termination of sundry of our sur- 
names, as for example of Camden, which I take anciently to 
have been Campden, and signifieth the Dene or Dale belong- 
ing to some Cemp or Camp-fighter (for both is one) in our 
now used language called a Champion, but in the Teutonic a 
Campion. A Campden may also have been some place ap- 
pointed for Campions, Combat-fighters, or men of arms to 
encounter each other. And so the place became afterward to 
1)0 the surname ofhim and his family that owned it, as others 
in like sort have done." 

" Kemp, — of his profession of being a Kemper or Combat- 
fighter, as divers in old times among our ancestors were." 



Vengeance was the word. — X. 

This feeling is forcibly expressed by Capmany. O VLsperas 
Sicilianas tanfamosas en la histx)na, quando os podremos acom- 
panar con complctas, para que los Angeles canten laudes en el 
cielo. — Centinela, contra Franceses, p. 96. 

O Sicilian Vespers ! so famous in history, when shall we 
be able to accompany you with Complines, that the Angels 
may sing Lauds in Heaven ? 



Behold the awakened Moscovite 

Meets the tyrant in his might. — XVII. 

Ecce iterum Crispinus ! What says the Edinburgh Review 
concerning Russia ? " Considering how little that power has 
shown itself capable of eff"ecting for the salvation of Europe 
— how wretched the state of its subjects is under the present 
government — how trifling an acquisition of strength the 
common enemy could expect to obtain from the entire posses- 
sion of its resources — we acknowledge that we should con- 
template with great composure any change which might lay the 
foundation of future improvement, and scatter the forces of 
France over the dominion of the Czars." — JVb. XXVIIL 
p. 460. 

This is a choice passage. The reasoning is worthy of the 
writer's judgment, the feeling perfectly consistent with his 
liberality, and the conclusion as consistent with his politics. 



Up, Germany 

She rose as from the dead ; 

She broke her chai7is upon the oppressor's head. — XV 1 
Hear the Edinburgh Reviewer ! " It would be as chimeri- 
cal to expect a mutiny among the vassal states of France, 



200 



NOTES TO CARMEN TRIUMPHALE. 



who are the most impatient of her yoke, as amongst the in- 
habitants of Bourdeaux, or the conscripts of the years 1808 
and 1809. In making this comparison, we are indeed putting 
the case much more strongly against France than the facts 
warrant ; for, with the exception of Holland, and the States 
into which the conscription has been introduced, either im- 
mediately, or by means of large requisitions of men made to 
their Governments,* the changes eifected by the French in- 
vasion have been favorable to the individual happiness of the 
inhabitants,! so that the hatred of France is liable to consid- 
erable diminution, inasmuch as the national antipathy and 
spirit of independence are gradually undermined by the solid 
benefits which the change of masters has conferred." — JSTo. 
XXVIII. p. 458. 

Great as a statesman, profound as a philosopher, amiable as 
an optimist of the Pangloss school, — but not altogether fortu- 
nate as a Prophet ! 



POSTSCRIPT. 
1821. 

As a proper accompaniment to the preceding Notes, upon 
their republication, I subjoin an extract from a William- Smithic 
epistle, begun a few years ago upon sufficient provocation, 
but left unfinished, because better employments delayed its 
completion till the offence, gross as it was, seemed no longer 
deserving of a thought. 



My fortune has been somewhat remarkable in this respect, 
that, bestowing less attention than most men upon contempo- 
rary literature, I am supposed to concern myself with it in a 
degree which would leave me no time for any worthier occu- 
pation. Half the persons who are wounded in the Quarterly 
Review fix upon me as the object of their resentment ; some, 
because they are conscious of having deserved chastisement 
at my hands ; others because they give credit to an empty re- 
port, a lying assertion, or their own conceited sagacity in dis- 
covering a writer by his style. As for the former, they flatter 
themselves egregiously in supposing that I should throw away 
my anger upon such subjects. But by the latter I would will- 
ingly have it understood, that I heartily disapprove the present 
fashion of criticism, and sincerely wish that you. Sir, and your 
friend, had taken out an exclusive patent for it, when you 
brought it into vogue. 

With regard to literary assailants, I should as little think 
of resenting their attacks in anger, as of making war upon 
midges and mosquitoes. I have therefore never noticed your 
amiable colleague in his critical capacity. Let him blunder, 
and misquote, and misrepresent, and contradict himself in the 
same page, or in the same sentence, with as much ingenuity 
as he will : " 'Tis his vocation, Hal ! " and some allowances 
must be made for habit. I remember what Lord Anson's 
linguist said to him at Canton, upon the detection of some 
notable act of dishonesty : Chinaman very great rogue truly .- 
but hab fashion : no can help. Concerning me, and any com- 
position of mine, it is impossible that this gentleman can write 
wisely unless his nature should undergo a radical change, for 
it is written in the wisest book which ever proceeded from 
mere humanity, that " into a malicious soul wisdom shall 
not enter." 

You may have seen a mastiif of the right English breed 
assailed by a little impertinent, noisy, meddhng cur, who runs 
behind him, snapping and barking at his heels, and sometimes 
gets staggered by a chance-whisk of his tail. The mastiff 
continues his way peaceably ; or, if he condescends to notice 
the yelper, it is only by stopping half a minute, and lifting his 
leg over him. Just such. Sir, is the notice which I bestow 
upon your colleague in his critical character. 

But for F. J. Philomath, and Professor of the Occult Sciences, 
he is a grave personage, whose political and prophetical pre- 
tensions entitle him to high consideration in these days. He 

• N. B. These little exceptions include all the countries which were an- 
nexed to the French Empire, all Italy, and all the States of the Confedera- 
tion of the Rhine. 

I Particularly the commercial part of them. 



is as great a man as Lilly in the time of the Commonwealth 
or as Partridge after him. It is well known what infinite 
pains he bestowed in casting the nativities of Lord Welling- 
ton, Bonaparte, and the Emperor of Russia, — all for the 
good of mankind! and it is also notorious that he mistook the 
aspects, and made some very unfortunate errors in his pre- 
dictions. At a time when he was considerably indisposed in 
consequence of this mortification, I took the liberty of ad- 
ministering to him a dose of his own words, mixed, perhapgj 
Sir, with a few of yours, for you were his fellow-student in 
astrology, and are known to have assisted him in these his 
calculations. The medicine was given in the form of extract ; 
but the patient could not have used more wry faces had it been 
extract of coloquintida. And indeed it produced a most un- 
pleasant effect. Ever since that time his paroxysms have 
been more violent, and he has been troubled with occasional 
ravings, accompanied with periodical discharges of bile in its 
most offensive state. Nevertheless, dreadfully bilious as he 
is, and tormented with acrid humors, it is hoped that by a cool 
diet, by the proper use of refrigerants, above all, by paying due 
attention to the state of the ■primes vice, and observing a strict 
abstinence from the Quarterly Review, the danger of a cholera 
morbus may be averted. 

I have not been travelling out of the record while thus inci- 
dentally noticing a personage with whom you. Sir, are more 
naturally and properly associated than I have been with Mr. 
Wordsworth, this your colleague and you being the Gog and 
Magog of the Edinburgh Review. Had it not been for a 
difference of opinion upon political points between myself and 
certain writers in that journal who laid claim to the faculty 
of the second sight, 1 suspect that I should never have in- 
curred your hostility. What those points of difference were, I 
must here be permitted to set forth for the satisfaction of those 
readers who may not be so well acquainted with them as you 
are : they related to the possibility of carrying on the late war 
to an honorable and successful termination. 

It was in our state of feeling. Sir, as well as in our state of 
knowledge that we differed, in our desires as much as in our 
judgment. They predicted for us nothing but disgrace and 
defeat : predicted is the word ; for they themselves assured U3 
that they were " seriously occupied with the destinies of Europe 
and of mankind ; " — 

" As who should say, I am Sir Oracle ! " 

They ridiculed " the romantichopes of the English nation,^^ and 
imputed the spirit by which the glory of that nation has been 
raised to its highest point, and the deliverance of Europe 
accomplished, to " the tricks of a paltry and interested party." 
They said that events had " verified their predictions,^^ had 
" more than justified their worst forebodings.^^ They told us in 
1810 that the fate of Spain was decided, and that that ^^ mis- 
guided^' country (misguided in having ventured to resist the 
most insolent usurpation that ever was attempted) " had 
yielded to the Conqueror.'^ This manner of speaking of an 
event in the preter-pluperfect tense, before it has come to 
pass, may be either a slight grammatical slip, or a prophetical 
figure of speech ; but, as old Dr. Eachard says, " I hate all 
small ambiguous surmises, all quivering and mincing conjec- 
tures : give me the lusty and bold thinker, who, when he 
undertakes to prophesy, does it punctually." " It would be 
blood-thirsty and cruel,''' they said, '■'■ to foment petty insurrec- 
tions, (meaning the war in Spain and Portugal,) after the only 
contest is over from which any good can spring in the present 
unfortunate state of affairs." " France has conquered Europe. 
This is the melancholy truth. Shut our eyes to it as we may, 
there can be no doubt about the matter. For the present, peaee 
and submission must be the lot of the vanquished." " Let us hear 
no more of objections to a Bonaparte ruling in Spain." 

" Harry, the wish was father to that thought ! " 

They told us that if Lord Wellington was not driven out of 
Portugal, it was because the French government thought him 
" better there than any where else." They told us they were 
prepared to " contemplate with great composure the conquest of 
Russia, by Bonaparte, as a " change which would lay the 
foundation of future improvement in the dominions of the 
Czars." — 

" Si mens sit l<sta tibi crcderis esse propheta," 



ODES 



201 



says an old Leonine rhymester. — And as for expecting " a 
MUTINY (hear Germany 1 for so they qualified it ! ) amongst the 
vassal states of France, it would be as chiiucrical," they said, 
*' as to expect one amongst the inhabitants of Bourdraux.'' And 
here these lucky prophets were peculiarly felicitous ; tlie 
inhabitants of Courdeaux having been the first people in 
France who threw off the yoke of Bonaparte's tyranny, and 
mounted the white cockade. 

" Om,nia jam Jiunt, fieri qum posse negabam.^^ 

Poor Oracle ! the face is double-bronzed ; and yet it is but 
a wooden head ! 

I stood upon firm ground, while they were sticking in the 
SIouj;h of Despond. Hinc HUb lacrijmce ! I charged tliem at 
the time with ignorance, presumption, and pusillanimity. 
And now. Sir, I ask of you, were they or were they not 
i;,'noraiit .'' Here are their assertions! — Were they or were 
ihey not presumptuous i* Here are their predictions ! — Were 
they or were they not pusillanimous ? Have they or have 
Ihey not been confuted, and confounded, and exposed, and 
sliamed, and stultified, by the event.' 

They who know me will bear witness, that, before a rumor 
of war was heard from the Peninsula, I hud looked toward 
that quarter as the point where we might hope first to see 
the horizon open ; and that, from the hour in which the strug- 
gle commenced, I never doubted of its final success, provided 
England should do its duty : this confidence was founded upon 
a knowledge of the country and the people, and upon the 
principles which were then and there first brought into action 
against the enemy. At the time when every effort was made 
(as you. Sir, well know) to vilify and disgust our allies, to 
discourage the public, to impede the measures of government, 
to derange its finances, and thereby cut off its means, to par- 
alyze the arm and deaden the heart of England ; — when we 
were told of the irresistible power and perfect policy of Bona- 
parte, the consummate skill of his generals, and the invinci- 
bility of his armies, my language was this : " The one business 
of England is to abate the power of France : that power she 
must beat down, or fail herself; that power she will beat down, 
if she do but strenuously put forth her own mighty means." 
And again, — "For our soldiers to equal our seamen, it is 
only necessary for them to be equally well commanded. They 
have the same heart and soul, as well as the same flesh and 
blood. Too much, indeed, may be exacted from them in a 
retreat ; but set their face toward a foe, and there is nothing 
within the reach of human achievement which they cannot 
perform." And again, — "Carry on the war with all the 
heart, and with all the soul, and with all the strength, of this 
mighty empire, and you will beat down the power of France." 
Was I wrong, Sir .' Or has the event corresponded to this 
confidence .'' 

Afiipai £iTi\onrot 
Maprvpci aofPcoraTOi. 

Bear witness, Torres Vedras, Salamanca, and Vittoria I 
Bear witness, Orthies and Thoulouse ! Bear witness, Water- 
loo, and that miserable tyrant, who was then making and un- 
making kings with a breath, and now frets upon the rock of 
St. Helena, like a tiger in his cage ! 



ODES. 



ODE, 



WRITTEN DURING THE NEGOTIATIONS WITH 
BONAPARTE, IN JANUARY, 1814. 



"Who counsels peace at this momentous hour, 
When God hath given deliverance to the oppress'd, 

And to the injured power? 
Who counsels peace, when Vengeance, like a flood, 
26 



Rolls on, no longer now to be repress'd; 

When innocent blood 

From the four corners of the world cries out 

For justice upon one accursed head; 

When Fredoom hath her holy banners spread 

Over all nations, now in one just cause 

United ; when, with one sublime accord, 

Europe throws off the yoke abhorr'd. 

And Loyalty, and Faith, and Ancient Laws 

Follow the avenging sword ! 



Woe, woe to England ! woe and endless shame, 

If this heroic land, 

False to her feelings and unspotted fame, 

Hold out the olive to tlie Tyrant's hand ! 

Woe to the world, if Bonaparte's throne 

Be sutfer'd still to stand ! 

For by what names shall Right and Wrong be 

known, — 

What new and courtly phrases must we feign 

For Falsehood, Murder, and all monstrous crimes, 

If that perfidious Corsican maintain 

Still his detested reign. 

And France, who yearns even now to break her 

chain. 

Beneath his iron rule be left to groan ? 

No ! by the innumerable dead. 

Whose blood hath for his lust of power been shed, 

Death only can for his foul deeds atone ; 
That peace which Death and Judgment can bestow, 
That peace be Bonaparte's, — that alone ! 



For sooner shall the Etliiop change his skin, 

Or from the Leopard shall her spots depart, 

Than this man change his old, flagitious heart. 

Have ye not seen him m the balance weigh'd, 

And there found wanting? On the stage of blood 

Foremost the resolute adventurer stood; 

And when, by many a battle won. 

He placed upon his brow the crown, 

Curbing delirious France beneath his sway. 

Then, like Octavius in old time. 

Fair name might he have handed down. 

Effacing many a stain of former crime. 

Fool ! should he cast away that bright renown I 

Fool ! the redemption proffer' d should he lose ! 

When Heaven such grace vouchsafed him that the 

way 

To Good and Evil lay 

Before him, which to choose. 



But Evil was his Good, 

For all too long in blood had he been nursed, 

And ne'er was earth with verier tyrant cursed. 

Bold man and bad. 

Remorseless, godless, full of fraud and lies, 

And black with murders and with perjuries, 

Himself in Hell's whole panoply he clad ; 

No law but his own headstrong will he knew, 

No counsellor but his own wicked heart. 
From evil thus portentous strength he drew, 
And trampled under foot all human ties. 
All holy laws, all natural charities. 



202 



ODES. 



O France ! beneath this fierce Barbarian's sway 

Disgraced thou art to all succeding times ; 

Rapine, and blood, and fire have mark'd thy way, 

All loathsome, all unutterable crimes. 

A curse is on thee, France ! from far and wide 

It hath gone up to Heaven. All lands have cried 

For vengeance upon thy detested head ! 

All nations curse thee, France ! for wheresoe'er, 

In peace or war, thy banner hath been spread, 

All forms of human woe have follow'd there. 

The Living and the Dead 

Cry out alike against thee ! They who bear, 

Crouching beneath its weight, thine iron yoke 

Join in the bitterness of secret prayer 

The voice of that innumerable throng. 

Whose slaughter'd spirits day and night invoke 

The Everlasting Judge of right and wrong. 
How long, O Lord ! Holy and Just, how long ! 

6. 

A merciless oppressor hast thou been, 

Thyself remorselessly oppress'd meantime ; 

Greedy of war, when all that thou couldst gain 

Was but to dye thy soul with deeper crime. 

And rivet faster round thyself the chain. 

Oh I blind to honor, and to interest blind. 

When thus in abject servitude resign'd 

To this barbarian upstart, thou couldst brave 

God's justice, and the heart of human-kind ! 

Madly thou thoughtest to enslave the world, 

Thyself the while a miserable slave. 

Behold, the flag of vengeance is unfurl'd ! 

The dreadful armies of the North advance ; 

While England, Portugal, and Spain combined. 

Give their triumphant banners to the wind. 

And stand victorious in the fields of France. 



One man hath been for ten long, wretched years 
The cause of all this blood and all these tears ; 

One man in this most awful point of time 

Draws on thy danger, as he caused thy crime. 

Wait not too long the event. 

For now whole Europe comes against thee bent ; 

His wiles and their own strength the nations know : 

Wise from past wrongs, on future peace intent. 

The People and the Princes, with one mind, 

From all parts move against the general foe j 

One act of justice, one atoning blow, 

One execrable head laid low, 

Even yet, O France ! averts thy punishment. 

Open thine eyes ! — too long hast thou been blind ; 

Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 



France ! if thou lovest thine ancient fame, 

Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame ! 

By the bones which bleach on Jaffa's beach ; 

By the blood which on Domingo's shore 

Hath clogg'd the carrion-birds with gore ; 

By the flesh which gorged the wolves of Spain, 

Or stiffen'd on the snowy plain 

Of frozen Moscovy ; 

By the bodies, which lie all open to the sky. 



Tracking from Elbe to Rhine the Tyrant's flight; 

By the widow's and the orphan's cry; 

By the childless parent's misery ; 

By the lives which he hath shed ; 

By the ruin he hath spread ; 

By the prayers which rise for curses on his head, — 

Redeem, O France ! thine ancient fame, 

Revenge thy sufferings and thy shame, 

Open thine eyes ! — too long hast thou been blind; 

Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 



By those horrors which the night 

Witness'd when the torches' light 

To the assembled murderers show'd 

Where the blood of Conde flow'd ; 

By thy murder'd Pichegru's fame ; 

By murder'd Wright — an English name ; 

By murder'd Palm's atrocious doom ; 

By murder'd Hofer's martyrdom, — 

Oh ! by the virtuous blood thus vilely spilt, 

The Villain's owti peculiar, private guilt. 

Open thine eyes ! — too long hast thou been blind ; 

Take vengeance for thyself, and for mankind ! 

Keswick 



ODE, 

written during the war with AMERICA, 1814. 

1. 

When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay 

The thunderbolt aside. 

And, twining olives with her laurel crown, 

Rest in the Bower of Peace .? 



Not long may this unnatural strife endure 

Beyond the Atlantic deep ; 

Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk, 

And insolent in wrong. 

Afflict with their misrule the indignant land 

Where Washington hath left 

His awful memory 

A light for after-times ! 

Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny 

In their own annals, by their countrymen, 

For lasting shame shall they be written down. 

Soon may the better Genius there prevail ! 

Then will the Island Queen of Ocean lay 

The thunderbolt aside. 

And, twining olives with her laurel crown, 

Rest in the Bower of Peace. 



But not in ignominious ease, 

Within the Bower of Peace supine, 

The Ocean Queen shall rest ! 

Her other toils await, — 

A holier warfare, — nobler victories ; 

And amaranthine wreaths, 

Which, when the laurel crown grows sere, 

Will live forever srreen. 



ODES. 



203 



Hear me, O England ! rightly may I claim 

Thy favorable audience, Queen of Isles, 

My Mother-land revered ; 

For in the perilous hour, 

When weaker spirits stood aghast, 

And reptile tongues, to thy dishonor bold, 

Spit their dull venom on the public ear, 

My voice was heard, — a voice of hope, 

Of confidence and joy, — 

Yea, of such prophecy 

As wisdom to her sons doth aye vouchsafe. 

When with pure heart and diligent desire 

They seek the fountain springs, 

And of the Ages past 

Take counsel reverently. 

5. 

Nobly hast thou stood up 

Against the foulest Tyranny that ere, 

In elder or in later times, 

Hath outraged human-kind. 

O glorious England ! thou hast borne thyself 

Religiously and bravely in that strife ; 

And happier victory hath blest thine arms 

Than, in the days of yore, 

Thine own Plantagenets achieved. 

Or Marlborough, wise in council as in field. 

Or Wolfe, heroic name. 

Now gird thyself for other war ; 

Look round thee, and behold what ills. 

Remediable and yet unremedied, 

Afflict man's wretched race ! 

Put on the panoply of faith ! 

Bestir thyself against thine inward foes, 

Ignorance and Want, with all their brood 

Of miseries and of crimes. 



Powerful thou art: imperial Rome, 

When in the Augustan age she closed 

The temple of the two-faced God, 

Could boast no power like thine. 

Less opulent was Spain, 

When Mexico her sumless riches sent 

To that proud monarchy ; 

And Hayti's ransack'd caverns gave their gold 

And from Potosi's recent veins 

The unabating stream of treasure flow'd. 

And blest art thou, above all nations blest. 

For thou art Freedom's own beloved Isle ! 

The light of Science shines 

Conspicuous like a beacon on thy shores ; 

Thy martyrs purchased at the stake 

Faith uncorrupt for thine inheritance ; 

And by thine hearths Domestic Purity ,| 

Safe from the infection of a tainted age, 

Hath kept her sanctuaries. 

Yet, O dear England ! powerful as thou art, 

And rich, and wise, and blest. 

Yet would 1 see thee, O my Mother-land ! 

Mightier and wealthier, wiser, happier still ! 



For still doth Ignorance 
Maintain large empire here, 



Dark and unblest amid surrounding light ; 

Even as within this favor'd spot. 

Earth's wonder and her pride, 

The traveller on his way 

Beholds with weary eye 

Bleak moorland, noxious fen, and lonely heath, 

In drear extension spread. 

Oh grief! that spirits of celestial seed, 

Whom ever-teeming Nature hath brought forth, 

With all the human faculties divine 

Of sense and soul endued, — 

Disherited of knowledge and of bliss, 

Mere creatures of brute life. 

Should grope in darkness lost ! 



Must this reproach endure .? 

Honor and praise to him 

The universal friend, 

The general benefactor of mankind ; 

He who from Coromandel's shores 

His perfected discovery brought ; 

He by whose generous toils 

This foul reproach ere long shall be effaced, 

This root of evil be eradica^fi ! 

Yea, generations yet unborn 

Shall owe their weal to him. 

And future nations bless 
The honor'd name of Bell. 

9. 
Now may that blessed edifice 

Of public good be rear'd 
Which holy Edward traced, 
The spotless Tudor, he whom Death 
Too early summon'd to his heavenly throne. 
For Brunswick's line was this great work re- 
served, 
For Brunswick's fated line ; 
They who from papal darkness, and the thrall 
Of that worst bondage which doth hold 
The immortal spirit chain'd, 
Saved us in happy hour. 
Fitly for them was this great work reserved ; 
So, Britain, shall thine aged monarch's wish 
Receive its due accomplishment — 
That wish which with the good 
(Had he no other praise) 
ThrouglL all succeeding times would rank his 
name. 
That all within his realms 
Might learn the Book, which all 
Who rightly learn shall live. 

10. 

From public fountains the perennial stream 

Of public weal must flow. 

O England ! wheresoe'er thy churches stand, 

There on that sacred ground. 

Where the rich harvest of mortality 

Is laid, as in a garner, treasured up, 

There plant the Tree of Knowledge ! Water it 

With thy perpetual bounty ! It shall spread 

Its branches o'er the venerable pile, 

Shield it against the storm, 

And brina: forth fruits of life. 



204 



CARMINA AULICA 



11. 

Train up thy children, England ! in the ways 

Of righteousness, and feed them with the bread 

Of wholesome doctrine. Where hast thou thy 

mines 

But in their industry ? 

Thy bulwarks where, but in their breasts ? 

Thy might, but in their arms ? 

Shall not their numbers therefore be thy wealth, 

Thy strength, thy power, thy safety, and thy pride ? 

O grief then, grief and shame, 

If, in this flourishing land. 

There should be dwellings where the new-born 

babe 

Doth bring unto its parents' soul no joy ! 

Where squalid Poverty 

Receives it at its birth. 

And on her wither'd knees 

Gives it the scanty food of discontent ! 

12. 

Queen of the Seas ! enlarge thyself; 

Redundant as thou art of life and power, 

Be thou the hive of nations, 

And send thy swarms abroad ! 

Send them, like Greece of old, 

With arts and science to enrich 

The uncultivated earth; 

But with more precious gifts than Greece, or Tyre, 

Or elder Egypt, to the world bequeath' d — 

Just laws, and rightful polity. 

And, crowning all, the dearest boon of Heaven, 

Its word and will reveal'd. 

Queen of the Seas ! enlarge 

The place of thy pavilion. Let them stretch 

The curtains of thine habitations forth ; 

Spare not ; but lengthen thou 

Thy cords, make strong thy stakes. 

13. 

Queen of the Seas ! enlarge thyself; 

Send thou thy swarms abroad ! 

For in the years to come, 

Though centuries or millenniums intervene, 

Where'er thy progeny, 

Thy language, and thy spirit shall be found, — 

If on Ontario's shores. 

Or late-explored Missouri's pastures wide, 

Or in that Austral world long sought. 

The many-isled Pacific, — yea, where waves, 

Now breaking over coral reefs, affright 

The venturous mariner, 

When islands shall have grown, and cities risen 

In cocoa groves embower'd; — 

Where'er thy language lives, 

By whatsoever name the land be call'd. 

That land is English still, and there 

Thy influential spirit dwells and reigns. 

Thrones fall, and Dynasties are changed ; 

Empires decay and sink 

Beneath their own unwieldy weight ; 

Dominion passeth like a cloud away : 

The imperishable mind 

Survives all meaner things. 



14. 

Train up thy children, England, in the ways 

Of righteousness, and feed them with the bread 

Of wholesome doctrine. Send thy swarms abroad ! 

Send forth thy humanizing arts, 

Thy stirring enterprise. 

Thy liberal polity, thy Gospel light ! 

Illume the dark idolater, 

Reclaim the savage ! O thou Ocean Queen '. 

Be these thy toils when thou hast laid 

The thunderbolt aside : 

He who hath blest thine arms 

Will bless thee in these holy works of Peace ! 

Father ! thy kingdom come, and as in Heaven 

Thy will be done on Earth ! 

Keswick. 



CARMINA AULICA, 

WRITTEN IN 1814, ON THE ARRIVAL OF THE AL- 
LIED SOVEREIGNS IN ENGLAND. 



"Exw Ka^d T£ (ppdaai., rd'Xna te ytoi 
'EtvBeXa y\Ci<jaav dpi/v£i XeyEiv. 

Pindar, Olymp. xiii. 



ODE 



TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT 
OF THE UNITED KINGDOM OF GREAT BRITAIN 
AND IRELAND. 



Prince of the mighty Isle ! 

Proud day for thee and for thy kingdoms this, 

When Britain round her spear 

The olive garland twines, by Victory won. 



Rightly mayst thou rejoice. 

For in a day of darkness and of storms, 

An evil day, a day of woe, 

To thee the sceptre feel. 

The Continent was leagued, 

Its numbers wielded by one will. 

Against the mighty Isle ; 

All shores were hostile to the Red Cross flag, 

All ports against it closed ; 

Save where, behind their ramparts driven, 

The Spaniard, and the faithful Portugal, 

Each on the utmost limits of his land, 

Invincible of heart. 

Stood firm, and put their trust 

In their good cause and thee. 



Such perils menaced from abroad ; 

At home worse dangers compass'd thee. 

Where shallow counsellors, 

A weak but clamorous crew, 

Pester'd the land, and with their withering breath 

Poison'd the public ear 



CARMINA AULICA. 



205 



For peace the feeble raised their factious cry ; 

Oh, madness to resist 

The Invincible in arms ! 

Seek the peace-garland from his dreadful hand ! 

And at the Tyrant's feet 

They would have knelt to take 

The wreath of aconite for Britain's brow. 

Prince of the mighty Isle ! 

Rightly mayst thou rejoice, 

For in the day of danger thou didst turn 

From their vile counsels thine indignant heart ; 

Rightly mayst thou rejoice, 

When Britain round her spear 

The olive-garland twines, by Victory won. 



Rejoice, thou mighty Isle, 

Queen of the Seas ! rejoice ; 

Ring round, ye merry bells, 

Till every steeple rock, 

And the wide air grow giddy with your joy I 

Flow, streamers, to tlie breeze ! 

And, ye victorious banners, to the sun 

Unroll the proud Red Cross ! 

Now let the anvil rest ; 

Shut up the loom, and open the school-doors, 

That young and old may with festivities 

Hallow for memory, through all after years, 

This memorable time ; 

This memorable time. 

When Peace, long absent, long deplored, returns. 

Not as vile Faction would have brought her home, 

Her countenance for shame abased. 

In servile weeds array'd, 

Submission leading her. 

Fear, Sorrow, and Repentance following close ; 

And War, scarce deigning to conceal 

Beneath the mantle's folds his armed plight. 

Dogging her steps witli deadly eye intent. 

Sure of his victim, and in devilish joy 

Laughing behind the mask. 



Not thus doth Peace return ! — 

A blessed visitant she comes, — 

Honor in his right hand 

Doth lead her like a bride ; 

And Victory goes before ; 

Hope, Safety, and Prosperity, and Strength, 

Come in her joyful train. 

Now let the churches ring 

With high thanksgiving songs. 

And the full organ pour 

Its swelling peals to Heaven, 

The while the grateful nation bless in prayer 

Their Warriors, and their Statesmen, and their 

Prince, 

Whose will, whose mind, whose arm 

Have thus with happy end their efforts crown'd. 

Prince of the mighty Isle, 

Rightly mayst thou rejoice, 

When Britain round her spear 

The olive-garland twines, by Victory won. 



Enjoy thy triumph now, 
Prince of the mighty Isle ! 



Enjoy the rich reward, so rightly due, 

When rescued nations, with one heart and 

voice. 

Thy counsels bless and thee. 

Thou, on thine own Firm Island, seest the while, 

As if the tales of old Romance 

Were but to typify these splendid days, 

Princes, and Potentates, 

And Chiefs renown'd in arms. 

From their great enterprise achieved, 

In friendship and in joy collected here. 

7. 

Rejoice, thou mighty Isle ! 

Queen of the Seas ! rejoice ; 

For ne'er in elder nor in later times 

Have such illustrious guests 

Honor'd thy silver shores. 

No such assemblage shone in Edward's hall, 

Nor brighter triumphs graced his glorious reign. 

Prince of the mighty Isle, 

Proud day for thee and for thy kingdoms this ! 

Rightly mayst thou rejoice. 

When Britain round her spear 

The olive-garland twines, by Victory won. 



Yet in the pomp of these festivities 

One mournful thouglit will rise within thy mind — 

The thought of Him who sits 

In mental as in visual darkness lost. 

How had his heart been fill'd 
With deepest gratitude to Heaven, 

Had he beheld this day ! 

O King of kings, and Lord of lords. 

Thou, who hast visited thus heavily 

The anointed head, 

Oh ! for one little interval, 

One precious hour, 

Remove the blindness from his soul, 

That he may know it all, 

And bless thee ere he die. 



Thou also shouldst have seen 

This harvest of thy hopes. 

Thou, whom the guilty act 

Of a proud spirit overthrown 

Sent to thine early grave in evil hour ! 

Forget not him, my country, in thy joy j 

But let thy grateful hand 

With laurel garlands hang 

The tomb of Perceval. 

Virtuous, and firm, and wise 

The Ark of Britain in her darkest day 

He steer'd through stormy seas ; 

And long shall Britain hold his memory dear, 

And faithful History give 

His meed of lasting praise. 

10. 

That earthly meed shall his compeers enjoy, 

Britain's true counsellors, 

Who see with just success their counsels crown'd. 

They have their triumph now, to him denied ; 

Proud day for them is this ! 

Prince of the mighty Isle ! 



206 



CARMINA AULICA 



Proud day for them and thee, 

When Britain round her spear 

The olive-garland twines, by Victory won. 



ODE 

TO HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, ALEXANDER THE FIRST, 
EMPEROR OF ALL THE RUSSIAS. 

1. 

CoNQ,UEROR, Deliverer, Friend of human-kind ! 

The free, the happy Island welcomes thee ; 

Thee, from thy wasted realms, 

So signally revenged; 

From Prussia's rescued plains ; 

From Dresden's field of slaughter, where the ball, 

Which struck Moreau's dear life. 

Was turn'd from thy more precious head aside ; 

From Leipsic's dreadful day. 

From Elbe, and Rhine, and Seine, 

In thy career of conquest overpast ; 

From the proud Capital 

Of haughty France subdued, 

Then to her rightful line of Kings restored ; 

Thee, Alexander ! thee, the Great, the Good, 

The Glorious, the Beneficent, the Just, 

Thee to her honor'd shores 
The mighty Island welcomes in her joy. 

2. 

Sixscore full years have past. 

Since to these friendly shores 

Thy famous ancestor. 

Illustrious Peter, came. 

Wise traveller he, who over Europe went, 

Marking the ways of men ; 

That so to his dear country, which then rose 

Among the nations in uncultured strength, 

He might bear back the stores 

Of elder polity. 

Its sciences and arts. 

Little did then the industrious German think, — 

The soft Italian, lapp'd in luxury, — 

Helvetia's mountain sons, of freedom proud, — 

The patient Hollander, 

Prosperous and warlike then, — 

Little thought they that, in that farthest North, 

From Peter's race should the Deliverer spring. 

Destined by Heaven to save 

Art, Learning, Industry, 

Beneath the bestial hoof of godless Might 

All trampled in the dust. 

As little did the French, 

VaTinting the power of their Great Monarch then, 

(His schemes of wide ambition yet uncheck'd,) 

As little did they think. 

That from rude Moscovy the stone should come, 

To smite their huge Colossus, which bestrode 

The subject Continent; 

And from its feet of clay. 

Breaking the iron limbs and front of brass, 

Strew the rejoicing Nations with the wreck. 



Roused as thou wert with insult and with wrong, 

Who should have blamed thee if, in high-wrought 

mood 

Of vengeance and the sense of injured power, 

Thou from the flames which laid 

The City of thy Fathers in the dust, 

Hadst bid a spark be brought, 

And borne it in thy tent. 

Religiously by night and day preserved, 

Till on Montmartre's height, 

When open to thine arms. 

Her last defence o'erthrown. 

The guilty city lay. 

Thou hadst call'd every Russian of thine host 

To light his flambeau at the sacred flame. 

And sent them through her streets. 

And wrapt her roofs and towers, 

Temples and palaces. 

Her wealth and boasted spoils, 

In one wide flood of fire. 

Making the hated Nation feel herself 

The miseries she had spread ? 

4. 
Who should have blamed the Conqueror for that 
deed ? 
Yea, rather would not one exulting cry 
Have risen from Elbe to Nile, 
How is the Oppressor fallen ! 

Moscow's re-rising walls 

Had rung with glad acclaim ; 

Thanksgiving hymns had fill'd 

Tyrol's rejoicing vales; 

How is the Oppressor fallen ! 

The Germans in their grass-grown marts had met 

To celebrate the deed ; 

Holland's still waters had been starr'd 

With festive lights, reflected there 

From every house and hut. 

From every town and tower ; 

The Iberian and the Lusian's injured realms, 

From all their mountain-holds, 

From all their ravaged fields. 

From cities sack'd, from violated fanes, 

And from the sanctuary of every heart. 

Had pour'd that pious strain — 

How is the Oppressor fallen ! 

Righteous art thou, O Lord ! 

Thou, Zaragoza, from thy sepulchres 

Hadst join'd the hymn ; and from thine ashes thou, 

Manresa, faithful still ! 

The blood that calls for vengeance in thy streets, 

Madrid, and Porto thine. 

And that which from the beach 

Of Tarragona sent its cry to Heaven, 

Had rested then appeased. 

Orphans had clapp'd their hands. 

And widows would have wept exulting tears. 

And childless parents, with a bitter joy. 

Have blest the avenging deed. 



Bat thou hadst seen enough 
Of horrors, — amply hadst avenged mankind. 



CARMINA AULfCA. 



207 



Witness that dread retreat, 

When God and nature smote 

The Tyrant in his pride ! 

No wider ruin overtook 

Sennacherib's impious host; 

Nor when the frantic Persian led 

His veterans to the Lybian sands ; 

Nor when united Greece 

O'er the barbaric power that victory won 

Which Europe yet may bless. 

A fouler Tyrant cursed the groaning earth, — 

A fearfuler destruction was dispensed. 

Victorious armies followed on his flight; 

On every side he met 

The Cossack's dreadful spear; 

On every side he saw 

The injured nation rise, 

Invincible in arms. 

What myriads, victims of one wicked will. 

Spent their last breath in curses on his head ! 

There, where the soldiers' blood 

Froze in the festering wound ; 

And nightly the cold moon 

Saw sinking thousands in the snow lie down, 

Whom there the morning found 

Stiff as their icy bed. 

6. 

Rear high the monument ! 

In Moscow and in proud Petropolis, 

The brazen trophy build ; 

Cannon on cannon piled. 

Till the huge column overtop your towers ! 

From France the Tyrant brought 

These instruments of death 

To work your overthrow ; 

He left them in his flight 

To form the eternal record of his own. 

Raise, Russia, with thy spoils, 

A nobler monument 

Than e'er imperial Rome 

Built in her plenitude of pride and power ! 

Still, Alexander ! on the banks of Seine, 

Thy noblest monument 

For future ages stands — 

Paris subdued and spared. 



Conqueror, Deliverer, Friend of human-kind, 

The free, the happy Island welcomes thee ! 

Thee, Alexander ! thee, the Great, the Good, 

The Glorious, the Beneficent, the Just ! 

Thee to her honor'd shores 
The mighty Island welcomes in her joy. 



ODE 

TO HIS MAJESTY, FREDERICK WILLIAM THE 
FOURTH, KING OF PRUSSIA. 



Welcome to England, to the happy Isle, 
Brave Prince of gallant people ! Welcome Thou, 



In adverse as in prosperous fortunes tried, 

Frederick, the well-beloved ! 

Greatest and best of that illustrious name, 

Welcome to these free shores ! 

In glory art thou come. 

Thy victory perfect, thy revenge complete 



Enough of sorrow hast thou known, 

Enough of evil hath thy realm endured, 

Oppress'd, but not debased. 

When thine indignant soul. 

Long suffering, bore its weight of heaviest woe. 

But still, through that dark day. 

Unsullied honor was thy counsellor ; 

And Hope, that had its trust in Heaven, 

And in the heart of man 

Its strength, forsook thee not. 

Thou hadst thy faithful people's love, 

The sympathy of noble minds ; 

And wistfully, as one 

Who through the weary night has long'd for day. 

Looks eastward for the dawn, 

So Germany to thee 

Turn'd in her bondage her imploring eyes. 



Oh, grief of griefs, that Germany, 

The wise, the virtuous land, 

The land of mighty minds. 

Should bend beneath the frothy Frenchman's yoke ; 

Oh, grief of griefs, to think 

That she should groan in bonds. 

She who had blest all nations with her gifts ! 

There had the light of Reformation risen. 

The light of Knowledge there was burning clear, 

Oil, grief, that her unhappy sons 

Should toil, and bleed, and die. 

To quench that sacred light. 

The wretched agents of a tyrant's will ! 

How often hath their blood 

In his accursed cause 

Reek'd on the Spaniard's blade ! 

Their mangled bodies fed 

The wolves and eagles of the Pyrenees ; 

Or stiffening in the snows of Moscovy, 

Amid the ashes of the watch-fire lay, 

Where dragging painfully their frozen limbs, 

With life's last effort, in the flames they fell. 



Long, Frederick, did'st thou bear 

Her sorrows and thine own ; 

Seven miserable years 

In patience didst thou feed thy heart with hope ; 

Till, when the arm of God 

Smote the blaspheming Tyrant in his pride. 

And Alexander, with the voice of power. 

Raised the glad cry. Deliverance for Mankind, 

First of the Germans, Prussia broke her chains. 



Joy, joy for Germany, 
For Europe, for the World, 
When Prussia rose in arms ! 



208 



CARMINA AULICA. 



Oh, what a spectacle 

For present and for future times was there, 

When, for the public need. 

Wives gave their marriage rings, 

And mothers, when their sons 

The Band of Vengeance join'd, 

Bade them return victorious from the field, 

Or with their country fall. 



Twice o'er the field of death 

The trembling scales of Fate hung equipoised ; 

For France, obsequious to her Tyrant still. 

Mighty for evil, put forth all her power ; 

And still, beneath his hateful banners driven, 

Against their father-land. 

Unwilling Germans bore unnatural arms. 

What though the Boaster made his temples ring 

With vain thanksgivings for each doubtful day — 

What though, with false pretence of peace, 

His old insidious arts he tried, — 

The spell was broken ! Austria threw her sword 

Into the inclining scale. 

And Leipsic saw the wrongs 

Of Germany avenged. 



Ne'er till that awful time had Europe seen 

Such multitudes in arms ; 

Nor ever had the rising Sun beheld 

Such mighty interests of mankind at stake ; 

Nor o'er so wide a scene 

Of slaughter e'er had Night her curtain closed. 

There, on the battle-field, 

With one accord the grateful monarchs knelt. 

And raised their voice to Heaven ; 

" The cause was thine, O Lord ! 

" O Lord ! thy hand was here ! " 

What Conquerors e'er deserved 

So proud, so pure a joy ! 

It was a moment when the exalted soul 

Might almost w^ish to burst its mortal bounds. 

Lest all of life to come 

Vapid and void should seem 

After that high-wrought hour. 

8. 

But thou hadst yet more toils, 

More duties and more triumphs yet in store. 

Elbe must not bound thine arms, 

Nor on the banks of Rhine 

Thine eagles check their flight ; 

When o'er that barrier stream 

Awakened Germany 

Drove her invaders with such rout and wreck 

As overtook the impious Gaul of old. 
Laden with plunder, and from Delphi driven. 

9. 

Long had insulting France 

Boasted her arms invincible. 

Her soil inviolate ; 



At length the hour of retribution comes ! 

Avenging nations on all sides move on j 

In Gascony the flag of England flies, 

Triumphant, as of yore, 

When sable Edward led his peerless host. 

Behold the Spaniard and the Portugal, 

For cities burnt, for violated fanes, 

For murders, massacres. 

All monstrous, all unutterable crimes. 

Demanding vengeance with victorious cries, 

Pour from the Pyrenees. 
The Russian comes, his eye on Paris fix'd, 
The flames of Moscow present to his heart ; 

The Austrian to efface 

Ulm, Austerlitz, and Wagram's later shame ; 

Rejoicing Germany, 

With all her nations, swells the avenging train, 

And in the field and in the triumph first, 

Thy banner, Frederick, floats. 

10. 

Six weeks in daily strife 
The veteran Blucher bore the brunt of war. 

Glorious old man. 

The last and greatest of his master's school, 

Long may he live to hear 

The people bless his name ! 

Late be it ere the wreath 

That crowns his silver hair 

Adorn his monument ! 

Glorious old man, 

How oft hath he discomfited 

The boasted chiefs of France, 

And foil'd her vaunting Tyrant's desperate rage ! 

Glorious old man, 

Who, from Silesia's fields. 

O'er Elbe, and Rhine, and Seine, 

From victory to victory marching on, 

Made his heroic way ; till at the gates 

Of Paris, open'd by his arms, he saw 

His King triumphant stand. 

11. 

Bear back the sword of Frederick now ! 

The sword which France amid her spoils display'd, 

Proud trophy of a day ignobly won. 

With laurels wreath the sword j 

Bear it in triumph back. 

Thus gloriously regain'd ; 

And when thou lay'st it in its honor'd place, 

O Frederick, well-beloved. 

Greatest and best of that illustrious name, 

Lay by its side thine own, 

A holier relic there ! 

12. 

Frederick, the well-beloved ! 

Welcome to these free shores ; 

To England welcome, to the happy Isle ! 

In glory art thou come. 

Thy victory perfect, thy revenge complete 



ODES. 



209 



ODES 



ODE. 

THE BATTLE OF ALGIERS 
1. 

One day of dreadful occupation more, 

Ere England's gallant ships 

Shall, of their beauty, pomp, and power disrobed, 

Like sea-birds on the sunny main, 

Rock idly in the port. 



One day of dreadful occupation more ! 

A work of righteousness. 

Yea, of sublimest mercy, must be done ; 

England will break the oppressor's chain, 

And set the captives free. 



Red cross of England, which all shores have seen 

Triumphantly displayed, 

Thou sacred banner of the glorious Isle, 

Known wheresoever keel hath cut 

The navigable deep, — 

4. 

Ne'er didst thou float more proudly o'er the storm 

Of havock and of death. 

Than when, resisting fiercely, but in vain, 

Algiers, her moony standard lowered. 

And sign'd the conqueror's law. 

5. 

Oh, if the grave were sentient, as these Moors 

In erring credence hold ; 

And if the victims of captivity 

Could in the silent tomb have heard 

The thunder of the fight ; — 



Sure their rejoicing dust upon that day 

Had heaved the oppressive soil, 

And earth been shaken like the mosques and towers. 

When England on those guilty walls 

Her fiery vengeance sent. 



Seldom hath victory given a joy like this, - 

When the delivered slave 

Revisits once again his own dear home. 

And tells of all his sufferings past. 

And blesses Exmouth's name. 



i 



Far, far and wide along the Italian shores. 

That holy joy extends ; 

Sardinian mothers pay their vows fulfill 'd ; 

And hymns are heard beside thy banks, 

O Fountain Arethuse ! 

27 



9. 

Churches shall blajze with lights, and ring with 

praise, 

And deeper strains shall rise 

From many an overflowing heart to Heaven j 

Nor will they in their prayers forget 

The hand that set them free. 

Keswick. 



ODE 

ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE. 



Death has gone up into our Palaces 
The light of day once more 
Hath visited the last abode 

Of mortal royalty. 
The dark and silent vault. 



But not as when the silence of that vault 

Was interrupted last 

Doth England raise her loud lament, 

Like one by sudden grief 

Surprised and overcome. 



Then, with a passionate sorrow, we bewail'd 

Youth on the untimely bier; 

And hopes, which seem'd like flower-buds full, 

Just opening to the sun. 

Forever swept away. 

4. 

The heart then struggled with repining thoughts, 

With feelings that almost 

Arraign'd the inscrutable decree, 

Imbittered by a sense 
Of that which might have been. 



This grief hath no repining ; all is well, 

What hath been, and what is. 

The Angel of Deliverance came 

To one who, full of years, 

Awaited her release. 



All that our fathers in their prayers desired, 

When first their chosen Queen 

Set on our shores her happy feet, — 

All by indulgent Heaven 

Had largely been vouchsafed. 



At Court the Household Virtues had their place 

Domestic Purity 

Maintain 'd her proper influence there ; 

The marriage bed was blest, 

And length of days was given. 



210 



ODES, 



No cause for sorrow then, but thankfulness; 

Life's business well performed, 

When weary age full willingly 

Resigns itself to sleep, 

In sure and certain hope ! 

9. 

Oh, end to be desired, whene'er, as now, 

Good works have gone before. 

The seasonable fruit of Faith j 

And good Report and good 

Example have survived. 

10. 

Her left hand knew not of the ample alms 

Which her right hand had done; 

And, therefore, in the awful hour, 

The promises were hers 

To secret bounty made. 

11. 

With more than royal honors to the tomb 

Her bier is borne ; with more 

Than Pomp can claim, or Power bestow ; 

With blessings and with prayers 

From many a grateful heart. 

12. 

Long, long then shall Queen Charlotte's name be 

dear; 

And future Queens to her 

As to their best exemplar look; 

Who imitates her best 

May best deserve our love. 

Kesioick, 1818. 



ODE 



FOR ST. GEORGE S DAT. 



Wild were the tales which fabling monks of old 

Devised to swell their hero's holy fame, 

When in the noble army they enroll'd 

St. George's doubtful name. 

Of arrows and of spears they told. 

Which fell rebated from his mortal mould ; 

And how the burning, fiery furnace blast 

To him came tempered like a summer breeze, 

When at the hour of evening it hath past 

O'er gurgling tanks, and groves of lemon-trees : 

And how the reverential flame. 

Condensing like a garb of honor, play'd 

In gorgeous folds around his glorious frame ; 

And how the Heathen, in their frantic strife. 

With water then alike in vain essay'd 

His inextinguishable life. 



What marvel if the Christian Knight 
Thus for his dear Redeemer's sake 
Defied the purpled Pagan's might ^ 



Such boldness well might he partake, 
For he, beside the Libyan lake 
Silene, with the Infernal King 

Had coped in actual fight. 

The old Dragon on terrific wing 

Assail'd him there with Stygian string, 

And arrowy tongue, and potent breath, 

Exhaling pestilence and death. 

Dauntless in faith the Champion stood. 

Opposed against the rage of Hell 

The Red-Cross shield, and wielding well 

His sword, the strife pursued : 

First with a wide and rending wound 

Brought the maim'd monster to the ground, 

Then, pressing with victorious heel 

Upon his scaly neck subdued. 

Plunged and replunged the searching steel ; 

Till from the shameful overthrow, 

Howling, the incarnate Demon fled. 

And left that form untenanted. 
And hid in Hell his humbled head. 
Still trembling in the realm below, 
At thought of that tremendous foe. 



Such tales monastic fablers taught ; 

Their kindred strain the minstrels caught. 

A web of finer texture they 

Wrought in the rich, romantic lay ; 

Of magic caves and woods they sung, 

Where Kalyb nursed the boy divine, 

And how those woods and caverns rung 

With cries from many a demon tongue, 

When, breaking from the witch's cell. 

He bound her in her own strong spell ; — 

And of the bowers of Ormandine, 

Where, thrall'd by art, St. David lay, 

Sleeping inglorious years away. 

Till our St. George, with happier arm 

Released him, and dissolved the charm. 

But most the minstrels loved to tell 

Of that portentous day 

When Sabra at the stake was bound. 

Her brow with sweetest garlands crown'd, 

The Egyptian Dragon's prey ; 

And how for her the English knight, 

Invincible at such a sight, 
Engaged that fiendish beast in fight, 
And o'er the monster, triple-scaled, 
The good sword Askalon prevail'd. 

4. 

S\ich legends monks and minstrels feign'd, 

And easily the wondrous tales obtain'd, 

In those dark days, belief; 

Shrines to the Saint were rear'd, and temples rose. 

And states and kingdoms for their patron chose \ 

The Cappadocian Chief. 

Full soon his sainted name hath won 

In fields of war a wide renown ; 

Spain saw the Moors confounded fly, 

Before the well-known slaughter cry, 

St. George for Aragon ! 

And when the Catalans pursued 

Their vengeful way with fire and blood, 



ODES. 



211 



The Turk and treacherous Greek were dearly 

taught 

That all-appalling shout, 

For them with rage and ruin fraught 

In many a dolorous rout. 

'Twas in this heavenly Guardian's trusted strength, 

That Malta's old heroic knights defied 

The Ottoman in all his power and pride. 

Repulsed from her immortal walls at length, 

The baffled Misbeliever turn'd with shame; 

And when in after years in dreams he heard 

That all-too-well remembered battle-word, 

Woke starting at St. George's dreadful name, 

And felt cold sweats of fear suffuse his trembling 

frame. 



But thou, O England ! to that sainted name 

Hast given its proudest praise, its loftiest fame. 

Witness the field of Cressy, on that day, 

When volleying thunders roll'd unheard on high; 

For, in that memorable fray, 

Broken, confused, and scatter'd in dismay, 

France had ears only for the Conqueror's cry, 

St. George, St. George for England '. St. George 

and Victory ! 

Bear witness, Poictiers ! where again the foe 

From that same hand received his overthrow. 

In vain essay'd, Mont Joye St. Denis rang 

From many a boastful tongue. 

And many a hopeful heart in onset brave ; 

Their courage in the shock of battle quail'd. 

His dread reponse when sable Edward gave, 

And England and St. George again prevail'd. 

Bear witness, Agincourt, where once again 

The bannered lilies on the ensanguin'd plain 

Were trampled by the fierce pursuers' feet; 

And France, doom'd ever to defeat 

Against that foe, beheld her myriads fly 

Before the withering cry, 

St. George, St. George for England ! St. George 

and Victory 1 



That cry, in many a field of Fame, 

Through glorious ages held its high renown ; 

Nor less hath Britain proved the sacred name 

Auspicious to her crown. 

Troubled too oft her course of fortune ran, 

Till, when the Georges came, 

Her happiest age began. 

Beneath their just and liberal sway, 

Old feuds and factions died away ; 

One feeling through her realms was known, 

One interest of the Nation and the Throne. 

Ring, then, ye bells, upon St. George's Day, 

From every tower in glad accordance ring; 

And let all instruments, full, strong, or sweet, 

With touch of modulated string. 
And soft or swelling breath, and sonorous beat, 

The happy name repeat, 
While heart and voice their joyous tribute bring, 
j And speak the People's love for George their King 

Keswick, 1820. 



ODE 

WRITTEN AFTER THE KINg's VISIT TO IRELAND. 
1. 

How long, O Ireland, from thy guilty ground 

Shall innocent blood 

Arraign the inefficient arm of Power.'* 

How long shall Murder there, 

Leading his banded ruffians through the land, 

Range unrepress'd .'' 

How long shall Night 

Bring to thy harmless dwellers, in the stead 

Of natural rest, the feverish sleep of fear, 

IVIidnight alarms. 

Horrible dreams, and worse realities ? 

How long shall darkness cover, and the eye 

Of Morning open, upon deeds of death.'' 



In vain art thou, by liberal Nature's dower. 

Exuberantly blest ; 

The Seasons, in their course. 

Shed o'er thy hills and vales 

The bounties of a genial clime in vain; 

Heaven hath in vain bestowed 

Well-tempered liberty, 

(Its last and largest boon to social man,) 

If the brute Multitude, from age to age, 

Wild as their savage ancestors, 

Go irreclaim'd the while. 

From sire to son transmitting still. 

In undisturb'd descent, 

(A sad inheritance !) 

Their errors and their crimes. 



Green Island of the West! 

Thy Sister Kingdom fear'd not this, 

When thine exultant shores 

Rung far and wide of late. 

And grateful Dublin first beheld her King, 

First of thy Sovereigns he 

Who visited thy shores in peace and joy. 



Oh what a joy was there ! 

In loud huzzas prolong'd, 

Surge after surge the tide 

Of popular welcome rose ; 

And in the intervals alone 

Of that tumultuous sound of glad acclaim. 

Could the deep cannon's voice 

Of duteous gratulation, though it spake 

In thunder, reach the ear. 

From every tower the merry bells rung round, 

Peal hurrying upon peal. 

Till with the still reverberating din 

The walls and solid pavement seem'd to shake, 

And every bosom with the tremulous air 

Inhaled a dizzy joy. 



Age, that came forth to gaze. 
That memorable day 



212 



ODES. 



Felt in its quicken'd veins a pulse like youth; 

And lisping babes were taught to bless their King; 

And grandsires bade the children treasure up 

The precious sight, for it would be a tale 

The which in their old age 

Would make their children's children gather round 

Intent, all ears to hear. 

6. 

Were then the feelings of that generous time 

Ephemeral as the joy ? 

Pass'd they away like summer clouds, 

Like dreams of infancy, 

Like glories of the evening firmament, 

Which fade, and leave no trace ? 

Merciful Heaven, oh, let not thou the hope 

Be frustrate, that our Sister Isle may reap, 

From the good seed then sown. 

Full harvests of prosperity and peace ; 

That perfect union may derive its date 

From that auspicious day. 

And equitable ages thence 

Their lasting course begin ! 



Green Island of the West, 

While frantic violence delays 

That happier order, still must thou remain 

In thine own baleful darkness wrapp'd ; 

As if the Eye divine, 

That which beholdeth all, from thee alone 

In wrath had turn'd away ! 



But not forever thus shalt thou endure, 

To thy reproach, and ours, 

Thy misery, and our shame ! 

For Mercy shall go forth 

To stablish Order, with an arm'd right hand ; 

And firm Authority, 

With its all-present strength, control the bad. 

And, with its all-sufficient shield, 

Protect the innocent : 

The first great duty this of lawful Power, 

Which holds its delegated right from Heaven. 

9. 

The first great duty this ; but this not all ; 

For more than comes within the scope 

Of Power, is needed here ; 

More than to watch insidious discontent. 

Curb, and keep curb'd, the treasonable tongue. 

And quell the madden'd multitude : 

Labors of love remain ; 

To weed out noxious customs rooted deep 

In a rank soil, and long left seeding there ; 

Pour balm into old wounds, and bind them up ; 

Remove remediable ills. 

Improve the willing mind, 

And win the generous heart. 

Afflicted Country, from thyself 

Must this redemption come ; 

And thou hast children able to perform 

This work of faith and hope. 



10. 

O for a voice that might recall 

To their deserted hearths 

Thy truant sons ! a voice 

Whose virtuous cogency 

Might with the strength of duty reach their souls ; 

A strength that should compel entire consent, 

And to their glad obedience give 

The impulse and the force of free good- will ! 

For who but they can knit 

The severed links of that appointed chain, 

Which when in just cohesion it unites 

Order to order, rank to rank, 

In mutual benefit. 

So binding heart to heart, 

It then connecteth Earth with Heaven, from whence 

The golden links depend. 

11. 

Nor when the war is waged 

With Error, and the brood 

Of Darkness, will your aid 

Be wanting in the cause of Light and Love, 

Ye Ministers of that most holy Church, 

Whose firm foundations on the rock 

Of Scripture rest secure ! 

What though the Romanist, in numbers strong, 

In misdirected zeal 

And bigotry's blind force, 

Assail your Fortress ; though the sons of Schism 

Join in insane alliance with that old, 

Inveterate enemy, 

Weening thereby to wreak 

Their covenanted hatred, and effect 

Your utter overthrow ; 

What though the unbelieving crew. 

For fouler purpose, aid the unnatural league ; 

And Faction's wolfish pack 

Set up their fiercest yell, to augment 

The uproar of assault ; 

Clad in your panoply will ye be found. 

Wielding the spear of Reason, with the sword 

Of Scripture girt ; and from your shield of Truth 

Such radiance shall go forth. 

As when, unable to sustain its beams 

On Arthur's arm unveil'd, 

Earth-born Orgoglio reel'd, as if with wine; 

And, from her many-headed beast cast down, 

Duessa fell, her cup of sorcery spilt. 

Her three-crown'd mitre in the dust devolved, 

And all her secret filthiness exposed. 

12. 

O thou fair Island, with thy Sister Isle 

Indissolubly link'd for weal and woe ; 

Partaker of her present power, 

Her everlasting fame ; 

Dear pledges hast thou render'd and received '^ 

Of that eternal union ! Bedell's grave 

Is in thy keeping ; and with thee 

Deposited doth Taylor's holy dust 

Await the Archangel's call. 

O land profuse of genius and of worth. 

Largely hast thou received, and largely given ! 



I 



ODES. 



213 



13. 

Green Island of the West, 

The example of unspotted Ormond's faith 

To thee we owe ; to thee 

Boyle's venerable name ; 

Berkeley the wise, the good ; 

And that great Orator who first 

Unmask'd the harlot sorceress Anarchy, 

What time, in Freedom's borrowed form profaned, 

She to the nations round 

Her draught of witchcraft gave ; 

And him who in the field 

O'erthrew her giant offspring in his strength, 

And brake the iron rod. 

Proud of such debt, 

Rich to be thus indebted, these, 

Fair Island, Sister Queen 

Of Ocean, Ireland, these to thee we owe. 

14. 

Shall I then imprecate 

A curse on them that would divide 

Our union ? — Far be this from me, O Lord ! 

Far be it ! What is man. 

That he should scatter curses ? — King of Kings, 

Father of all, Almighty, Governor 

Of all things ! unto Thee 

Humbly I offer up our holier prayer ! 

I pray Thee, not in wrath, 

But in thy mercy, to confound 

These men's devices. Lord ! 

Lighten their darkness with thy Gospel light, 

And thus abate their pride, 

Assuage their malice thus ! 

Keswick, 1821. 



ODE 



VRITTEN AFTER THE KING S VISIT TO SCOTLAND. 



At length hath Scotland seen 
The presence long desired; 

The pomp of royalty 

Hath gladden'd once again 

Her ancient palace, desolate how long ! 

From all parts far and near, 

Highland and lowland, glen and fertile carse. 

The silent mountain lake, the busy port. 

Her populous cities, and her pastoral hills, 

In generous joy convened 

By the free impulse of the loyal heart 

■ Her sons have gather'd, and beheld their King. 



Land of the loyal, as in happy hour 

Revisited, so was thy regal seat 

In happy hour for thee 

Forsaken, under favoring stars, when James 

His valediction gave, 

And great Eliza's throne 

Received its rightful heir, 

The Peaceful and the Just. 



A more auspicious union never Earth 

From eldest days had seen. 

Than when, their mutual wrongs forgiven, 

And gallant enmity renounced 

With honor, as in honor foster'd long, 

The ancient Kingdoms formed 

Their everlasting league. 



Slowly by time matured 

A happier order then for Scotland rose ; 

And where inhuman force, 

And rapine unrestrain'd 

Had lorded o'er the land. 

Peace came, and polity. 

And quiet industry, and frugal wealth ; 

And there the household virtues fix'd 

Their sojourn undisturb'd. 



Such blessings for her dowry Scotland drew 

From that benignant union ; nor less large 

The portion that she brought. 

She brought security and strength. 

True hearts, and strenuous hands, and noble minds. 

Say, Ocean, from the shores of Camperdown, 

What Caledonia brought ! Say thou, 

Egypt ! Let India tell ! 

And let tell Victory 

From that Brabantine field, 

The proudest field of fame ! 



Speak ye, too, Works of peace ; 

For ye too have a voice 

Which shall be heard by ages ! The proud Bridge, 

Through whose broad arches, worthy of their 

name 

And place, his rising and his refluent tide 

Majestic Thames, the royal river, rolls; 

And that which, high in air, 

A bending line suspended, shall o'erhang 

Menai's straits, as if 

By Merlin's mighty magic there sustain'd; 

And Pont-Cyssylte, not less wondrous work; 

Where, on gigantic columns raised 

Aloft, a dizzying height. 

The laden barge pursues its even way. 

While o'er his rocky channel the dark Dee 

Hurries below, a raging stream, scarce heard. 

And that huge mole, whose deep foundations, firm 

As if by Nature laid. 

Repel the assailing billows, and protect 

The British fleet, securely riding there. 

Though southern storms possess the sea and sky, 

And, from its depths commoved, 

Infuriate ocean raves. 

Ye stately monuments of Britain's power, 

Bear record ye what Scottish minds 

Have plann'd and perfected ! 

With grateful wonder shall posterity 

See the stupendous works, and Rennie's name, 

And Telford's shall survive, till time 

Leave not a wreck of sublunary things. 



214 



THE WARNING VOICE. 



Him too may I attest for Scotland's praise. 

Who seized and wielded first 

The mightiest element 

That lies within the scope of man's control ; 

Of evil and of good, 

Prolific spring, and dimly yet discern'd 

The immeasurable results. 

The mariner no longer seeks 

Wings from the wind; creating now the power 

Wherewith he wins his way, 

Right on across the ocean-flood he steers 

Against opposing skies ; 

And reaching now the inmost continent, 

Up rapid streams, innavigable else, 

Ascends with steady progress, self-propell'd. 



Nor hath the Sister kingdom borne 

In science and in arms 

Alone, her noble part ; 

There is an empire which survives 

The wreck of thrones, the overthrow of realms, 

The downfall, and decay, and death 

Of Nations. Such an empire in the mind 

Of intellectual man 

Rome yet maintains, and elder Greece, and such, 

By indefeasible right. 

Hath Britain made her own. 

How fair a part doth Caledonia claim 

In that fair conquest ! Wheresoe'er 

The British tongue may spread, 

(A goodly tree, whose leaf 

No winter e'er shall nip,) 

Earthly immortals, there, her sons of fame, 

Will have their heritage. 

In eastern and in occidental Ind; 

The new antarctic world, where sable swans 

Glide upon waters call'd by British names, 

And plough'd by British keels ; 

In vast America, through all its length 

And breadth, from Massachusett's populous coast 

To western Oregan ; 

And from the southern gulf, 

Where the great river with his turbid flood 

Stains the green Ocean, to the polar sea. 

9. 

There nations yet unborn shall trace 

In Hume's perspicuous page. 

How Britain rose, and through what storms attain'd 

Her eminence of power. 

In other climates, youths and maidens there 

Shall learn from Thomson's verse in what attire 

The various seasons, bringing in their change 

Variety of good. 

Revisit their beloved English ground. 

There, Beattie ! in thy sweet and soothing strain 

Shall youthful poets read 

Their own emotions. There, too, old and young, 

Gentle and simple, by Sir Walter's tales 

Spell-bound, shall feel 

Imaginary hopes and fears 

Strong as realities. 

And, waking from the dream, regret its close. 



10. 

These, Scotland, are thy glories ; and thy praise 

Is England's, even as her power 

And opulence of fame are thine. 

So hath our happy union made 

Each in the other's weal participant, 

Enriching, strengthening, glorifying both. 

11. 

O House of Stuart, to thy memory still 

For this best benefit 

Should British hearts in gratitude be bound ! 

A deeper tragedy 

Than thine unhappy tale hath never fill'd 

The historic page, nor given 

Poet or moralist his mournful theme. 

O House severely tried. 

And in prosperity alone 

Found wanting. Time hath closed 

Thy tragic story now ! 

Errors, and virtues fatally betrayed, 

Magnanimous suffering, vice, 

Weakness, and headstrong zeal, sincere, tho' blind, 

Wrongs, calumnies, heart-wounds. 

Religious resignation, earthly hopes, 

Fears, and affections, these have had their course, 

And over them in peace 

The all-ingulfing stream of years hath closed. 

But this good work endures ; 

'Stablish'd and perfected by length of days, 

The indissoluble union stands. 

12. 

Nor hath the sceptre from that line 

Departed, though the name hath lost 

Its regal honors. Trunk and root have fail'd : 

A scion from the stock 

Liveth and flour isheth. It is the Tree 

Beneath whose sacred shade. 

In majesty and peaceful power serene, 

The Island Queen of Ocean hath her seat ; 

Whose branches far and near 

Extend their sure protection ; whose strong roots 

Are with the Isle's foundations interknit; 
Whose stately summit, when the storm careers 

Below, abides unmoved. 
Safe in the sunshine and the peace of Heaven. 

Kesivick, 1822. 



THE WARNING VOICE. 



ODE I. 



i 



Take up thy prophecy, • 

Thou dweller in the mountains, who hast nursed 

Thy soul in solitude. 

Holding communion with immortal minds, 

Poets and Sages of the days of old ; 



THE WARNING VOICE. 



215 



And with the sacred food 

Of meditation and of lore divine 

Hast fed thy heavenly part ; 

Take up thy monitory strain. 

O son of song, a strain severe 

Of warning and of woe ! 

2. 

O Britain, O my Mother Isle, 

Ocean's imperial Queen, 

Thou glory of all lands i 

Is there a curse upon thee, that thy sons 

Would rush to ruin, drunk 

With sin, and in infuriate folly blind ? 

Hath Hell enlarged itself, 

And are the Fiends let loose 

To work thine overthrow ? 



For who is she 

That, on the many-headed Beast 

Triumphantly enthroned, 

Doth ride abroad in state, 

The Book of her Enchantments in her hand ? 

Her robes are stain'd with blood, 

And on her brazen front 

Is written Blasphejiy. 

4. 

Know ye not then the Harlot ? know ye not 

Her shameless forehead, her obdurate eye, 

Her meretricious mien. 

Her loose, immodest garb, with slaughter foul ! 

Your Fathers knew her; when delirious France, 

Drunk with her witcheries. 

Upon the desecrated altar set 

The Sorceress, and, with rites 

Inhuman and accurst, 

O'er all the groaning land 

Perform'd her sacrifice. 

5. 

Your Fathers knew her ! when the nations round 
Received her maddening spell, 

And call'd her Liberty, 

And in that name proclaim'd 

A jubilee for guilt; 

When their blaspheming hosts defied high Heaven, 

And wheresoe'er they went let havock loose; 

Your Fathers knew the Sorceress ! They stood firm, 

And, in that hour of trial faithful found, 

They raised the Red Cross flag. 

6. 

They knew her ; and they knew 
That not in scenes of rapine and of blood, 

In lawless riotry, 

And wallowing with the multitude obscene, 

Would Liberty be found ! 

Her in her form divine. 

Her genuine form, they knew ; 

For Britain was her home ; 

With Order and Religion there she dwelt ; 

It was her chosen seat, 

Her own beloved Isle. 



Think not that Liberty 

From Ord^r and Religion e'er will dwell 

Apart ; companions they 

Of heavenly seed connate. 



Woe, woe for Britain, woe ! 

If that society divine. 

By lewd and impious uproar driven, 

Indignantly should leave 

The land that in tlieir presence hath been blest ! 

Woe, woe ! for in her streets 

Should gray-hair'd Polity 

Be trampled under foot by ruffian force, 

And Murder to the noon-day sky 

Lift his red hands, as if no God were there, 

War would lay waste the realm; 

Devouring fire consume 

Temples and Palaces ; 

Nor would the lowliest cot 

Escape that indiscriminating storm, 

When Heaven upon the guilty nation pour'd 

The vials of its wrath. 



These are no doubtful ills I 
The unerring voice of Time 
Warns us that what hath been again shall be ; 
And the broad beacon-flame 
Of History casts its light 
Upon Futurity. 



Turn not thy face away, 

Almighty ! from the realm 

By tliee so highly favored, and so long. 

Thou who in war hast been our sliield and strength, 

From famine who hast saved us, and hast bade 

The Earthquake and the Pestilence go by, 

Spare us, O Father ! save us from ourselves ! 

From insane Faction, who prepares the pit 

In which itself would fall; 

From rabid Treason's rage, — 

The poor priest-ridden Papist's erring zeal, — 

The lurking Atheist's wiles, — 

The mad Blasphemer's venom, — from our foes, 

Our follies and our errors, and our sins, 

Save us, O Father ! for thy mercy's sake. 

Thou who ALONE canst save ! 

Keswick, 1819. 



ODE 11. 



In a vision I was seized, 

When the elements were hush'd 

In the stillness that is felt 

Ere the Storm goes abroad ; 

Through the air I was borne away; 

And in spirit I beheld 

Where a City lay beneath, 

Like a valley mapp'd below, 

When seen from a mountain top 



216 



THE WARNING VOICE. 



The night had closed around, 

And o'er the sullen sky 

Were the wide wings of darkness spread ; 

The City's myriad lamps 

Shone mistily below, 

Like stars in the bosom of a lake ; 

And its murmurs arose 

Incessant and deep, 

Like the sound of the sea 

Where it rakes on a stony shore. 

3. 

A voice from the darkness went forth, 

" Son of Man, look below ! 

This is the City to be visited ; 

For as a fountain 

Casteth its waters, 

So casteth she her wickedness abroad ! " 

Mine eyes were opened then, 

And the veil which conceals 

The Invisible World was withdrawn. 



I look'd, and, behold ! 

As the Patriarch, in his dream. 

Saw the Angels to and fro 

Pass from Heaven to Earth, 

On their ministry of love. 

So saw I where a way 

From that great City led 

To the black abyss of bale. 

To the dolorous region of Death. 



Wide and beaten was the way, 

And deep the descent 

To the Adamantine Gates, 

Which were thrown on their hinges back. 

Wailing and Woe were within, 

And the gleam of sulphurous fires, 

In darkness and smoke involved. 

6. 

And through those open gates 

The Fiends were swarming forth ; 

Hastily, joyfully, 

As to a jubilee, 

The Spirits accurst were trooping up ; 

They fill'd the streets. 

And they bore with them curses and plagues ; 

And they scattered lies abroad. 

Horrors, obscenities. 

Blasphemies, treasons. 

And the seeds of strife and death. 



" Son of Man, look up ! " said the Voice : 

I look'd and beheld 

The way which angels tread, 

Seen like a pillar of light 

That slants from a broken sky. 

That heavenly way by clouds was closed. 

Heavy, and thick, and dark, with thunder charged ; 

And there a Spirit stood, 



Who raised, in menacing act, his awful ajrm; 

He spake aloud, and thrill'd 

My inmost soul with fear. 



" Woe ! Woe ! 

Woe to the city where Faction reigns ! 

Woe to the land where Sedition prevails ! 

Woe to the nation whom Hell deceives ! 

Woe! Woe! 

They have eyes, and they will not see ! 

They have ears, and they will not hear ! 

They have hearts, and they will not feel ! 

Woe to the People who fasten their eyes ! 

Woe to the People who deafen their ears ! 

Woe to the People who harden their hearts ! 

Woe ! Woe ! 

The vials are charged ; 

The measure is full ; 

The wrath is ripe ; — 

Woe ! Woe ! " 

9. 

But from that City then, behold, 

A gracious form arose ! 

Her snow-white wings, upon the dusky air, 

Shone like the waves that glow 

Around a midnight keel in liquid light. 

Upward her supplicating arms were spread, 

And, as her face to heaven 

In eloquent grief she raised. 

Loose, like a Comet's refluent tresses, hung 

Her heavenly hair dispersed. 

10. 

" Not yet, O Lord ! not yet, 

Oh, merciful as just ! 

Not yet ! " — the Tutelary Angel cried ; 

" For I must plead with thee for this poor land. 

Guilty — but still the seat 

Of genuine piety, — 

The mother, still, of noble minds, — 

The nurse of high desires ! 

Not yet, O Lord, not yet. 

Give thou thine anger way ! 

Thou, who hast set thy Bow 

Of Mercy in the clouds. 

Not yet, O Lord, pour out 

The vials of thy wrath ! 

11. 

" Oh, for the sake 

Of that religion, pure and undefiled, 

Here purchased by thy Martyrs' precious blood,— 

Mercy, O mercy. Lord ! 

For that well-order'd frame of equal laws, 

Time's goodliest monument, 

O'er which thy guardian shield 

So oft hath been extended heretofore, — 

Mercy, O mercy. Lord ! 

For the dear charities, 

The household virtues, that in secret there. 

Like sweetest violets, send their fragrance forth, 

Mercy, O mercy, Lord ! 



ODE ON THE PORTRAIT OF BISHOP HEBER. 



217 



]2. 

*' Oh, wilt thou quench the light 

That should illuminate 

The nations who in darkness sit, 

And in the shadow of death ? — 

Oh, wilt thou stop the heart 

Of intellectual life ? — 

Wilt thou seal the eye of the world ? — 

Mercy, O mercy, Lord ! 

13. 

" Not for the guilty few ; 

Nor for the erring multitude, 

The ignorant many, wickedly misled, — 

Send thou thy vengeance down 

Upon a land so long the dear abode 

Of Freedom, Knowledge, Virtue, Faith, approved, 

Thine own beloved land ! 

Oh, let not hell prevail 
Against her past deserts, — 
Against her actual worth, — 
Against her living hopes, — 
Against the prayers that rise 
From righteous hearts this hour I 

' " Plead with me, O ye dead ! whose sacred dust 

Is laid in hope within her hallow'd soil, — 

Plead with me for your country, suffering now 

Beneath such loathsome plagues 

As ancient Egypt in her slime 

And hot corruption bred. 

Plead with me at this hour. 

All wise and upright minds. 

All honorable hearts, — 

For ye abhor the sins 

Which o'er the guilty land 

Have drawn this gather' d storm ! 

Plead with me, Souls unborn. 

Ye who are doomed upon this fateful spot 

To pass your pilgrimage, 

Earth's noblest heritors, 

Or children of a ruin'd realm, to shame 

And degradation born, — 

(For this is on the issue of the hour !) 

Plead with me, unborn Spirits ! that the wrath 

Deserved may pass away ! 

15. 

"Join in my supplication. Seas and Lands, — 

I call upon you all ! 

Thou, Europe, in whose cause, 

Alone and undismay'd. 

The generous nation strove ; 

For whose deliverance, in the Spanish fields, 

Her noblest blood was pour'd 

Profusely ; and on that Brabantine plain, 

(The proudest fight that e'er 

By virtuous victory 

Was hallowed to all time.) 

Join with me, Africa ! 

For here hath thy redemption had its birth; — 

Thou, India, who art blest 

With peace and equity 
Beneath her easy sway ; — 
28 



And thou, America, who owest 

The large and inextinguishable debt 

Of filial love ! — And ye. 

Remote Antarctic Isles and Continent, 

Where the glad tidings of the Gospel truth, 

Her children are proclaiming faithfully ; — 

Join with me now to wrest 

The thunderbolt from that relenting arm ! — 

Plead with me, Earth and Ocean, at this hour, 

Thou, Ocean, for thy Queen, 

And for thy benefactress, thou, O Earth ! " 

16. 

The Angel ceased ; 

The vision fled ; 

The wind arose, 

The clouds were rent. 

They were drifted and scatter'd abroad ; 

And as I look'd, and saw 

Where, through the clear blue sky, the silver Moon 

Moved in her light serene, 

A healing influence reach'd my heart, 

And I felt in my soul 
That the voice of the Angel was heard. 

Kesicick, 1820. 



ODE 

ON 

THE PORTRAIT OF BISHOP HEBER. 



1. 

Yes, — such as these were Heber's lineaments; 

Such his capacious front, 

His comprehensive eye, 

His open brow serene. 

Such was the gentle countenance which bore 

Of generous feeling, and of golden truth, 

Sure Nature's sterling impress ; never there 

Unruly passion left 

Its ominous marks infix'd, 

Nor the worse die of evil habit set 

An inward stain ingrain'd. 

Such were the lips whose salient playfulness 

Enliven'd peaceful hours of private life ; 

Whose eloquence 

Held congregations open ear'd. 

As from the heart it flow'd, a living stream 

Of Christian wisdom, pure and undefiled. 

2. 

And what if there be those 

Who in the cabinet 

Of memory hold enshrined 

A livelier portraiture, 

And see in thought, as in their dreams, 

His actual image, verily produced .' 

Yet shall this counterfeit convey 

To strangers, and preserve for after-time, 

All that could perish of him, — all that else 



218 



ODE ON THE PORTRAIT OF BISHOP HEBER. 



Even now had past away ; 

For he hath taken with the Living Dead 

His honorable place, — 

Yea, with the Saints of God 

His holy habitation. Hearts, to which 

Through ages he shall speak, 

Will yearn towards him; and they, too, (for such 

Will be,) who gird their loins 

With truth to follow him, 

Having the breastplate on of righteousness, 

The helmet of salvation, and the shield 

Of faith, — they too will gaze 

Upon his e&gy 

With reverential love, 

Till they shall grow familiar with its lines. 

And know him when they see his face in Heaven. 



Ten years have held their course 

Since last I look'd upon 

That living countenance, 

When on Llangedwin's terraces we paced 

Together, to and fro. 

Partaking there its hospitality, 

We with its honored master spent, 

Well-pleased, the social hours ; 

His friend and mine, — my earliest friend, whom I 

Have ever, through all changes, found the same 

From boyhood to gray hairs. 

In goodness, and in worth and warmth of heart. 

Together then we traced 

The grass-grown site, where armed feet once 

trod 

The threshold of Glendower's embattled hall ; 

Together sought Melangel's lonely Church, 

Saw the dark yews, majestic in decay. 

Which in their flourishing strength 

Cy veilioc might have seen ; 

Letter by letter traced the lines 

On Yorwerth's fabled tomb ; 

And curiously observed what vestiges, 

Mouldering and mutilate. 

Of Monacella's legend there are left, 

A tale humane, itself 

Well-nigh forgotten now : 

Together visited the ancient house 

Which from the hill-slope takes 

Its Cymric name euphonious ; there to view, 

Though drawn by some rude limner inexpert. 

The faded portrait of that lady fair. 

Beside whose corpse her husband watch'd. 

And with perverted faith, 

Preposterously placed. 

Thought, obstinate in hopeless hope, to see 

The beautiful dead, by miracle, revive. 



The sunny recollections of those days 

Full soon were overcast, when Heber went 

Where half this wide world's circle lay 

Between us interposed. 

A messenger of love he went, 

A true Evangelist; 

Not for ambition, nor for gain, 

Nor of constraint, save such as duty lays 



Upon the disciplined heart. 

Took he the overseeing on himself 

Of that wide flock dispersed, 

Which, till these latter times, 

Had there been left to stray 

Neglected all too long. 

For this great end, devotedly he went, 

Forsaking friends and kin. 

His own loved paths of pleasantness and peace, 

Books, leisure, privacy. 

Prospects (and not remote) of all wherewith 

Authority could dignify desert; 

And, dearer far to him, 

Pursuits that with the learned and the wise 

Should have assured his name its lasting place. 



Large, England, is the debt 

Thou owest to Heathendom ; 

To India most of all, where Providence, 

Giving thee thy dominion there in trust, 

Upholds its baseless strength. 

All seas have seen thy red-cross flag 

In war triumphantly display 'd ; 

Late only hast thou set that standard up 

On pagan shores in peace ! 

Yea, at this hour the cry of blood 

Riseth against thee from beneath the wheels 

Of that seven-headed Idol's car accursed ; 

Against thee, from the widow's funeral pile, 

The smoke of human sacrifice 

Ascends, even now, to Heaven. 



The debt shall be discharged ; the crying sin 

Silenced ; the foul offence 

Forever done away. 

Thither our saintly Heber went, 

In promise and in pledge 

That England, from her guilty torpor roused, 

Should zealously and wisely undertake 

Her awful task assign'd : 

Thither, devoted to the work, he went, 

There spent his precious life, 

There left his holy dust. 



How beautiful are the feet of him 

That bringeth good tidings, 

That publisheth peace, 

That bringeth good tidings of good. 

That proclaimeth salvation for men. 

Where'er the Christian Patriarch went, 

Honor and reverence heralded his way. 

And blessings followed him. 

The Malabar, the Moor, the Cingalese, 

Though unillumed by faith. 

Yet not the less admired 

The virtue that they saw. 

The European soldier, there so long 

Of needful and consolatory rites 

Injuriously deprived, 

Felt, at his presence, the neglected seed 

Of early piety 

Refresh'd, as with a quickening dew from Heaven, 



EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



219 



Native believers wept for thankfulness, 

When on their heads he laid his hallowing hands: 

And, if the Saints in bliss 

Be cognizant of aught tliat passeth here, 

It was a joy for Schwartz 

To look from Paradise that hour 

Upon his earthly flock. 

8. 

Ram boweth down, 

Creeshna and Seeva stoop ; 

The Arabian Moon must wane to wax no more; 

And Ishmael's seed redeem'd, 

And Esau's — to their brotherhood, 

And to their better birthright then restored, 

Shall within Israel's covenant be brought. 

Drop down, ye Heavens, from above ! 

Ye skies, pour righteousness ! 

Open, thou Earth, and let 

Salvation be brought forth ! 

And sing ye, O ye Heavens, and shout, O Earth, 

With all thy hills and vales. 

Thy mountains and thy woods ; 

Break forth into a song, a jubilant song ; 

For by Himself the Lord hath sworn 

That every tongue to Him shall swear, 

To Him that every knee shall bow. 

0. 

Take comfort, then, my soul ! 

Thy latter days on earth. 

Though few, shall not be evil, by this hope 

Supported, and enlighten'd on the way: 

O Reginald, one course 

Our studies, and our thoughts, 

Our aspirations held. 

Wherein, but mostly in this blessed hope, 

We had a bond of union, closely knit 

In spirit, though, in this world's wilderness. 

Apart our lots were cast. 

Seldom we met; but I knew well 

That whatsoe'er this never-idle hand 

Sent forth v/ould find with thee 

Benign acceptance, to its full desert. 

For thou wert of that audience, — fit, though few. 

For whom I am content 

To live laborious days, 

Assured that after-years will ratify 

Their honorable award. 

10. 
Hadst thou revisited thy native land, 

Mortality, and Time, 

And Change, must needs have made 

Our meeting mournful. Happy he 

Who to his rest is borne. 

In sure and certain hope, 

Before the hand of age 

Hath chill'd his faculties. 

Or sorrow reach'd him in his heart of hearts ! 

Most happy if he leave in his good name 

A light for those who follow him, 

And in his works a living seed 

Of good, prolific still. 



IL 

Yes, to the Christian, to the Heathen world, 

Heber, thou art not dead, — thou canst not die ! 

Nor can I think of thee as lost. 

A little portion of this little isle 

At first divided us ; then half the globe"; 

The same earth held us still ; but when, 

O Reginald, wert thovi so near as now .-' 

'Tis but the falling of a withered leaf, — 

The breaking of a shell, — 

The rending of a veil ! 

Oh, when that leaf shall fall, — 

That shell be burst, — that veil be rent, — may then 

My spirit be with thine ! 

Keswick, 1820. 



EPISTLE 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



Well, Heaven be thank'd ! friend Allan, here I am, 

Once more to that dear dwelling-place return'd, 

Where I have past the whole mid stage of life, 

Not idly, certes ; not unworthily, — 

So let me hope ; where Time upon my head 

Hath laid his frore and monitory hand ; 

And when this poor, frail, earthly tabernacle 

Shall be dissolved, — it matters not how soon 

Or late, in God's good time, — where I would fain 

Be gathered to my children, earth to earth. 

Needless it were to say how willingly 
I bade the huge metropolis farewell, 
Its din, and dust, and dirt, and smoke, and smut, 
Thames' water, paviors' ground, and London sky ; 
Weary of hurried days and restless nights, 
Watchmen, whose ofiice is to murder sleep 
When sleep might else have weigh'd one's eyelids 

down, 
Rattle of carriages, and roll of carts, 
And tramp of iron hoofs ; and worse than all, — 
Confusion being worse confounded then. 
With coachmen's quarrels and with footmen's 

shouts, — 
My next-door neighbors, in a street not yet 
Macadamized, (me miserable !) at home; 
For then had we, from midnight until morn, 
House-quakes, street-thunders, and door-batteries. 
O Government ! in thy wisdom and thy want, 
Tax knockers ; — in compassion to the sick. 
And those whose sober habits are not yet 
Inverted, topsy-turvying night and day, 
Tax them more heavily than thou hast charged 
Armorial bearings and bepowder'd pates. 
And thou, O Michael, ever to be praised. 
Angelic among Taylors ! for thy laws 
Antifuliginous, extend those laws 
Till every chimney its own smoke consume, 



220 



EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



And give thenceforth thy dinners unlampoon'd. 
Escaping from all this, the very whirl 
OCniail-coach wheels bound outward from Lad- 
lane, 
Was peace and quietness. Three hundred miles 
Of homeward way seem'd to the body rest, 
And to the mind repose. 

Donne * did not hate 
More perfectly that city. Not for all 
Its social, all its intellectual joys, — 
Which having touch'd, I may not condescend 
To name aught else the Demon of the place 
Might for his lure hold forth; — not even for these 
Would I forego gardens and green-field walks, 
And hedge-row trees, and stiles, and shady lanes, 
And orchards, were such ordinary scenes 
Alone to me accessible as those 
Wherein I learnt in infancy to love 
The sights and sounds of Nature ; — wholesome 



Gladdening the eye that they refresh ; and sounds 

Which, when from life and happiness they spring. 

Bear with them to the yet unharden'd heart 

A sense that thrills its cords of sympathy ; 

Or, when proceeding from insensate things, 

Give to tranquillity a voice wherewith 

To woo the ear and win the soul attuned; — 

Oh, not for all that London might bestow, 

Would I renounce the genial influences, 

And thoughts, and feelings to be found where'er 

We breathe beneath the open sky, and see 

Earth's liberal bosom. Judge then by thyself, 

Allan, true child of Scotland, — thou who art 

So oft in spirit on thy native hills. 

And yonder Solway shores, — a poet thou. 

Judge by thyself how strong the ties which bind 

A poet to his home ; when — making thus 

Large recompense for all that haply else 

Might seem perversely or unkindly done — 

Fortune hath set his happy habitacle 

Among the ancient hills, near mountain streams 

And lakes pellucid, in a land sublime 

And lovely as those regions of Romance 

Where his young fancy in its day-dreams roam'd, 

Expatiating in forests wild and wide, 

Loegrian, or of dearest Faery-land. 

Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy 
No man drinks freelier, nor with heartier thirst, 
Nor keener relish, where I see around 
Faces which I have known and loved so long. 
That, when he prints a dream upon my brain, 
Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types. 
And therefore, in that loathed metropolis. 
Time measured out to me some golden hours. 
They were not leaden-footed while the clay 
Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey's hand 
Grew to the semblance of my lineaments. 
Lit up in memory's landscape, like green spots 

* This poet begins his second Satire thus : — 

" Sir, though (I thank God for it) I do hate 
Perfectly all this town, yet there 's one state 
In all ill things so excellently best, 
That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest." 



Of sunshine, are the mornings, when, in talk ,1 

With him, and thee, and Bedford, (my true friend 

Of forty years,) I saw the work proceed, 

Subject the while myself to no restraint, 

But pleasurably in frank discourse engaged ; 

Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride, 

To think this countenance, such as it is, 

So oft by rascally mislikeness wrong' d. 

Should faithfully to those who in his works 

Have seen the inner man portray 'd, be shown, 

And in enduring marble should partake 

Of our great sculptor's immortality. 

I have been libell'd, Allan, as thou knowest, 
Through all degrees of calumny ; but they 
Who fix one's name for public sale beneath 
A set of features slanderously unlike, 
Are the worst libellers. Against the wrong 
Which they inflict Time hath no remedy. 
Injuries there are which Time redresseth best. 
Being more sure in judgment, though perhaps 
Slower in process even than the court 
Where justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed, 
Sleeps undisturb'd, fann'd by the lulling wings 
Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down 
Evil or good report, if undeserved. 
Let then the dogs of Faction bark and bay — 
Its bloodhounds, savaged by a cross of vi^olf ; 
Its full-bred kennel, from the Blatant-beast ; 
And from my lady's gay veranda, let 
Her pamper'd lap-dog, with his fetid breath. 
In bold bravado join, and snap and growl. 
With petulant consequentialness elate, 
There in his imbecility at once 
Ridiculous and safe : though all give cry, 
Whiggery's sleek spaniels, and its lurchers lean, 
Its poodles, by unlucky training marr'd, 
Mongrel, and cur, and bob-tail, let them yelp 
Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length 
Silence the noisy pack : meantime be sure 
I will not stoop for stones to cast among them. 
The foumarts and the skunks may be secure 
In their own scent ; and for that viler swarm. 
The vermin of the press, both those that skip. 
And those that creep and crawl, I do not catch 
And pin them for exposure on the page : 
Their filth is their defence. 

But I appeal 
Against the limner's and the graver's wrong ; 
Their evil works survive them. Bilderdijk, 
Whom I am privileged to call my friend. 
Suffering by graphic libels in like wise. 
Gave his wrath vent in verse. Would I could give 
The life and spirit of his vigorous Dutch, 
As his dear consort hath transfused my strains 
Into her native speech, and made them known 
On Rhine and Yssel, and rich Amstel's banks ; 
And wheresoe'er the voice of Vondel still 
Is heard, and still Antonides and Hooft 
Are living agencies ; and Father Cats, 
The household poet, teacheth in his songs 
The love of all things lovely, all things pure ; 
Best poet, who delights the cheerful mind 
Of childhood, stores with moral strength the 
heart 



EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



^21 



Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid-life rich, 
And fills with quiet tears the eyes of age. 

Hear then in English rhyme how Bilderdijk 
Describes his wicked portraits, one by one. 

" A madman who from Bedlam hath broke loose ; 

An honest fellow of the numskull race ; 
And pappyer-headed still, a very goose 

Staring with eyes aghast and vacant face ; 
A Frenchman who would mirthfully display 

On some poor idiot his malicious wit ; 
And lastly, one who, train'd up in the way 

Of worldly craft, hath not forsaken it, 
But hath served Mammon with his whole intent, 

A thing of Nature's worst materials made. 
Low-minded, stupid, base and insolent. 

I — I — a Poet — have been thus portray 'd. 
Can ye believe that my true effigy 

Among these vile varieties is found ? 
What thought, or line, or word, hath fallen from me 

In all my numerous works whereon to ground 
The opprobrious notion .'' Safely I may smile 

At these, acknowledging no likeness here. 
But worse is yet to come ; so, soft awhile ! 

For now in potter's earth must I appear. 
And in such workmanship, that, sooth to say, 

Humanity disowns the imitation, 
And the dolt image is not worth its clay. 

Then comes there one who will to admiration 
In plastic wax my perfect face present ; 

And what of his performance comes at last ? 
Folly itself in every lineament ! 

Its consequential features overcast 
With the coxcomical and shallow laugh 

Of one who would, for condoscensiou, hide, 
Yet in his best behavior, can but half 

Suppress the scornfulness of empty pride." 

" And who is Bilderdijk .'' " methinks thou sayest ; 
A ready question ; yet which, trust me, Allan, 
Would not be ask'd, had not the curse that came 
From Babel dipt the wings of Poetry. 
Napoleon ask'd him once, with cold, fix'd look, 
" Art thou, then, in the world of letters known .-' " 
" I have deserved to be," the Hollander 
Replied, meeting that proud, imperial look 
With calm and proper confidence, and eye 
As little wont to turn away abash'd 
Before a mortal presence. He is one 
Who hath received upon his constant breast 
The sharpest arrows of adversity ; 
Whom not the clamors of the multitude, 
Demanding, in their madness and their might, 
Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind ; 
Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny 
From the straight path of duty turn aside; 
But who, in public troubles, in the wreck 
Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile, 
Want, obloquy, ingratitude, neglect. 
And what severer trials Providence 
Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves, 
In all, through all, and over all, hath borne 
An equal heart, as resolute toward 



The world, as humbly and religiously 

Beneath his heavenly Father's rod resign'd. 

Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man, 

True lover of his country and his kind; 

In knowledge and in inexhaustive stores 

Of native genius rich ; philosopher, 

Poet, and sage. The language of a State 

Inferior in illustrious deeds to none. 

But circumscribed by narrow bounds, and now 

Sinking in irrecoverable decline. 

Hath pent within its sphere a name wherewith 

Europe should else have rung from side to side. 

Such, Allan, is the Hollander to whom 
Esteem and admiration have attach'd 
My soul, not less than pre-consent of mind, 
And gratitude for benefits, when, being 
A stranger, sick, and in a foreign land, 
He took me like a brother to his house, 
And ministered to me, and made a time. 
Which had been wearisome and careful else, 
So pleasurable, that in my calendar 
There are no whiter days. 'Twill be a joy 
For us to meet in Heaven, though we should look 
Upon each other's earthly face no more. 
— This is this world's complexion ! " Cheerful 

thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind ; " and these again 
Give place to calm content, and steadfast hope, 
And happy faith assured. — Return we now, 
"With sucii transition as our daily life 
Imposes in its wholesome discipline, 
To a lighter strain ; and from the gallery 
Of the Dutch Poet's mis-resemblances 
Pass into mine ; where I shall show thee, Allan, 
Such an array of villanous visages, 
That if, among them all, there were but one 
Which as a likeness could be proved upon me, 
It were enough to make me, in mere shame, 
Take up an alias, and forswear myself. 

Whom have we first.' A dainty gentleman, 
His sleepy eyes half-closed, and countenance 
To no expression stronger than might suit 
A simper, capable of being moved : 
Sawney and sentimental ; with an air 
So lack-thought and so lackadaysical. 
You might suppose the volume in his hand 
Must needs be Zimmermann on Solitude. 

Then comes a jovial landlord, who hath made it 
Part of his trade to be the shoeing horn 
For his commercial customers. God Bacchus 
Hath not a thirstier votary. Many a pipe 
Of Porto's vintage hath contributed 
To give his cheeks that deep carmine ingrain'd. 
And many a runlet of right Nantes, I ween, 
Hath suffered percolation through that trunk, 
Leaving behind it, in the boozey eyes, 
A swollen and red suff'usion, glazed and dim. 

Our next is in the evangelical line, 
A leaden-visaged specimen ; demure. 
Because he hath put on his Sunday's face , 



222 



EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 



Dull by formation, by complexion sad, 

By bile, opinions, and dyspepsy sour. 

One of the sons of Jack, — 1 know not which, 

For Jack hath a most numerous progeny, — 

Made up for Mr. Colburn's Magazine, 

This pleasant composite ; a bust supplied 

The features ; look, expression, character 

Are of the Artist's fancy and free grace. 

Such was that fellow's birth and parentage. 

The rascal proved prolific ; one of his breed. 

By Docteur Pichot introduced in France, 

Passes for Monsieur Soote ; and another, — 

An uglier miscreant too, — the brothers Schumann, 

And their most cruel copper-scratcher Zschoch, 

From Zwickau sent abroad through Germany. 

I wish the Schumen and the copper-scratcher 

No worse misfortune, for their recompense. 

Than to encounter such a cut-throat face 

In the Black Forest or the Odenwald. 

And now is there a third derivative 
From Mr. Colburn's composite, which late 
The Arch-Pirate Galignani hath prefix'd, 
A spurious portrait to a faithless life, 
And bearing lyingly the libell'd name 
Of Lawrence, impudently there insculp'd. 

The bust that was the innocent forefather 
To all this base, abominable brood, 
I blame not, Allan. 'Twas the work of Smith, 
A modest, mild, ingenious man, and errs, 
Where erring, only because over-true, 
Too close a likeness for similitude ; 
Fixing to every part and lineament 
Its separate character, and missing thus 
That which results from all. 

Sir Smug comes next; 
Allan, I own Sir Smug ! I recognize 
That visage, with its dull sobriety ; 
I see it duly as the day returns. 
When at the looking-glass, with lather'd chin 
And razor-weapon' d hand, I sit, the face 
Composed and apprehensively intent 
Upon the necessary operation 
About to be perform'd, with touch, alas. 
Not always confident of hair-breadth skill. 
Even in such sober sadness and constrain'd 
Composure cold, the faithful Painter's eye 
Had fix'd me like a spell, and I could feel 
My features stiffen as he glanced upon them. 
And yet he was a man whom I loved dearly, 
My fellow-traveller, my familiar friend. 
My household guest. But when he look'd upon 

me, 
Anxious to exercise his excellent art. 
The countenance he knew so thoroughly 
Was gone, and in its stead there sate Sir Smug. 

Under the graver's band. Sir Smug became 
Sir Smouch — a son of Abraham. Now, albeit 
Far rather would I trace my lineage thence 
Than with the oldest line of Peers or Kings 
Claim consanguinity, that cast of features 
Would ill accord with me, who, in all forms 



Of pork — baked, roasted, toasted , boil'd, or broil'd ; 
Fresh, salted, pickled, seasoned, moist, or dry ; 
Whether ham, bacon, sausage, souse, or brawn ; 
Leg, bladebone, baldrib, griskin, chine, or chop — • 
Profess myself a genuine Philopig. 

It was, however, as a Jew whose portion 
Had fallen unto him in a goodly land 
Of loans, of omnium, and of three per cents, 
That Messrs. Percy, of the Anecdote-firm, 
Presented me unto their customers. 
Poor Smouch endured a worse Judaization 
Under another hand. In this next stage 
He is on trial at the Old Bailey, charged 
With dealing in base coin. That he is guilty 
No Judge or Jury could have half a doubt 
When they saw the culprit's face ; and he himself, 
As you may plainly see, is comforted 
By thinking he has just contrived to keep 
Out of rope's reach, and will come off this time 
For transportation. 

Stand thou forth for trial, 
Now, William Darton, of the Society 
Of Friends called Quakers ; thou who in 4th month 
Of the year 24, on Holborn Hill, 
At No. 58, didst wilfully. 
Falsely, and knowing it was falsely done, 
Publish upon a card, as Robert Southey's, 
A face which might be just as like Tom Foors, 
Or John, or Richard Any-body-else's ! 
What had I done to thee, thou William Darton, 
That thou shouldst, for the lucre of base gain, 
Yea, for the sake of filthy fourpences. 
Palm on my countrymen that face for mine ! 

William Darton, let the Yearly Meeting 
Deal with thee for that falseness ! All the rest 
Are traceable ; Smug's Hebrew family ; 

The German who might properly adorn 
A gibbet or a wheel, and Monsieur Soote, 
Sons of Fitzbust the Evangelical ; — 

1 recognize all these unlikenesses. 
Spurious abominations though they be, 
Each filiated on some original ; 

But thou. Friend Darton, and — observe me, man, 

Only in courtesy, and quasi Quaker, 

I call thee Friend ! — hadst no original ; 

No likeness, or unlikeness, silhouette^ 

Outline, or plaster, representing me. 

Whereon to form thy misrepresentation. 

If I guess rightly at the pedigree 

Of thy bad groatsworth, thou didst get a barber 

To personate my injured Laureateship ; 

An advertising barber, — one who keeps 

A bear, and, when he puts to death poor Bruin, 

Sells his grease, fresh as from the carcass cut. 

Pro bono publico^ the price per pound 

Twelve shillings and no more. From such a barber, 

unfriend Darton ! was that portrait made, 

1 think, or peradventure from his block. 

Next comes a minion worthy to be set 
In a wooden frame ; and here I might invoke 
Avenging Nemesis, if I did not feel. 
Just now, God Cynthius pluck me by the ear. 



OP EENE VERZAMELING VAN MIJNE AFBEELDINGEN. 223 



But, Allan, in what shape God Cynthius comes, 
And wherefore he adnionishetli me thus, 
Nor thou nor I will tell the world ; hereafter 
Tlie commentators, my Malones and Reids, 
May, if they can. For in my gallery 
Though there remaineth undescribed good store, 
Yet " of enough enough, and now no more," 
(As honest old George Gascoigne said of yore,) 
Save only a last couplet to express 
That I am always truly yours, 

R. S* 
Keswick, August, 1828. 



OP EENE VERZAMELING VAN 
MIJNE AFBEELDINGEN. 



In pejus vultu proponi cereus usquam Horat. 



Een Wildeman, het dolhuis uitgevlogen : * 

Een goede Hals, maar zonder ziel of kracht : * 
Een Sukkelaar, die met verwonderde oogen 

Cm alles met verbeten weerzin lacht : " 
Een Franschmans lach op halfverwrongen kaken. 

Die geest beduidt op 't aanzicht van een bloed : '^ 
En, om 't getal dier fraaiheen vol te maken, 

Eens Financiers verwaande domme snoet. * 
En dat moet ik, dat moet een Dichter wezen ! 

Gelooft gy 't ooit, die deze monsters ziet? 
Geeft, wat ik schreef, een trek daar van te lezen 

Zoo zeg gerust: "Hy kent zich zelven niet." 

Maar zacht een poos ! — Hoe langer hoe verkecrder ! 

Men vormt my na uit Pottebakkers aard ; / 
Doch de Adamskop beschaamt den kunstboot- 
seerder, 

En 't zielloos ding is zelfs den klei niet waard. — 
Nu komt er een, die zal u 't echte leven 
In lenig wasch met voile lijk'nis geven; 

* Tlie main subject of this epistle having been suggested 
by a poem of Bilderdijk's, part only of which I have incorpo- 
rated in a compressed and very inadequate translation, I 
annex here the original, injustice to my deceased friend — a 
man of most extraordinary attainments, and genius not less 
remarkable. 

* 1784. 6 1788. c 1806. d 1813. « 1820. / 1820. 



En deze held, wat spreidt hy ons ten toon ? 
De knorrigheid in eigen hoofdpersoon ; 
Met zulk een lach van meelij' op de lippen, 
Als 't zelfgevoel eens Trotzaarts af laat glippen 
Verachting spreidt op al wat hem omringt, 
En half in spijt, zich tot verneedring dwingt.* 

****** 
Min God ! is 't waar, zijn dit mijn wezenstrekken, 
En is 't mijn hart, dajt ze aan my-zelf onbdekken .-* 
Of maaldet gy^ wier kunst my dus herteelt, 
Uw eigen aart onwetend in mijn beeld ? 
Het moog zoo zijn. De Rubens en Van Dijken 
Zijn lang voorby, die zielen deen gelijken : 
Wier oog hun ziel een heldre spiegel was, 
En geest en hart in elken vezel las, 
Niet, dagen lang, op 't uiterlijk bleef staren, 
Maar d'eersten blik in 't harte kon bewaren, 
Dien blik getrouw in klei of verven bracht, 
En spreken deed tot Tijd-en-Nageslacht. 

Die trofFen, ja ! die wisten af te malen 

Wat oog en mond, wat elke zenuw sprak ; 
Wier borst, doorstroomd van liooger idealen, 

Een hand bewoog die 't voorwerp noort, ontbrak. 
Doch, wat maalt gy ? — 't Misnoegen van 't ver- 
velen 

Voor Rust der ziel in zalig zelfgenot ; 
Met Ongeduld om 't haatlijk tijdontstelen ; 

En-Bitterheid, die met uw wanklap spot 
Wenge,om den mond ietsvriendlijks af te prachen, 

Of slaaprigheid of mijmrende ernst verstoort, 
En door uw bocrt het aanzicht tergt tot lachen 

Met zotterny, slechts wreevlig aangehoord. 

Maar Hodges ! gy, die uit vervlogen eeuwen 

De Schilderkunst te rug riept op 't panecl, 
Geen mond mismaakt door 't zielverteerend 
geeuwen, 

Maar kunstgesprek vereenigt aan 't penceel ! 
Zoo 't Noodlot wil dat zich in later dagen 

Mijn naam bewaar in 't onwijs Vaderland, 
En eenig beeld mijn leest moet overdragen, 

Het zij geschetst door uw begaafde hand. 
In uw tafreel, bevredigd met my-zelven, 

Ontdek ik 't hart dat lof noch laster acht ; 
En, die daaruit mijn ziel weet op te delven 

Miskent in my noch inborst noch geslacht.* 



1822. 



°' 1822. 
* Rots-Galmen, d. ii. p. 103. 



224 



PREFACE TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



srtj^iati^ tije Mtutvoptv. 



HoiriixaTCOV aKparrn r] eXevOepia, kui voixog Eig,TO So^av tco nocrirri. 

Luc IAN, Quomodo Hist Scribenda. 



PREFACE. 

It was said, in the original Preface to Joan of 
Arc, that the Author would not be in England to 
witness its reception, but that he would attend to 
liberal criticism, and hoped to profit by it in the 
composition of a poem upon the discovery of 
America by the Welsh prince Madoc. 

That subject I had fixed upon when a school-boy, 
and had often conversed upon the probabilities of 
the story with the school-fellow to whom, sixteen 
years afterwards, I had the satisfaction of inscrib- 
ing the poem. It was commenced at Bath in the 
autumn of 1794; but, upon patting Joan of Arc to 
the press, its progress was necessarily suspended, 
and it was not resumed till the second edition of 
that work had been completed. Then it became 
my chief occupation during twelve months that I 
resided in the village of Westbury, near Bristol. 
This was one of the happiest portions of my life. 
1 never before or since produced so much poetry 
in the same space of time. The smaller pieces 
were communicated by letter to Charles Lamb, and 
had the advantage of his animadversions. I was 
then also in habits of the most frequent and inti- 
mate intercourse with Davy, then in the flov/er 
and freshness of his youth. We were within an 
easy walk of each other, over some of the most 
beautiful ground in that beautiful part of England. 
When 1 went to the Pneumatic Institution, he had 
to tell me of some new experiment or discovery, 
and of the views which it opened for him ; and 
when he came to Westbury there was a fresh por- 
tion of Madoc for his hearing. Davy encouraged 
me with his hearty approbation during its progress; 
and the bag of nitrous oxyde, with which he gen- 
erally regaled me upon my visits to him, was not 
required for raising my spirits to the degree of 
settled fair, and keeping them at that elevation. 

In November, 1836, 1 walked to that village with 
my son, wishing to show him a house endeared to 
me by so many recollections ; but not a vestige of 
it remained, and local alterations rendered it im- 
possible even to ascertain its site — which is now 
included within the grounds of a Nunnery ! The 
bosom friends with whom I associated there have 
all departed before me ; and of the domestic circle 
in which my happiness was then centred, I am the 
sole survivor. 

When we removed from Westbury at Midsum- 
mer, 1799, I had reached the penultimate book of 



Madoc. That poem was finished on the 12th of 
July following, at Kingsdown, Bristol, in the house 
of an old lady, whose portrait hangs, with that of 
my own mother, in the room wherein I am now 
writing. The son who lived with her was one of 
my dearest friends, and one of the best men I ever 
knew or heard of. In those days I was an early 
riser : the time so gained was usually employed in 
carrying on the poem which I had in hand ; and 
when Charles Danvers came down to breakfast on 
the morning after Madoc was completed, I had the 
first hundred lines of Thalaba to show him, fresh 
from the mint. 

But this poem was neither crudely conceived nor 
hastily undertaken. I had fixed upon the ground, 
four years before, for a Mahommedan tale ; and in 
the course of that time the plan had been formed, 
and the materials collected. It was pursued with 
unabating ardor at Exeter, in the village of Bur- 
ton, near Christ Church, and afterwards at Kings- 
down, till the ensuing spring, when Dr. Beddoes 
advised me to go to the south of Europe, on account 
of my health. For Lisbon, therefore, we set off; 
and, hastening to Falmouth, found the packet in 
which we wished to sail detained in harbor by 
westerly winds. "Six days we watched the 
weathercock, and sighed for north-easters. I 
walked on the beach, caught soldier-crabs, ad- 
mired the sea-anemones in their ever-varying 
shapes of beauty, read Gebir, and wrote half a 
book of Thalaba." This sentence is from a letter 
written on our arrival at Lisbon ; and it is here 
inserted because the sea-anemones (which I have 
never had any other opportunity of observing) 
were introduced in Thalaba soon afterwards ; and 
because, as already stated, I am sensible of having 
derived great improvement from the frequent pe- 
rusal of Gebir at that time. 

Change of circumstances and of climate effected 
an immediate cure of what proved to be not an or- 
ganic disease. A week after our landing at Lisbon 
I resumed my favorite work, and I completed it at 
Cintra, a year and six days after the day of its 
commencement. 

A fair transcript was sent to England. Mr. 
Rickman, with whom I had fallen in at Christ 
Church in 1797, and whose friendship from that 
time I have ever accounted among the singular 
advantages and happinesses of my life, negotiated 
for its publication with Messrs. Longman and Rees, 
It was printed at Bristol by Biggs and Cottle, and 



j»uOK I. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER, 



225 



the task of" corrcctln;r the press was undertaken 
for me by Davy and our common friend Danvers, 
under whose roof it had been begun. 

The copy which was made from the original 
drauglit, regularly as the poem proceeded, is still 
in my possession. The first corrections were made 
as they occurred in the process of transcribing, at 
which time the verses were tried upon my own ear, 
and had the advantage of being seen in a fair and 
remarkably legible hand-writing. In this transcript 
the dates of time and place were noted, and things 
which would otherwise have been forgotten have 
thus been brought to my recollection. Herein also 
the alterations were inserted which the poem 
underwent before it was printed. They were very 
numerous. Much was pruned off, and more was 
ingrafted. I was not satisfied with the first part of 
the concluding book; it was therefore crossed out, 
and something substituted altogether different in 
design; but this substitution was so far from being 
fortunate, that it neither pleased my friends in 
England nor myself. I then made a third attempt, 
which succeeded to my own satisfaction and to 
theirs. 

I was in Portugal when Thalaba was published. 
Its reception was very different from that with 
which Joan of Arc had been welcomed -. in pro- 
portion as the poem deserved better, it was treated 
worse. Upon this occasion my name was first 
coupled with Mr. Wordsworth's. We were then, 
and for some time afterwards, all but strangers to 
each other ; and certainly there were no two poets 
in whose productions, the difference not being that 
between good and bad, less resemblance could be 
found. But I happened to be residing at Keswick 
when Mr. Wordsworth and I began to be ac- 
quainted ; Mr. Coleridge also had resided there ; 
and this was reason enough for classing us together 
as a school of poets. Accordingly, for more than 
twenty years from that time, every tyro in criti- 
cism who could smatter and sneer, tried his "pren- 
tice hand " upon the Lake Poets ; and every young 
sportsman, who carried a popgun in the field of 
satire, considered them as fair game. 

Keswick, Nov.S, 1837. 



PREFACE 



THE FOURTH EDITION. 

In the continuation of the Arabian Tales, the 
Domdaniel is mentioned — a seminary for evil ma- 
gicians, under the roots of the sea. From this 
seed the present romance has grown. Let me not 
be supposed to prefer the rhythm in which it is 
written, abstractedly considered, to the regular 
blank verse — the noblest measure, in my judgment, 
of which our admirable language is capable. For 
the following Poem I have preferred it, because it 
suits the varied subject : it is the Arabesque orna- 
ment of an Arabian tale. 
29 



The dramatic sketches of Dr. Sayers, a volume 
which no lover of poetry will recollect without 
pleasure, induced me, when a young versifier, to 
practise in this rhythm. I felt that while it gave 
the poet a wider range of expression, it satisfied 
the ear of the reader. It were easy to make a 
parade of learning, by enumerating the various 
feet which it admits : it is only needful to observe 
that no two lines are employed in sequence which 
can be read into one. Two six-syllable lines, it 
will perhaps be answered, compose an Alexan- 
drine : the truth is, that the Alexandrine, when 
harmonious, is composed of two six-syllable lines. 

One advantage this metre assuredly possesses 
— the dullest reader cannot distort it into discord : 
he may read it prosaically, but its flow and fall 
will still be perceptible. Verse is not enough 
favored by the English reader : perhaps this is 
owing to the obtrusiveness, the regular Jew's- 
harp twin g -tic an g^ of what has been foolishly 
called heroic measure. I do not wish the impro- 
visatort tune; — but something that denotes the 
sense of harmony, something like the accent of 
feeling, — like the tone which every poet neces- 
sarily gives to poetry. 

Cintra, October, 1800. 



THE FIRST BOOK. 



— Worse and worse, young Orphane, be thy payne, 
If tliOH due vengeance doe forheare, 
Till guiltie blood her guerdon do obtayne. 

Faery Queen, B. 2, Can. 1. 



How beautiful is night ! 

A dewy freshness fills the silent air; 

No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, 

Breaks the serene of heaven : 

In full-orb 'd glory yonder Moon divine 

Rolls through the dark-blue depths. 

Beneath her steady ray 

The desert-circle spreads, 

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 

How beautiful is nio-ht ! 



Who, at this untimely hour, 

Wanders o'er the desert sands ? 

No station is in view, 

Nor palm-grove, islanded amid the waste. 

The mother and her child. 

The widow'd mother and the fatherless boy, 

They, at this untimely hour, 

Wander o'er the desert sands. 



Alas ! the setting sun 
Saw Zeinab in her bliss, 
Hodeirah's Avife beloved. 
Alas ! the wife beloved, 



226 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK I. 



The fruitful mother late, 

Whom when the daughters of Arabia named, 

They wish'd their lot like hers, 

She wanders o'er the desert sands 

A wretched widow now ; 

The fruitful mother of so fair a race, 

With only one preserved, 

She wanders o'er the wilderness. 



No tear relieved the burden of her heart ; 

Stunn'd with the heavy woe, she felt like one 

Half- waken' d from a midnight dream of blood. 

But sometimes, when the boy 

Would wet her hand with tears. 

And, looking up to her fix'd countenance, 

Sob out the name of Mother ! then she groan'd. 

At length collecting, Zeinab turn'd her eyes 

To heaven, and praised the Lord ; 

" He gave, he takes away ! " 

The pious sufferer cried, 

" The Lord our God is good ! " 

5. 

" Good is he ! " quoth the boy ; 

" Why are my brethren and my sisters slain ? 

Why is my father kill'd ? 

Did ever we neglect our prayers. 

Or ever lift a hand unclean to Heaven ? 

Did ever stranger from our tent 

Unwelcomed turn away ? 

Mother, He is not good ! " 



Then Zeinab beat her breast in agony, — 

" O God, forgive the child ! 

He knows not what he says ; 

Thou know'st 1 did not teach him thoughts like 

these ; 

O Prophet, pardon him ! " 



She had not wept till that assuaging prayer ; 

The fountains of her grief were open'd then, 

And tears relieved her heart. 

She raised her swimming eyes to Heaven, 

" Allah, thy will be done ! 

Beneath the dispensations of that will 

I groan, but murmur not. 

A day will come, when all things that are dark 

Will be made clear ; — then shall I know, O Lord ! 

Why in thy mercy thou hast stricken me ; 

Then see and understand what now 

My heart believes and feels," 



Young Thalaba in silence heard reproof; 

His brow in manly frowns was knit. 

With manly thoughts his heart was full. 

"Tell me, who slew my father.^ " cried the boy. 

Zeinab replied and said, 

" I knew not that there lived thy father's foe. 

The blessings of the poor for him 

Went daily up to Heaven ; 



In distant lands the traveller told his praise 
I did not think there lived 
Hodeirah's enemy." 



" But I will hunt him through the world ! " 

Young Thalaba exclaim'd. 

"Already I can bend my father's bow; 

Soon will my arm have strength 

To drive the arrow-feathers to his heart." 

10. 

Zeinab replied, " O Thalaba, my child, 

Thou lookest on to distant days. 

And we are in the desert, far from men ! " 

11. 

Not till that moment her afflicted heart 

Had leisure for the thought. 

She cast her eyes around ; 

Alas ! no tents were there 

Beside the bending sands ; 

No palm-tree rose to spot the wilderness ; 

The dark-blue sky closed round. 

And rested like a dome 

Upon the circling waste. 

She cast her eyes around ; 

Famine and Thirst were there ; 

And then the wretched Mother bowed her head, 

And wept upon her child. 

12. 

A sudden cry of wonder 

From Thalaba aroused her ; 

She raised her head, and saw 

Where, high in air, a stately palace rose. 

Amid a grove embower'd 

Stood the prodigious pile ; 

Trees of such ancient majesty 

Tower' d not on Yemen's happy hills. 

Nor crown'd the lofty brow of Lebanon : 

Fabric so vast, so lavishly enrich'd. 

For Idol, or for Tyrant, never yet 

Raised the slave race of man. 

In Rome, nor in the elder Babylon, 

Nor old Persepolis, 

Nor where the family of Greece 

Hymn'd Eleutherian Jove. 



13. 

Here, studding azure tablatures, 

And ray'd with feeble light, 

Star-like the ruby and the diamond shone ; 

Here on the golden towers 

The yellow moon-beam lay ; 

Here with white splendor floods the silver wall. 

Less wondrous pile, and less magnificent, 

Sennamar built at Hirah, though his art 

Seal'd with one stone the ample edifice. 

And made its colors, like the serpent's skin, 

Play with a changeful beauty : him, its Lord, 

Jealous lest after-effort might surpass 

The then unequall'd palace, from its height 

Dash'd on the pavement down. 



i 



BOOK I. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER, 



227 



14. 

They enter'd, and through aromatic paths 

Wondering they went along. 

At length, upon a mossy bank, 

Beneath a tall mimosa's shade, 

Which o'er him bent its living canopy, 

They saw a man reclined. 

Young he appear'd, for on his cheek there shone 

The morning glow of health, 

And the brown beard curl'd close around his chin. 

He slept, but, at the sound 

Of coming feet awaking, fixed his eyes 

In wonder on the wanderer and her child. 

"Forgive us," Zeinab cried; 

" Distress hath made us bold. 

Relieve the widow and the fatherless ! 

Blessed are they who succor the distress'd ; 

For them hath God appointed Paradise." 

15. 

He heard, and he look'd up to heaven, 

And tears ran down his cheeks ; 

" It is a human voice I 

I thank thee, O my God ! — 

How many an age hath past 

Since the sweet sounds have visited my ear ! 

I thank thee, O my God ! 

It is a human voice ! " 

IG. 
To Zeinab turning then, he said, 

" O mortal, who art thou, 

Whose gifted eyes have pierced 

The shadow of concealment that hath wrapt 

These bowers, so many an ago, 

From eye of mortal man .'' 

For countless years have past, 

And never foot of man 

The bowers of Jrcm trod, — 

Save only I, a miserable wretch 

From Heaven and Earth shut out ! " 

17. 

Fearless, and scarce surprised, 

For grief in Zeinab's soul 

All other feebler feelings overpower'd, 

She answer'd, " Yesterday 

I was a wife beloved. 

The fruitful mother of a numerous race. 

I am a widow now ; 

Of all my offspring this alone is left. 

Praise to the Lord our God, 

He gave, He takes away !" 

18. 

Then said the stranger, " Not by Heaven unseen. 

Nor in unguided wanderings, hast thou reach'd 

This secret place, be sure ! 

Nor for light purpose is the veil, 

That from the Universe hath long shut out 

These ancient bowers, withdrawn. 

Hear thou my words, O mortal ; in thine heart 

Treasure what I shall tell ; 

And when amid the world 

Thou shalt emerge again. 



Repeat the warning tale. 
Why have the fathers suffer' d, but to make 
The children wisely safe .'' 

19. 

" The Paradise of Irem this. 

And this that wonder of the world. 

The Palace built by Shedad in his pride. 

Alas ! in the days of my youth, 

The hum of mankind 

Was heard in yon wilderness waste; 

O'er all the winding sands 

The tents of Ad were pitch'd ; 

Happy Al-Ahkaf then, 

For many and brave were her sons, 

Her daughters were many and fair. 

20. 

"My name was Aswad then — 

Alas ! alas ! how strange 

The sound so long unheard ! 

Of noble race I came. 

One of the wealthy of the earth my sire. 

A hundred horses in my father's stall 

Stood ready for his will ; 

Numerous his robes of silk ; 

The number of his camels was not known. 

These were my heritage, 

O God! thy gifts were these; 

But better had it been for Aswad's soul, 

Had he ask'd alms on earth, 

And begg'd the crumbs which from his table fell, 

So he had known thy Word. 

21. 

"Boy, who hast reach'd my solitude, 

Fear the Lord in the days of thy youth ! 

My knee was never taught 

To bend before my God ; 

My voice was never taught 

To shape one holy prayer. 

We worshipp'd Idols, wood and stone ; 

The work of our own foolish hands 

We worshipp'd in our foolishness. 

Vainly the Prophet's voice 

Its frequent warning raised, 

' Repent and be forgiven ! ' — 

We mock'd the messenger of God ; 

We mock'd the Lord, long-suffering, slow to wrath. 

22. 

" A mighty work the pride of Shedad plann'd — 

Here in the wilderness to form 

A Garden more surpassing fair 

Than that before whose gate 

The lightning of the Cherub's fiery sword 

Waves wide to bar access. 

Since Adam, the transgressor, thence was driven. 

Here, too, would Shedad build 

A kingly pile sublime, 

The Palace of his pride. 

For this exhausted mines 

Supplied their golden store; 

For this the central caverns gave their gems ; 

For this the woodman's axe 



228 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK 



Open'd the cedar forest to the sun; 

The silkworm of the East 

Spun her sepulchral e^g ; 

The hunter Afri 

Provoked the danger of the Elephant's rage ; 

The Ethiop, keen of scent, 

Detects the ebony, 

That, deep-inearth'd, and hating light, 

A leafless tree and barren of all fruit, 

With darkness feeds its boughs of raven grain. 

Such were the treasures lavish'd in yon pile ; 

Ages have past away. 

And never mortal eye 

Gazed on their vanity. 

23. 

"The Garden, — copious springs 

Blest that delightful spot, 

And every flower was planted there 

That makes the gale of evening sweet. 

He spake, and bade the full-grown forest rise, 

His own creation ; should the King 

Wait for slow Nature's work ? 

All trees that bend with luscious fruit, 

Or wave with feathery boughs. 

Or point their spiring heads to heaven, 

Or spreading wide their shadowy arms. 

Invite the traveller to repose at noon, — 

Hither, uprooted with their native soil. 

The labor and the pain of multitudes, — 

Mature in beauty, bore them. 

Here frequent in the walks 

The marble statue stood 

Of heroes and of chiefs. 

The trees and flowers rema.in, 

By Nature's care perpetuate and self-sown. 

The marble statues long have lost all trace 

Of heroes and of chiefs; 

Huge, shapeless stones they lie, 

O'ergrown with many a flower. 

24. 
" The work of pride went on ; 

Often the Prophet's voice 

Denounced impending woe; 

We mock'd at the words of the Seer, 

We mock'd at the wrath of the Lord. 

A long-continued drought first troubled us; 

Three years no cloud had form'd. 

Three years no rain had fallen; 

The wholesome herb was dry. 

The corn matured not for the food of man, 

The wells and fountains fail'd. 

O hard of heart, in whom the punishment 

Awoke no sense of guilt ! 

Headstrong to ruin, obstinately blind. 

We to our Idols still applied for aid ; 

Sakia we invoked for rain. 

We called on Razeka for food ; 

They did not hear our prayers, they could not hear ! 

No cloud appear'd in Heaven, 

No nightly dews came down. 

25. 
" Then to the Place of Concourse messengers 
Were sent, to Mecca, where the nations came, 



Round the Red Hillock kneeling, to implore 

God in his favor 'd place. 

We sent to call on God ; 

Ah fools ' unthinking that from all the earth 

The soul ascends to him. 

We sent to call on God ; 

Ah fools ! to think the Lord 

Would hear their prayers abroad. 

Who made no prayers at home ! 

26. 

" Meantime the work of pride went on, 

And still before our Idols, wood and stone, 

We bow'd the impious knee. 

' Turn, men of Ad, and call upon the Lord,' 

The Prophet Houd exclaim'd ; 

'Turn, men of Ad, and look to Heaven, 

And fl}'^ the wrath to come.' — 

We mock'd the Prophet's words; — 

' Now dost thou dream, old man. 

Or art thou drunk with wine ? 

Future woe and wrath to come 

Still thy prudent voice forebodes; 

When it comes, will we believe ; 

Till it comes, will we go on 

In the way our fathers went. 

Now are thy words from God ? 

Or dost thou dream, old man, 

Or art thou drunk with wine ? ' 

27. 

" So spake the stubborn race, 

The unbelieving ones. 

1, too, of stubborn, unbelieving heart, 

Heard him, and heeded not. 

It chanced my father went the way of man, 

He perish'd in his sins. 

The funeral rites were duly paid ; 

We bound a Camel to his grave, 

And left it there to die. 

So, if the resurrection came. 

Together they might rise. 

I past my father's grave ; 

I heard the Camel moan. 

She was his favorite beast, 

One who had carried me in infancy, 

The first that by myself I learn'd to mount. 

Her limbs were lean with famine, and her eyes 

Ghastly, and sunk, and dim. 

She knew me as I past ; 

She stared me in the face ; 

My heart was touch'd, — had it been human else ? 

I thought that none was near, and cut her bonds, 

And drove her forth to liberty and life. 

The Prophet Houd had seen ; 

He lifted up his voice — 

' Blessed art thou, young man. 

Blessed art thou, O Aswad, for the deed ! 

In the day of Visitation, 

In the fearful hour of Judgment, 

God will remember thee ! ' 

28. 

" The Day of Visitation was at hand ; 

The fearful Hour of Judgment hastened on. 

Lo ! Shedad's mighty pile complete, 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



229 



The Palace of his pride. 

Would ye behold its wonders, enter in ! 

I have no heart to visit it. 

Time hath not harm'd the eternal monument ; 

Time is not here, nor days, nor months, nor years. 

An everlasting now of solitude ! — 

29. 

"Ye must have heard their fame; 

Or likely ye have seen 

The mighty Pyramids, — 

For sure those awful piles have overlived 

The feeble generations of mankind. 

What though unmoved they bore the deluge weight, 

Survivors of the ruined world? 

What though their founder fill'd with miracles 

And wealth miraculous their spacious vaults.? 

Compared with yonder fabric, and they shrink 

The baby wonders of a woman's work. 

30. 

" Here emerald columns o'er the marble courts 

Shed their green rays, as when amid a shower 

The sun shines loveliest on the vernal corn. 

Here Shedad bade the sapphire floor be laid, 

As though with feet divine 

To tread on azure light. 

Like the blue pavement of the firmament. 

Here, self-suspended, hangs in air. 

As its pure substance loathed material touch, 

The living carbuncle ; 

Sun of the lofty dome, 

Darkness hath no dominion o'er its beams; 

Intense it glows, an ever-flowing spring 
Of radiance, like the day-flood in its source. 

31. 

" Impious ! the Trees of vegetable gold. 

Such as in Eden's groves 

Yet innocent it grew ; 

Impious ! he made his boast, though Heaven had 

hid 

So deep the baneful ore, 

That they should branch and bud for him. 

That art should force their blossoms and their fruit. 

And re-create for him wliate'er 

Was lost in Paradise. 

Therefore at Shedad's voice 

Here tower'd the palm, a silver trunk, 

The fine gold net-work growing out 

Loose from its rugged boughs. 

Tall as the cedar of the mountain, here 

Rose the gold branches, hung with emerald leaves. 

Blossom' d with pearls, and rich with ruby fruit. 

32. 

" O Ad ! my country ! evil was the day 

That thy unhappy sons 

Crouch'd at this Nimrod's throne, 

And placed him on the pedestal of power, 

And laid their liberties beneath his feet, 

Robbing their children of the heritance 

Their fathers handed down. 

' What was to him the squander'd wealth .'' 

What was to him the burden of the land. 



The lavlsh'd misery .'' 

He did but speak his will. 

And, like the blasting Siroc of the sands, 

The ruin of the royal voice 

Found its way every where. 

I marvel not that he, whose power 

No earthly law, no human feeling curb'd, 

Mock'd at the living God ! 

33. 

" And now the King's command went forth 

Among the people, bidding old and young. 

Husband and wife, the master and the slave, 

All the collected multitudes of Ad, 

Here to repair, and hold high festival. 

That he might see his people, they behold 

Their King's magnificence and power. 

The day of festival arrived ; 

Hither they came, the old man and the boy, 

Husband and wife, the master and the slave, 

Hither they came. From yonder high tower top, 

The loftiest of the Palace, Shedad look'd 

Down on his tribe : their tents on yonder sands 

Rose like the countless billows of the sea ; 

Their tread and voices like the ocean roar. 

One deep confusion of tumultuous sounds. 

They saw their King's magnificence, beheld 

His palace sparkling like the Angel domes 

Of Paradise, his Garden like the bowers 

Of early Eden, and they shouted out, 

' Great is the King ! a God upon the Earth ! ' 

34. 

" Intoxicate with joy and pride, 

He lieard their blasphemies; 

And, in his wantonness of heart, he bade 

The Prophet Houd be brought ; 

And o'er the marble courts. 

And o'er the gorgeous rooms, 

Glittering with gems and gold, 

He led the Man of God. 

' Is not this a stately pile .'' ' 

Cried the monarch in his joy. 

' Hath ever eye beheld, 

Hath ever thouglit conceived. 

Place more magnificent.'' 

Houd, they say that Heaven imparteth 

Words of wisdom to thy lips ; 

Look at the riches round, 

And value them aright. 

If so thy wisdom can.' 



" The Prophet heard his vaunt. 

And, with an awful smile, he answer'd him — 

' O Shedad ! only in the hour of death 

We learn to value things like these aright.' 

36. 

" ' Hast thou a fault to find 

In all thine eyes have seen .'' ' 

With unadmonishd pride, the King exclaim'd. 

' Yea ! ' said the Man of God ; 

' The walls are weak, the building ill secure 

Azrael can enter in ! 



230 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK 



The Sarsar can pierce through 
The ley Wind of Death.' 

37. 

" I was beside the Monarch when he spake ; 

Gentle the Prophet spake, 

But in his eye there dwelt 

A sorrow that disturb 'd me while I gazed. 

The countenance of Shedad fell, 

And anger sat upon his paler lips. 

He to the high tower-top the Prophet led, 

And pointed to the multitude, 

And as again they shouted out, 

' Great is the King ! a God upon the Earth ! ' 

With dark and threatful smile to Houd he turn'd, 

' Say they aright, O Prophet .-^ is the King 

Great upon earth, a God among mankind ? ' 

The Prophet answer'd not; 

Over that infinite multitude 

He roll'd his ominous eyes. 

And tears which could not be suppress'd gush'd 

forth. 

38. 
" Sudden an uproar rose, 

A cry of joy below ; 

' The messenger is come ! 

Kail from Mecca comes ; 

He brings the boon obtain'd ! * 

39. 

" Forth as we went, we saw where overhead 

There hung a deep-black cloud. 

To which the multitude 

With joyful eyes look'd up. 

And blest the coming rain. 

The Messenger address'd the King, 

And told his tale of joy. 

40. 

" ' To Mecca I repair'd. 

By the Red Hillock knelt. 

And call'd on God for rain. 

My prayer ascended, and was heard ; 

Three clouds appear'd in Heaven, 

One white, and like the flying cloud of noon. 

One red, as it had diunk the evening beams. 

One black and heavy with its load of rain. 

A voice went forth from Heaven, — 

' Choose, Kail, of the three ! ' 

1 thank'd the gracious Power, 

And chose the black cloud, heavy with its wealth. 

' Right ! right ! ' a thousand tongues exclaim'd ; 

And all was merriment and joy. 

41. 

"Then stood the Prophet up, and cried aloud, 

' Woe, woe to Irem ! woe to Ad ! 

Death is gone up into her palaces ! 

Woe ! woe ! a day of guilt and punishment ; 

A day of desolation ! ' — As he spake. 

His large eye roll'd in horror, and so deep 

His tone, it seem'd some Spirit from within 

Breathed through his moveless lips the unearthly 



42. 

" All looks were turn'd to him. ' O Ad ! ' he cried, 

' Dear native land, by all remembrances 

Of childhood, by all joys of manhood dear; 

O Vale of many Waters; morn and night 

My age must groan for you, and to the grave 

Go down in sorrow. Thou wilt give thy fruits, 

But who shall gather them .'' thy grapes will ripen. 

But who shall tread the wine-press ? Fly the wrath, 

Ye who would live and save your souls alive ! 

For strong is his right hand that bends the Bow, 

The Arrows that he shoots are sharp, 

And err not from their aim ! ' 

43. 

'• With that a faithful few 

Press'd through the throng to join him. Then arose 

Mockery and mirth ; ' Go, bald head ! ' and they mix'd 

Curses with laughter. He set forth, yet once 

Look'd back : — his eye fell on me, and he call'd, 

' Aswad I ' — it startled me — it terrified ; — 

' Aswad ! ' again he call'd — and I almost 

Had follow'd him. — O moment fled too soon ! 

O moment irrecoverably lost ! 

The shouts of mockery made a coward of me ; 

He went, and I remain'd in fear of Man ! 

44. 

" He went, and darker grew 

The deepening cloud above. 

At length it open'd, and — O God ! O God ! — 

There were no waters there ! 

There fell no kindly rain ! 

The Sarsar from its womb went forth, 

The ley Wind of Death.— 

45. 

" They fell around me ; thousands fell around ; 

The King and all his people fell ; 

All ! all ! they perish 'd all ! 

I — only I — was left. 

There came a Voice to me, and said, 

' In the Day of Visitation, 

In the fearful Hour of Judgment, 

God hath remember'd thee.' 

46. 

" When from an agony of prayer I rose. 

And from the scene of death 

Attempted to go forth. 

The way was open ; I could see 

No barrier to my steps. 

But round these bowers the arm of God 

Had drawn a mighty chain, 

A barrier that no human force might break. 

Twice I essay'd to pass ; 

With that a Voice Avas heard, — 

' O Aswad, be content, and bless the Lord ! 

One charitable deed hath saved 

Thy soul from utter death. 

O Aswad, sinful man ! 

When by long penitence 

Thou feel'st thy soul prepared, 

Breathe up the wish to die. 

And Azrael comes in answer to thy prayer.' 



TIIALABA THE DESTROYER. 



^^31 



47. 

" A miserable man, 

From Earth and Heaven shut out, 

I heard the dreadful Voice. 
I look'd around my prison place ; 
The bodies of the dead were there } 

Where'er I look'd they lay, 

They moulder'd, moulder'd here, — 

Their very bones have crumbled into dust, 

So many years have past ! 

So many weary ages have gone by ! 

And still I linger here, 

Still groaning with the burden of my sins, 

Not yet have dared to breathe 

The prayer to be released. 

48. 

" Oh I who can tell the unspeakable misery 

Of solitude like this ! 

No sound hath ever reach'd my ear, 

Save of the passing wind. 

The fountain's everlasting flow, 

The forest in the gale. 

The pattering of the shower — 

Sounds dead and mournful all. 

No bird hath ever closed her wing 

Upon these solitary bowers, 

No insect sweetly buzz'd amid these groves. 

From all things that have life, 

Save only me, conceal'd. 

This Tree alone, that o'er my head 

Hangs down its hospitable boughs. 

And bends its whispering leaves 

As though to welcome me, 

Seems to partake of life : 

I love it as my friend, my only friend ! 

49. 

*' I know not for what ages 1 have dragg'd 

This miserable life : 

How often I have seen 

These ancient trees renew'd! 

What countless generations of mankind 

Have risen and fallen asleep, 

And 1 remain the same ! 

My garment hath not waxen old. 

And the sole of my shoe is not worn. 

50. 

" Sinner that I have been, 

I dare not offer up a prayer to die. 

O merciful Lord God ! — 

But when it is thy will. 

But when I have atoned 

For mine iniquities. 

And sufferings have made pure 

My soul with sin defiled, 

Release me in thine own good time ; — 

1 will not cease to praise thee, O my God I " 

51. 

Silence ensued awhile ; 

Then Zeinab answer'd him; 

" Blessed art thou, O Aswad ! for the Lord, 

Who saved thy soul from Hell, 



Will call thee to him in his own good time. 

And would that when my soul 

Breathed up the wish to die, 

Azrael might visit me ! 

Then would I follow where my babes are gone, 

And join Hodeirah now ! " 

52. 

She ceased; and the rushing of wings 

Was heard in the stillness of night. 

And Azrael, the Death-Angel, stood before them. 

His countenance was dark. 

Solemn, but not severe ; 

It awed, but struck no terror to the heart. 

" Zeinab, thy wish is heard ! 

Aswad, thine hour is come ! " 

They fell upon the ground, and blest the voice ; 

And Azrael from his sword 

Let fall the drops of bitterness and death. 

53. 

" Me too ! me too ! " young Thalaba exclaim'd, 

As, w^ild with grief, he kiss'd 

His Mother's livid hand. 

His Mother's livid lips; 

" O Angel ! take me too !" 

54. 

" Son of Hodeirah ! " the Death-Angel said, 

" It is not yet the hour. 

Son of Hodeirah, thou art chosen forth 

To do the will of Heaven ; 

To avenge thy fatiier's death, 

Tlie murder of thy race; 

To work the mightiest enterprise 

That mortal man hath wrought. 

Live ! and rkmember destiny 

Hath mark'd thee from mankind! " 

55. 

He ceased, and he was gone. 

Young Thalaba look'd round; 

The Palace and the Groves were seen no more ; 

He stood amid the Wilderness, alone. 



NOTES TO BOOK I. 

LUie Vie round ocean, girdled with the sky. — 1, p. 225. 
Henry More had a similar picture in his mind when 



wrote of 



Vafst plains with lowly cottages forlorn, 
Rounded about with the low-wavering sky. 



Saw Zeinab in her bliss. — 3, p. 225. 

It may be worth mentioning, that, according to Pietro 
della Valle, this is the name of which the Latins have made 
Zenobia. 



He gave, he takes away ! — 4, p. 226. 

The Lord gave, and the Lord taketh awayj blessed be the 
name of the Lord. — Job, i. 21. 

I have placed a Scripture phrase in the mouth of a Ma- 
hommedan ; but it is a saying of Job, and there can be no 
impropriety in making a modern Arab speak like an ancient 



232 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER 



BOOK I. 



one. Resignation is particularly inculcated by Mahommed ; 
and of all his precepts it is that which his followers have best 
observed : it is even the vice of the East. It had been easy 
to have made Zeinab speak from the Koran, if the tame lan- 
guage of the Koran could be remembered by the few who 
have tolled through its dull tautology. I thought it better 
to express a feeling of religion in that language with which 
our relisfious ideas are connected. 



And rested like a dome. — 11, p. 223. 
La mer n'estplas qu^un cercle mix ijeux des Matelots, 
Ou le del forme un dome appayesur les flats. 

Le JVoaveaa Monde, par M. Le Suire. 



Here studding' azure tablatures. — 13, p. 226. 

The magnificent Mosque at Taiiris is faced with varnished 
bricks, of various colors, like most fine buildings in Persia, 
says Tavernier. One of its domes is covered with white 
flower-work upon a green ground ; the other has a black 
ground, spotted with white stars. Gilding is also common 
upon Oriental buildings. At Boghar in Bactria our old trav- 
eller Jenkinson* saw "many houses, temples, and monu- 
ments of stone, sumptuously builded and gilt." 

In Pegu "they consume about their Varely or idol houses 
great store of leafe-gold, for that they overlay all the tops of 
the houses with gold, and some of them are covered with 
gold from the top to the foote ; in covering whereof there is a 
great store of gold spent, for that every ten years they new 
overlay them with gold, from the top to the foote, so that 
with this vanitie they spend great aboundance of golde. For 
every ten years the rain doth consume the gold from these 
houses." — Ccesar Frederick, in Huklutjt. 

A waste of ornament and labor characterizes all the works 
of the Orientalists. I have seen illuminated Persian man- 
uscripts that must each have been the toil of many years, 
every page painted, not with representations of life and 
manners, but usually like the curves and lines of a Turkey 
carpet, conveying no idea whatever, as absurd to the eye as 
nonsense-verses to the ear. The little of their literature that 
has reached us is equally worthless. Our barbarian scholars 
have called Ferdusi the Oriental Homer. Mr. Champion has 
published a specimen of his poem ; the translation is said to be 
bad, and certainly must be unfaithful, for it is in rhyme ; but 
the vilest copy of a picture at least represents the subject and 
the composition. To make this Iliad of the East, as they have 
sacrilegiously styled it, a good poem, would be realizing the 
dreams of alchemy, and transmuting lead into gold. 

The Arabian Tales certainly abound with genius ; they 
have lost their metaphorical rubbish in passing through the 
filter of a French translation. 



Sennamar built at Hirah, &c. — 13, p. 226. 

The Arabians call this palace one of the wonders of the 
world. It was built for Noman-al-A6uar, one of those Ara- 
bian Kings who reigned at Hirah. A single stone fastened 
the whole structure ; the color of the walls varied frequently 
in a day. Noman richly rewarded the architect Sennamar ; 
but, recollecting afterwards that he might build palaces equal 
or superior in beauty for his rival kings, ordered that he 
should be thrown from the highest tower of the edifice. — 
D'Herbelnt. 

An African colony had been settled in the north of Ireland 
lon^' before the arrival of the Neimhedians. It is recorded, 
that Neimheidh had employed four of their artisans to erect 
for him two sumptuous palaces, which were so highly finished, 
that, jealous lest they might construct others on the same, or 
perhaps a grander plan, he had them privately made away 
with, the day after they had completed their work. 

OUIalloran's History of Ireland. 



The Paradise of Irem, &c. — 19, p. 227. 

The tribe of Ad were descended from Ad, the son of A us 

* HakluyU 



or Uz, the son of Irem, tlie son of Shem, the son of Noah, 
who, after the confusion of tongues, settled in Al-Ahkaf, or 
the Winding Sands, in the province of Hadramaut, where his 
posterity greatly multiplied. Their first King was Shedad, 
the son of Ad, of whom the Eastern writers deliver many 
fabulous things, particularly that he finished the magnificent 
city his father had begun; wherein lie built a fine palace, 
adorned with delicious gardens, to embellish which he spared 
neither cost nor labor, proposing thereby to create in his 
subjects a superstitious veneration of himself as a God. This 
garden or paradise was called the garden of Irem, and is men. 
tioned in tlie Koran, and often alluded to by the Oriental 
writers. The city, they tell us, is still standing in the deserts 
of Aden, being preserved by Providence as a monument of 
divine justice, though it be invisible, unless very rarely, when 
God permits it to be seen — a favor one Colabah pretended 
to have received in the reign of the Khalif Moa.\viyah, who 
sending for him to know the truth of the matter, Colabah 
related his whole adventure ; that, as he was seeking a camel 
he had lost, he found himself on a sudden at the gates of this 
city, and entering it, saw not one inhabitant ; at which being 
terrified, he staid no longer than to take with him some fine 
stones, which he showed the Khalif. — Sale. 

The descendants of Ad, in process of time, falling from the 
worship of the true God into idolatry, God sent the prophet 
Houd (who is generally agreed to be Heber) to preach the 
unity of his essence, and reclaim them. Houd preached for 
many years to this people without effect, till God at last was 
weary of waiting for their repentance. The first punishment 
which he inflicted was a famine of three years' continuance, 
during all which time the heavens were closed upon them. 
This, with the evils which it caused, destroyed a great part 
of this people, who were then the richest and most powerful 
of all in Arabia. 

The Adites, seeing themselves reduced to this extremity, 
and receiving no succor from their false gods, resolved to 
make a pilgrimage to a place in the province of Hegiaz, where 
at present Mecca is situated. There was then a hillock of 
red sand there, around which a great concourse of different 
people might always be seen ; and all these nations, the 
faithful as well as the unfaithful, believed that by visiting 
this spot with devotion, they should obtain from God what- 
ever they petitioned for, respecting the wants and necessities 
of life. 

The Adites, having then resolved to undertake this religious 
journey, chose seventy men, at whose head they appointed 
Mortadh and Kail, the two most considerable per-onages of 
the country, to perform this duty in the name of the whole 
nation, and by this means procure rain from Heaven, without 
which their country must be ruined. The deputies departed, 
and were hospitably received by Moawiyah, who at that time 
reigned in the province of Hegiaz. They explained to him 
the occasion of their journey, and demanded leave to proceed 
and perform their devotions at the Hed Hillock, that they 
might procure rain. 

Mortadh, who was tlie wisest of this company, and who 
had been converted by the Projthet Houd, oflen remonstrated 
with his associates, that it was useless to take this journey for 
the purpose of praying at this chosen spot, unless they had 
previously adopted the truths which the Prophet preached, 
and seriously repented of their unbelief. For how, said he, 
can you hope that God will shed upon us the abundant 
showers of his mercy, if we refuse to hear the voice of him 
whom he hath sent to instruct us .' 

Kail, who was one of the most obstinate in error, and con- 
sequently of the Prophet's worst enemies, hearing the dis- 
courses of his colleague, requested king Moawiyah to detain 
Mortadh prisoner, whilst he and the remainder of his com- 
panions proceeded to make their prayers upon the Hillock. 
Moawiyah consented, and, detaining Mortadh captive, per- 
mitted the others to pursue their journey, and accomplish 
their vow. 

Kail, now the sole chief of the deputation, having arrived 
at the place, prayed thus : Lord, give to the people of Ad such 
rains as it shall please thee. And he had scarcely finished 
when there appeared three clouds in the sky, one white, one 
red, the third black. At the same time, these words were 
heard to proceed from Heaven — Choose which of the three 
thou wilt. Kail chose the black, which he imagined the 



BOOK 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



233 



fullest, and most tibundaiit in water, of wliicli they were in 
extreme want. After having chosen, ho iiiuncdiately quitted 
the pi ice, and took the road to his own country, congratulating 
himself on the li: l)py success of liis pilgrimiige. 

As soon as Kail arrived in the valley of Magaith, a part of 
the territory of the Adites, lie informed his countrymen of 
the fivorahle answer he had received, and of the cloud which 
was soon to water all thi'ir lands. I'he senseless people all 
came out of their houses to receive it ; l)Ut this cloud, which 
was big with the divine vengeance, produced only a wind, 
most cold and most violent, which the Arabs cull Sarsar ; it 
continued to blow for seven days and seven nights, and exter- 
minated all the unbelievers of the country, leaving only the 
Prophet Houd alive, and those who had heard him and turned 
to the faith. — D'JIerbelot. 



O^er all the winding sands. — 19, p. 227. 
Al-Ahkaf signifies the Winding Sands. 



Delects the ebony.— '2^, p. 228. 
I have heard from a certain Cyprian botanist, that the 
ebony does not produce either leaves or fruit, and that it is 
never seen exposed to the sun ; that its roots are indeed under 
the earth, which the Ethiopians dig out ; and that there are 
men among them skilled in finding the place of its conceal- 
ment. — PausaniaSy translated by Taylor. 



We to our Idols still applied for aid. — 24, p. 228. 

The Adites worshipped four idols, Sakiah, the dispenser of 
rain, Flafedah, the protector of travellers, Razekah, the giver 
of food, and Salemah, the preserver in sickness. — D^IIcrbclot. 
Sale. 



Tlicn to the place of concourse, &c. — 25, p. 228. 

Mecca was thus called. Mahommed destroyed the other 
superstitions of the Arabs, l)ut he was obliged to adopt their 
old and rooted veneration for the Well and the Black Stone, 
and transfer to Mecca the respect and reverence which ho had 
designed for Jerusalem. 

" Mecca is situated in a barren place (about one day's jour- 
ney from the Red Sea) in a v;illey, or rather in the midst of 
many little hills. The town is surrounded for several miles 
with many thousands of little hills, which are very near one 
to the other. I have been on the top of some of them, near 
Mecca, where I could see some miles about, but yet was not 
able to see the farthest of the hills. They are all stony-rock, 
and blackish, and pretty near of a bigness, appearing at a dis- 
tance like cocks of hay, but all pointing towards Mecca. Some 
of them are half a mile in circumference, &c., but all near of 
one height. The people here have an odd and foolish sort of 
tradition concerning them, viz. That when Abraham went 
about buililing the Beat-Allah^ God by his wonderful prov- 
idence did so order it, that every mountain in the world 
should contribute something to the building thereof; and 
accordingly every one did send its proportion. Though there 
is a mountain near Algiers, which is called Corra Dog, i. e. 
Black Mountain ; and the reason of its blackness, they say, is, 
because it did not send any part of itself towards building the 
Temple at Mecca. Betweeji these hills is good and plain 
travelling, tliough they stand near one to another." 

A faithful Account of the Religion and Manners of the 
Mahomedans, 4'c. bij Joseph Pitts of Exon. 

Adam, after his fall, was placed upon the mountain of Vassem 
in the eastern region of the globe. Eoe was banished to a 
place, since called Djidda, whicli signifies the first of mothers, 
(the celebrated port of Oedda, on the coast of Arabia.) The 
Serpent was cast into the most horrid desert of the East, and 
the spiritual tempter, who seduced him, was exiled to the 
coasts oi Ebhhh. This fall of our first parent was followed 
by the infidelity and sedition of all the spirits, Djinn, who 
^vure spread over the surface oi the earth. Then God sent 
against them the great Azazil, who, with a legion of angels, 
chased them from the continent, and dispersed them among 
30 



the isli'S, and along the ditfirent coasts of tlie sea. Some 
time after, Adam, conducted by the spirit of God, tiavvdled 
into Arabia, and advanced as far as Mecca. His footsteps 
diffused on all sides abundance and fertility. His figure was 
enchanting, his stature lofty, his complexion brown, his hair 
thick, long, and curled ; and he then wore a beard and mus- 
tachios. After a separation of a hundred years, he rejoined 
Eve on Mount Aniftith, near Mecca — an event which gave 
that mount the name of Arafaith, or Arefr, that is, the Place 
of Remembrance. This favor of the Eternal Deity was 
accompanied by another not less striking. By his orders the 
angels took a tent, Khayme, from Paradise, and pitched it on 
the very spot where afterwards the Kiahe was erected. This 
is the most sacred of the tabernacles, and the first temple 
which was consecrated to the worsliip of the Eternal Deity 
by the first of men, and by all his posterity. S,tA was the 
founder of the Sacred Kiabe; in the same place where the 
angels had pitched the celestial tent, he erected a stone edifice, 
which he consecrated to the worshij' of the Eternal Deity. — 
D^Ohsson. 

Bowed down by the weight of years, Adam had reached tho 
limit of his earthly existence. At that moment he longed 
eagerly for the fruits of Paradise. A legion of angels attended 
upon his latest sigh, and, by the command of the Eternal 
Being, received his soul. He died on Friday, the 7th of 
April, J\rissan, at the age of nine hundred and thirty years. 
The angtls washed and purified his body ; which was the 
origin of funeral ablutions. The archangel Michael wrapped 
it in a sheet, with perfumes and aromatics ; and the archange 
Gabriel, discharging the duties of the Iniametii, performed, a 
the head of the whole legion of angels, and of the wholt 
family of this first of the patriarchs, the Salatli'ul-Djenaze ; 
whicli gave birth to funeral prayers. The body of Adam was 
deposited at Ghar^ul-Kenz, (the grotto of treasure,) upon the 
mountain Djehel-Ebhj Coubeyss, which overlooks JJ/rcca. His 
descendants, at his death, amounted to forty thousand souls. 

— D' Olisson. 

When Noah entered tiie ark, he took with him, by the 
command of the Eternal, the body ol" Adam, enclosed in a 
box-coffin. After the waters had abated, his first care was to 
de))osit it in the same grotto from whence it liad been removed. 

— Z>' Olisson. 



So ifUie resurrection came. — 27, p. 228. 

Some of the Pagan Arabs, when they died, had their Camel 
tied by their Sepulchre, and so left without meat or drink to 
perish, and accompany them to the other world, lest they 
should be obliged at the Resurrection to go on foot, which 
wELS accounted very scandalous. 

All affirmed that the pious, when they come forth from 
their sepulchres, shall find ready prepared for them white- 
winged Camels with saddles of gold. Here are some footsteps 
of the doctrine of tlie ancient Arabians. — Sale. 



She stared me in the face. —^1 , p. ^8. 
This line is one of the most beautiful passages of our old 
ballads, so full of beauty. 1 have never seen the ballad in 
print, and with some trouble have procured on!y an imperfect 
copy from memory. It is necessary to insert some of the 
preceding stanzas. The title is. 

Old Poulter's Mare. 

At length old age came on her, 

And she grew faint and poor; 
Her master he fell out with her, 

And turn'd her out of door, 
Saying, If thou wilt not labor, 

I prithee go thy way, — 
And never let me see thy face 

Until thy dying day. 

These words she took unkind, 

And on her way she went. 
For to fulfil her master's will 

Always was her intent ; 
The hills were very high, 

The valleys very bare, 



234 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK 1. 



The summer it was hot and dry, — 
It starved Old Poulter's Mare. 

Old Poulter he grew sorrowful, 

And said to his kinsman Will, 
I'd have thee go and seek the Mare 

O'er valley and o'er hill ; 
Go, go, go, go, says Poulter, 

And make haste back again. 
For until thou hast found the Mare, 

In grief I shall remain. 

Away went Will so willingly. 

And all day long he sought ; 
Till when it grew towards the night, 

He in his mind bethought. 
He would go home and rest him. 

And come again to-morrow ; 
For if he could not find the Mare, 

His heart would break with sorrow. 

He went a little farther. 

And turn'd his head aside. 
And just by goodman Whitfield's gate, 

Oh, there the Mare he spied. 
He ask'd her how she did ; 

She stared him in the face, 
Then down she laid her head again — 

She was in wretched case. 



What though unmoved they bore the deluge weight. — 29, p. 229. 

Concerning the Pyramids, " I shall put down," says Greaves, 
" that which is confessed by the Arabian writers to be the 
most probable relation, as is reported by Ibn Abd Alhokm, 
■whose words, out of the Arabic, are these : — ' The greatest 
part of chronologers agree, that he which built the Pyra- 
mids was Saurid Ibn Salhouk, King of Egypt, who lived 
three hundred years before the flood. The occasion of this 
was, because he saw, in his sleep, that the whole earth was 
turned over with the inhabitants of it, the men lying upon 
their faces, and the stars falling down and striking one 
another, with a terrible noise ; and being troubled, he con- 
cealed it. After this, he saw the fixed stars falling to the 
earth, in the similitude of white fowl, and they snatched 
up men, carrying them between two great mountains ; and 
these mountains closed upon them, and tlie shining stars 
were made dark. Awaking with great fear, he assembles 
the chief priests of all the provinces of Egypt, an hundred 
and thirty priests ; the chief of them was called Aclimum. 
Relating the whole matter to them, they took the altitude of 
the stars, and, making their prognostication, foretold of a 
deluge. The King said. Will it come to our country ? 
they answered, Yea, and will destroy it. And there re- 
mained a certain number of years for to come, and he 
commanded, in the mean space, to build the Pyramids, and a 
vault to be made, into which the river Nilus entering, should 
run into the countries of the west, and into the land Al-Said. 
And he filled them with telesmes,* and with strange things, 
and with riches and treasures, and the like. He engraved in 
them all things that were told him by wise men, as also all 
profound sciences, the names of alaJMkirs,-\ the uses and hurts 
of them ; the science of astrology, and of arithmetic, and of 
geometry, and of physic. All this may be interpreted by him 
that knows their characters and language. After he had 
given order for this building, they cut out vast columns and 
wonderful stones. They fetcht massy stones from the Ethi- 
opians, and made with these the foundation of the three 
Pyramids, fastening them together with lead and iron. They 
built the gates of them forty cubits under ground, and they 
made the height of the Pyramids one hundred royal cubits, 



* That which the Arabians commonly mean by telesmes are certain 
eigilla or amuleta, made under such and such an aspect, or configuration 
of the stirs and planets, with several characters accordingly inscribed. 

t Alakakir, amongst other significations, is the name of a precious stone ; 
and, therefore, in Abulfeda, it is joined with yacut, a ruby. I imagine it 
here lo signify some magical spell, which, it may be, was engraven on this 
stone. 



which are fifty of ours, in these times ; he also made each side 
of them an hundred royal cubits. The beginning of this 
building was in a fortunate horoscope. After that he had 
finished it, he covered it with colored satin from the top to 
the bottom; and he appointed a solemn festival, at which 
were present all the inhabitants of his kingdom. Then he 
built, in the western pyramid, thirty treasures, filled with store 
of riches and utensils, and with signatures made of precious 
stones, and with instruments of iron, and vessels of earth, and 
with arms that rust not, and with glass which might be bended 
and yet not broken, and with several kinds of aZa/caA:(r5, single 
and double, and with deadly poisons, and with other things 
besides. He made also in the east Pyramid divers celestial 
spheres and stars, and what they severally operate in their 
aspects, and the perfumes which are to be used to them, and 
the books which treat of these matters. He also put in the 
colored Pyramid the commentaries of the Priests in chests of 
black marble, and with every Priest a book, in which were 
the wonders of his profession, and of his actions, and of his 
nature, and what was done in his time, and what is, and what 
shall be, from the beginning of time to the end of it. He 
placed in every Pyramid a treasurer. The treasurer of the 
westerly Pyramid was a statue of marble stone, standing 
upright with a lance, and upon his head a serpent, wreathed. 
He that came near it, and stood still, the serpent bit him of 
one side, and wreathing round about his throat and killing 
him, returned to his place. He made the treasurer of the 
east Pyramid, an idol of black agate, his eyes open and 
shining, sitting upon a throne with a lance : when any looked 
upon him, he heard of one side of him a voice, which took 
away his sense, so that he fell prostrate upon his face, and 
ceased not till he died. He made the treasurer of the colored 
Pyramid a statue of stone, called Albat, sitting : he which 
looked towards it was drawn by the statue, till he stuck to it, 
and could not be separated from it, till such time as he died. 
The Coptites write in their books, that there is an inscription 
engraven upon them, the exposition of which, in Arabic, is 
this, / King Saurid built the Pyramids in such and such a 
time, and finished them in six years .• he that comes after me, 
and says that he is equal lo me, let him destroy them in six 
hundred years ; and yet it is known , that it is easier to pluck 
down, than to build up .- Talso covered them, when I had finished 
them, with sattin ; and let him cover them with malts. After 
that Almamon the Calif entered Egypt, and saw the Pyra- 
mids, he desired to know what was within, and therefore 
would have them opened. They told him it could not possi- 
bly be done. He replied, I will have it certainly done. 
And that hole was opened for him, which stands open to this 
day, with fire and vinegar. Two smiths prepared and sharp- 
ened the iron and engines, which they forced in, and there 
was a great expense in the opening of it. The thickness of 
the walls was found to be twenty cubits ; and when they came 
to the end of the wall, behind the place they had digged, 
there was an ewer of green emerald : in it were a thousand 
dinars very weighty, every dinar was an ounce of our ounces ; 
they wondered at it, but knew not the meaning of it. Then 
Almamon said. Cast up the account how much hath been 
spent in making the entrance ; they cast it up, and lo it was 
the same sum which they found ; it neither exceeded nor was 
defective. Within they found a square well, in the square 
of it there were doors, every door opened into a house, (or 
vault,) in which there were dead bodies wrapped up in linen. 
They found towards the top of the Pyramid, a chamber, in 
which there was a hollow stone : in it was a statue of stone 
like a man, and within it a man, upon whom was a breast- 
plate of gold set with jewels ; upon his breast was a sword of 
invaluable price, and at his head a carbuncle of the bigness of 
an eg^, shining like the light of the day ; and upon him 
were characters written with a pen, no man knows what they 
signify. After Almamon had opened it, men entered into it 
for many years, and descended by the slip])ery passage which 
is in it ; and some of them came out safe, and others died.' " — 
Oreaves^s Pyramidographia. 



The living carbuncle. — 30, p. 229. 

The Carbuncle is to be found in most of the subterranean 
palaces of Romance. I have nowhere seen so circumstantial 



BOOK 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER 



235 



ail account of its woiidiirful properties as in a passage of 
Tliuaiius, quotud by ftepliunius in his Notes to Saxo-Gram- 
inalicus. 

" Whilst the King was at Bologna, a stone, wonderful in 
its species and nature, was brought to liim from the East 
Indies, by a man unknown, wiio ai)peared by his manners to 
be a Barbarian. It sparkled as tiiough all burning with an 
incredible si)lendor : flashing radiance, and shooting on every 
side its beams, it filled the surrounding air to a great distance 
with a light scarcely by any eyes endurable. In this also it 
was wonderful, that being most impatient of the earth, if it 
was confined, it would force its way, and immediately fly 
aloft ; neither could it be contained by any art of man in a 
narrow place, but appeared only to love those of ample extent. 
It was of the utmost purity, stained by no soil nor spot. 
Certain shape it had none, for its figure was inconstant and 
momentarily changing, and though at a distance it was beau- 
tiful to the eye, it would not sutler itself to be handled with 
impunity, but hurt those who obstinately struggled with it, as 
many persons before many spectators experienced. If by 
chance any part of it was broken off, for it was not very hard, 
it become nothing less. "* — Thuaniis, lib. 8. 

In the Mirror of Stones, Carbuncles are said to be male 
and female. The females throw out their brightness : the 
stars appear burning within the males. 

Like many other jewels, the Carbuncle was supposed to be 
an animal substance, formed in the serpent. The serpent's 
ingenious method of preserving it from the song of the cliarmer, 
is related in an after-note. Book 9. 



Yet innocent it grew. — 31, p. 229. 

Adam, says a Moorish author, after having eaten the for- 
bidden fruit, sought to hide himself under the shade of the 
trees that form the bowers of Paradise : the Gold and Silver 
trees refused their shade to the father of the human race. 
God asked them why they did so? Because, replied the Trees, 
Adam has transgressed against yourcommiindment. Ye have 
done well, answered the Creator ; and that your fidelity- may 
be rewarded, 'tis my decree that men shall hereafter become 
your slaves, and that in search of you they shall dig into the 
very bowels of the earth. — Chcnier. 

The black-lead of Borrodale is described as lying in the 
mine in the form of a tree ; it hath a body or root, and veins 
or branches fly from it in different directions : the root or 
body is the finest black-lead, and the branches at the extremi- 
ties the worst the farther they fly. The veins or branches 
sometimes shoot out to the surface of the ground. — Hutchin- 
S07i's Hist, of Cumberland. 

They have founde by experience, that the vein of golde is a 
living tree, and that the same by all waies that it spreadeth 
and springeth from the roote by the softe pores and passages 
of the earth, putteth forth branches, even unto the uppermost 
parts of the earth, and ceaseth not until it discover itself unto 
the open aire ; at which time it sheweth forthe certaine beau- 
tiful colours in the steede of floures, round stones of golden 
earth in the steede of fruites ; and fhinne plates insteede of 
leaves. They say that the roote of the golden tree extendeth 
to the center of the earth, and there taketh noiishment of 
increase : for the deeper that tliey dig, they finde the trunkes 
thereof to be so much the greater, as farre as they may followe 
it, for abundance of water springing in the mountains. Of 
the branches of this tree, they finde some as small as a thread, 
and others as bigge as a man's finger, according to the large- 
ness or straightnesse of the riftes and cliftes. They have 
sometimes chanced upon wliole caves, sustained and borne up 
as it were with golden pillers, and this in the waies by the 
which the branches ascende : the which being filled with the 
substance of the trunke creeping from beneath, the branche 
maketh itself waie by whiche it maie pass out. It is often- 



* Since this nole was written, I have found in Feyjio the history of this 
feble. It was invented as a riddle or allegory ofjire, by a French phy- 
sician, called Fernelio by the Spanish author, and published by him in a 
Dialogue, De abdids rerum causis. From hence it was extracted, and 
sent ns a trick to Mizaldo, another physician, who had written a credulous 
work, DeArcanis NATURAE ; and a copy of this letter came into the hands 
of Tluunus. He discovered the deception too late, for a second edition of 
ais history had been previously published at Frankfort. 



times divided, by encountring with some kinde of harde 
stone ; yet is it in other cliftes nourished by the exhalations 
and virtue of the roote. — Pietro Maitire. 

Metals, says Herrera, (5, 3, 15,) are like plants hidden in 
the bowels of tlie earth, with their trunk and boughs, which 
are the veins ; for it appears in a certain manner, that like 
plants they go on growing, not because they have any inward 
life, but because they are produced in the entrails of the earth 
by the virtue of the sun and of the planets ; and so they go on 
increasing. And as metals are thus, as it were, plants hidden 
in the earth ; so plants are animals fixed to one place, sus- 
tained by the aliment which Nature has provided for them at 
their birth : And to animals, as they have a more perfect be- 
ing, a sense and knowledge hath been given, to go about and 
seek their aliment. So that barren earth is the support of 
metal, and fertile earth of plants, and plants of animals: the 
less perfect serving the more perfect. 



Tliefinc gold nct-worJ;, See. — 3] , p. 229. 

A great number of stringy fibres seem to stretch out from 
the boughs of the Palm, on each side, which cross one another 
in such a manner, that they take out from between the boughs 
a sort of bark like close net-work, and this they spin out with 
the hand, and with it make cords of all sizes, wliich are mostly 
used in Egypt. They also make of it a sort of brush for 
clothes. — Pocuckc. 



Ciouck^d at this J^~iinrod''s throne. — 32, p. 229. 

Shedad was the first King of the Adites. I have orna- 
mented his palace less profusely than the Oriental writers who 
clescribe it. In the notes to the Buhar-Daiiush is the follow- 
ing account of its magnificence from the Tafat al Miijalis. 

A pleasant and elevated spot being fixed upon, Shuddaud 
dispatched an hundred chiefs to collect skill'ul artists and 
workmen from all countries. He also commanded the mon- 
archs of Syria and Ormus to send him all their jewels and 
precious stones. Forty camel-loads of gold, silver, and jewels, 
were daily used in the building, which contained a thousand 
spacious quadrangles of many thousand rooms. In the areas 
were artificial trees of gold and silver, whose leaves were 
emeralds, and fruit clusters of pearls and jewels. The ground 
was strowed with ambergris, musk, and saff"ron. Between 
every two of the artificial trees was planted one of delicious 
fruit. This romantic abode took up five hundred years in the 
completion. When finished, Shuddaud marched to view it ; 
and, when arrived near, divided two hundred thousand youth- 
ful slaves, whom he had brought with him from Damascus, 
into four detachments, which were stationed in cantonments 
prepared fi)r their recei)tion on each side of the garden, 
towards which he proceeded with his favorite courtiers. Sud- 
denly was heard in the air a voice like thunder, and Shud- 
daud, looking up, beheld a personage of majestic figure and 
stern aspect, who said, " I am the Angel of Death, commis- 
sioned to seize thy impure soul." Shuddaud exclaimed, 
" Give me leisure to enter the garden," and was descend- 
ing from his horse, wlien the seizer of life snatched away his 
impure spirit, and he fell dead upon the ground. At the same 
time liglitnings flashed, and destroyed the whole army of the 
infidel ; and the rose-garden of Irim became concealed from 
the sight of man. 



Shedad! only in the hour of death. — 35, p. 229. 

Lamai relates, that a great Monarch, whom he does not 
name, having erected a superb Palace, wished to show it to 
every man of talents and taste in the city ; he therefore invited 
them to a banquet, and after the repast was finished, asked 
them if they knew any building more magnificent, and more 
perfect, in the architecture, in the ornaments, and in the fur- 
niture. All the guests contented themselves with expressing 
their admiration, and lavishing praise, except one, who led a 
retired and austere life, and was one of tliose persons whom 
the Arabians call Zahed. 

This man spoke very freely to the Prince, and said to him, 
I find a great defect in this building ; it is, that the foundation 
is not good, nor the walls sufficiently strong, so that Azrael 



236 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



can enter on every side, and the Sarsar can easily pass through. 
And vvlien they showed him the walls of tiie Palace orna- 
mented with azure and gold, of which the marvellous work- 
manship surpassed in costliness the richness of the materials, 
he replied, There is still a great inconvenience here 5 it is, that 
we can never estimate these works well, till we are laid back- 
wards. Signifying by these words, that we never understand 
these things rightly, till we are upon our death-bed, when we 
discover their vanity. — D''Herbelot. 

Brealh\d through his moveless lips, &c. — 41, p. 230. 

Las horrendas palabras parecian 
salir par una trompa resonante, 
y que los yertos labios no movian. 

LuPERCio Leonardo. 



Jlnd enT not from their aim! — 42, p. 230. 

Death is come up into our windows, and entered into our 
palaces, to cut off the children from without, and the young 
men from the streets, — Jeremiah, ix. 21. 

The Trees shall give fruit, and who shall gather them ? 
The Grapes shall ripen, and who shall tread them? for all 
piaces shall be desolate of men. — 2 Esdras, xvi. 25. 

For strong is his right hand that bendeth the bow, his 
arrows that he shooteth are sharp, and shall not miss when 
they begin to be shot into the ends of the world. 

2 Esdras, xvi. 13. 



Seems to partake of life. — 48, p. 231 . 
There are several trees or shrubs of the genus Mimosa. 
One of these trees drops its branches whenever any person 
approaches it, seeming as if it saluted those who retire under 
its shade. This mute hospitality has so endeared this tree to 
the Arabians, that the injuring or cutting of it down is strictly 
prohibited. — JSTiebuhr. 

Let fall the drops of bitterness and death. — 52, p. 231. 

The Angel of Death, say the Rabbis, holdeth his sword in 
his hand at the bed's head, having on the end thereof three 
drops of gall ; the sick man spying this deadly Angel, openeth 
his mouth with fear, and then those drops fall in, of which 
one killeth him, the second maketh him pale, the third rotteth 
and purifieth. — Purchas. 

Possibly the expression — to taste the bitterness of death — 
may refer to this. 



THE SECOND BOOK. 



Sint licet expertes vitce sensusque, capessunt 
Jussa tanien superum venti. 

Mambruni Constantinus. 



Not in the desert, 

Son of Hodeirah, 

Thou art abandon'd ! 

The co-existent fire, 

Which in the Dens of Darkness burnt for thee, 

Burns yet, and yet shall burn. 



In the Domdaniel caverns, 

Under the Roots of the Ocean, 

Met the Masters of the Spell. 

Before them in the vault. 

Blazing unfuell'd from its floor of rock, 



Ten magic flames arose. 

"Burn, mystic fires," Abdaldar cried; 

" Burn while Hodeirah's dreaded race exist. 

This is the appointed hour. 

The hour that shall secure these dens of night. 

3. 

" Dim they burn ! " exclaim'd Lobaba; 

" Dim they burn, and now they waver ! 

Okba lifts the arm of death ; 

They waver, — they go out ! " 

4. 

" Curse on his hasty hand ! " 

Khawla exclaim'd in wrath, 

The woman-fiend exclaim'd ; 

" Curse on his hasty hand, the fool hath fail'd ; 

Eight only are gone out." 



A Teraph stood against tne cavern side, 

A new-born infant's head, 

Which Khawla at its hour of birth had seized, 

And from the shoulders wrung. 

It stood upon a plate of gold. 

An unclean Spirit's name inscribed beneath. 

The cheeks were deathy dark. 

Dark the dead skin upon the hairless skull ; 

The lips were bluey pale ; 

Only the eyes had life ; 

They gleam'd with demon light. 

6. 

Tell me ! " quoth Khawla, " is the Fire gone out 

That threats the Masters of the Spell ? " 

The dead lips moved and spake, 

" The Fire still burns that threats 

The Masters of the Spell." 



" Curse on thee, Okba ! " Khawla cried, 

As to the den the Sorcerer came ; 

He bore the dagger in his hand. 

Red from the murder of Hodeirah's race. 

" Behold those unextinguish'd flames ! 

The Fire still burns that threats 

The Masters of the SpeJl ! 

Okba, wert thou weak of heart ? 

Okba, wert thou blind of eye ? 

Thy fate and ours were on the lot, 

And we believ'd the lying Stars, 

That said thy hand might seize the auspicious 

hour ! 

Thou hast let slip the reins of Destiny, 

Curse thee, curse thee, Okba ! " 



The Murderer, answering, said, 

" O versed in all enchanted lore. 

Thou better knowest Okba's soul ! 

Eight blows I struck, eight home-driven blows; 

Needed no second stroke 

From this envenom'd blade. 

Ye frown at me as if the will had fail'd ; 

As if ye did not know 



BOOK II. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



237 



My double danger from Hodeirah's race, 

Tlie deeper hate I feel, 

The stronger motive that inspired my arm ! 

Ye frown as if my hasty fault, 

My ill-directed blow, 

Had spared the enemy ; 

And not the Stars, that would not give, 

•And not your feeble spells, 

That could not force, the sign 

Which of the whole was he. 

Did ye not bid me strike them all ? 

Said ye not root and branch should be destroy 'd ? 

I heard Hodeirah's dying groan, 

I heard his Children's shriek of death, 

And sought to consummate the work ; 

But o'er the two remaining lives 

A cloud unpierccable had risen, 

A cloud that mock'd my searching eyes, 

I would have probed it with a dagger-point; 

The dagger was repell'd : 

A Voice came forth, and said, 

* Son of Perdition, cease ! Thou canst not change 

What in the Book of Destiny is written.' " 

9. 

Khawla to the Teraph turn'd — 

" Tell me where the Prophet's hand 

Hides our destined enemy." 

The dead lips spake again — 

" I view the seas, I view the land, 

I search the Ocean and the Earth ! 

Not on Ocean is the Boy, 
Not on Earth his steps are seen." 

10. 

"A mightier power than we," Lobaba cried, 

" Protects our destined foe. 

Look ! look ! one Fire burns dim ! 

It quivers ! it goes out ! " 

11. 

It quiver'd; it was quench'd. 

One Flame alone was left, 

A pale blue Flame that trembled on the floor, 

A hovering light, upon whose shrinking edge 

The darkness seem'd to press. 

Stronger it grew, and spread 

Its lucid swell around. 

Extending now where all the ten had stood. 

With lustre more than all. 

12. 

At that portentous sight. 

The Children of Evil trembled, 

And terror smote their souls. 

Over the den the Fire 

Its fearful splendor cast. 

The broad base rolling up in wavy streams. 

Bright as the summer lightning when it spreads 

Its glory o'er the midnight heaven. 

The Teraph's eyes were dimm'd. 

Which, like two twinkling stars. 

Shone in the darkness late. 
The Sorcerers on each other gazed, 
And every face, all pale with fear, 



And ghastly, in that light was seen. 
Like a dead man's, by the sepulchral lamp, 

13, 

Even Khawla, fiercest of the enchanter brood, 

Not without effort drew 

Her fear-suspended breath. 

Anon a deeper rage 

Inflamed her reddening e3'e, 

" Mighty is thy power, Mahommed ! " 

Loud in blasphemy she cried ; 

" But Eblis would not stoop to Man, 

When Man, fair-staturcd as the stately palm, 

From his Creator's hand 

Was undefiled and pure. 

Thou art mighty, O Son of Abdallah ! 

But who is he of woman born 

That shall vie with the might of Eblis ? 

That shall rival the Prince of the Morning.? " 

14. 

She said, and raised her skinny hand 

As in defiance to high Heaven, 

And stretch'd her long, lean finger forth, 

And spake aloud the words of power. 

The Spirits heard her call. 

And lo ! before her stands 

Her Demon Minister. 

" Spirit ! " the Enchantress cried, 

" Where lives the Boy, coeval with whose lift 

Yon magic Fire must burn.'' " 

15. 

DEMON. 

Mistress of the mighty Spell, 
Not on Ocean, not on Earth ; 

Only eyes that view 

Allah's glory-throne. 

See his hiding-place. 
From some believing Spirit, ask and learn. 

IC. 

" Bring the dead Hodeirah here," 

Khawla cried, " and he shall tell ! " 

The Demon heard her bidding, and was gone 

A moment pass'd, and at her feet 

Hodeirah's corpse was laid ; 

His hand still held the sword he grasp' d m death, 

The blood not yet had clotted on his wound. 

17. 

The Sorceress look'd, and, with a smile 
That kindled to more fiendishness 

Her hideous features, cried, 

"Where art thou, Hodeirah, now.'' 

Is thy soul in Zemzem-well .'' 

Is it in the Eden groves ? 
Waits it for the judgment-blast 

In the trump of Israfil .'' 

Is it, plumed with silver wings. 

Underneath the throne of God .? 

Even though beneath His throne, 

Hodeirah, thou shalt hear. 

Thou shalt obey my voice ! " 



238 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



!00K II. 



18. 

She said, and mutter'd charms which Hell in fear 

And Heaven in horror heard. 

Soon the stiff eye-balls roll'd, 

The muscles with convulsive motion shook, 

The white lips quiver'd. Khawla saw ; her soul 

Exulted, and she cried, 

" Prophet ! behold my power ! 

Not even death secures 

Thy slaves from Khawla's spell ! 

Where, Hodeirah, is thy child ? " 

19. 

Hodeirah groan' d and closed his eyes. 

As if in the night and the blindness of death 

He would have hid himself. 

20. 

" Speak to ray question ! " she exclaim'd, 
" Or in that mangled body thou shalt live 

Ages of torture ! answer me ! 

Where can we find the boy ? " 

21. 

"God! God!" Hodeirah cried, 

" Release me from this life, 
From this intolerable agony ! " 

22. 

" Speak ! " cried the Sorceress, and she snatch'd 

A Viper from the floor, 

And with the living reptile lash'd his neck. 

Wreathed round him with the blow, 

The reptile tighter drew her folds. 

And raised her wrathful head. 

And fix'd into his face 

Her deadly teeth, and shed 

Poison in every wound. 

In vain ! for Allah heard Hodeirah' s prayer, 

And Khawla on a corpse 

Had wreak'd her baffled rage. 

The fated Fire moved on, 

And round the Body wrapt its funeral flames, 

The flesh and bones in that portentous pile 

Consumed ; the Sword alone, 

Circled with fire, was left. 

23. 

Where iS the Boy for whose hand it is destined ? 

Where the Destroyer who one day shall wield 

The Sword that is circled with fire ? 

Race accursed, try your charms ! 

Masters of the mighty Spell, 

Mutter o'er your words of power ! 

Ye can shatter the dwellings of man ; 

Ye can open the womb of the rock ; 

Ye can shake the foundations of earth, 

But not the Word of God : 

But not one letter can ye change 

Of what his Will hath written I 

24. 

Who shall seek through Araby 

Hodeirah's dreaded son ? 

They mingle the Arrows of Chance, 



The lot of Abdaldar is drawn. 

Thirteen moons niiist wax and wane 

Ere the Sorcerer quit his quest. 

He must visit every tribe 

That roam the desert wilderness. 

Or dwell beside perennial streams ; 

Nor leave a solitary tent unsearch'd. 

Till he hath found the Boy, — 

The dreaded Boy, Avhose blood alone 

Can quench that fated Fire. 

25. 

A crystal ring Abdaldar wore ; 

The powerful gem condensed 

Primeval dews, that upon Caucasus 

Felt the first winter's frost. 

Ripening there it lay beneath 

Rock above rock, and mountain ice up-piled 

On mountain, till the incumbent mass assumed. 

So huge its bulk, the Ocean's azure hue. 

26. 

With this he sought the inner den. 

Where burnt the Eternal Fire. 

Like waters gushing from some channell'd rock, 

Full through a narrow opening, from a chasm 

The Eternal Fire stream'd up. 

No eye beheld the spring 

Of that up-flowing Flame, 

Wliich blazed self-nurtured, and forever, there. 

It was no mortal element; the Abyss 

Supplied it, from the fountains at the first 

Prepared. In the heart of earth it lives and glows 

Her vital heat, till, at the day decreed. 

The voice of God shall let its billows loose, 

To deluge o'er with no abating flood 

Our consummated World ; 

Which must from that day in infinity 

Through endless ages roll, 

A penal orb of Fire. 

27. 

Unturban'd and unsandal'd there, 

Abdaldar stood before the Flame, 

And held the Ring beside, and spake 

The language that the Elements obey. 

The obedient Flame detach'd a portion forth, 

Which, in the crystal entering, was condensed, 

Gem of the gem, its living Eye of fire. 

When the hand that wears the spell 

Shall touch the destined Boy, 

Then shall that Eye be quench'd, 

And the freed Element 

Fly to its sacred and remember'd Spring. 

28. 

Now go thy way, Abdaldar ! 

Servant of Eblis, 

Over Arabia 

Seek the Destroyer ! 

Over the sands of the scorching Tehama, 

Over the waterless mountains of Nayd ; 

In Arud pursue him, and Yemen the happy, 

And Hejaz, the country beloved by believers, 

Over Arabia, 



BOOK II. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



239 



Servant of Eblis, 
Seek the Destroyer ! 

29. 
From tribe to tribe, from town to town, 

From tent to tent, Abdaldar pass'd. 

Him every morn the all-beholding Eye 

Saw from his couch, unhallow'd by a prayer, 

Rise to the scent of blood ; 

And every night lie down, 

That rankling hope within him, that by day 

Goaded his steps, still stinging him in sleep. 

And startling him with vain accomplishment 

From visions still the same. 

Many a time his wary hand 

To many a youth applied the Ring ; 

And still the imprison'd Fire 

Within its crystal socket lay compress'd, 

Impatient to be free. 

30. 

At length to the cords of a tent. 

That were stretch'd by an Island of Palms, 

In the desolate sea of the sands. 

The seemly traveller came. 

Under a shapely palm, 

Herself as shapely, there a Damsel stood ; 

She held her ready robe, 

» And look'd towards a Boy, 

Who from the tree above. 

With one hand clinging to its trunk. 

Cast with the other down the cluster'd dates. 

31. 

The Magician approach'd the Tree ; 

He lean'd on his staff', like a way-faring man. 

And the sweat of his travel was seen on his brow. 

He ask'd for food, and lo I 

The Damsel proffers him her lap of dates ; 

And the Stripling descends, and runs to the 

tent. 
And brings him forth water, the draught of delight. 

32. 

Anon the Master of the tent. 

The Father of the family, 

Came forth, a man in years, of aspect mild. 

To the stranger approaching he gave 

The friendly saluting of peace, 

And bade the skin be spread. 

Before the tent they spread the skin. 

Under a Tamarind's shade. 

That, bending forward, stretch'd 

Its boughs of beauty far. 

33. 

They brought the Traveller rice. 

With no false colors tinged to tempt the eye. 

But white as the new-fallen snow, 

When never yet the sullying Sun 

Hath seen its purity. 

Nor the warm zephyr touch'd and tainted it. 

The dates of the grove before their guest 

They laid, and the luscious fig, 

And water from the well. 



34. 

The Damsel from the Tamarind-tree 

Had pluck'd its acid fruit. 

And steep'd it in water long ; 

And whoso drank of the cooling draught. 

He would not wish for wine. 

This to their guest the Damsel brought. 

And a modest pleasure kindled her cheek, 

When, raising from the cup his moisten'd lips, 

The stranger smiled, and praised, and drank agairt 

35. 

Whither is gone the Boy .' 

He had pierced the Melon's pulp. 

And closed with wax the wound ; 

And he had duly gone at morn, 

And watch'd its ripening rind. 

And now all joyfully he brings 

The treasure now matured ; 

His dark eyes sparkling with a boy's delight, 

As out he pours its liquid lusciousness, 

And proffers to the guest. 

3G. 

Abdaldar ate, and he was satisfied : 

And now his tongue discoursed 

Of regions far remote. 

As one whose busy feet had travell'd long 

The Father of the family. 

With a calm eye and quiet smile, 

Sate pleased to hearken him. 

The Damsel who removed the meal, 

She loiter'd on the way, 

And listen'd, with full hands, 

A moment motionless. 

37. 

All eagerly the Boy 

Watches the Traveller's lips ; 

And still the wily man. 

With seemly kindness, to the eager Boy 

Directs his winning tale. 

Ah, cursed one ! if this be he. 

If thou hast found the object of thy search, 

Thy hate, thy bloody aim, — 

Into what deep damnation wilt thou plunge 

Thy miserable soul ! — 

38. 

Look ! how his eye delighted watches thine ! -^ 

Look ! how his open lips 

Gape at the winning tale ! — 

And nearer now he comes, 

To lose no word of that delightful talk. 

Then, as in familiar mood. 

Upon the stripling's arm 

The Sorcerer laid his hand, 

And the Fire of the Crystal fled. 

39. 

While the sudden shoot of joy 

Made pale Abdaldar's cheek. 

The Master's voice was heard — 

" It is the hour of prayer : 

My children, let us purify ourselves, 



240 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK II. 



And praise the Lord our Go-d ! " 

The Boy the water brought : 

After the laAv they purified themselves, 

And bent their faces to the earth in prayer ; 

40. 

All, save Abdaldar ; over Thalaba 

He stands, and lifts the dagger to destroy. 

Before his lifted arm received 

Its impulse to descend. 

The Blast of the Desert came. 

Prostrate in prayer, the pious family 

Felt not the Simoom pass. 

They rose, and lo ! the Sorcerer lying dead, 

Holding the dagger in his blasted hand. 



NOTES TO BOOK H. 

A Teraph stood against the cavern side 5, p. 236. 

The manner how the Teraphim were made is fondly con- 
ceited thus among the Rabbles. They killed a man that was 
a first-born son, and wrung off his head, and seasoned it with 
salt and spices, and wrote upon a plate of gold the name of 
an unclean spirit, and put it under the head upon a wall, and 
lighted candles before it, and worshipped it. — Oodwyn^s 
Moses and Aaron. 

By Rabbi Eleazar, it is said to be the head of a child. 



Eblis. — 13, p. 237. 

The Devil, whom Mahommed names Eblis, from his de- 
spair, was once one of those angels who are nearest to God's 
presence, called Azazil; and fell (according to the doctrine 
of the Koran) for refusing to pay homage to Adam at the 
command of God. — Sale. 

God created the body of Adam of Sahal, that is, of dry but 
unbaked clay ; and left it forty nights, or, according to others, 
forty years, lying without a soul ; and the Devil came to it, 
and kicked it, and it sounded. And God breathed into it a 
Boul with his breath, sending it in at the eyes ; and he himself 
saw his nose still dead clay, and the soul running through him, 
till it reached his feet, when he stood upright. — Maracci. 

In the Nuremburg Ciironicle is a print of the creation of 
Adam ; the body is half made, growing out of a heap of clay 
under the Creator's hands. A still more absurd print repre- 
sents Eve halfway out of his side. 

The fullest Mahommedan Genesis is to be found in Rabadan 
the Morisco's Poem. 

God, designing to make known to his whole choir of Angels, 
high and low, his scheme concerning the Creation, called the 
Archangel Gabriel, and delivering to him a pen and paper, 
commanded him to draw out an instrument of fealty and 
homage ; in which, as God had dictated to his Secretary 
Qabriel, were specified the pleasures and delights he ordained 
to his creatures in this world ; the term of years he would 
allot them ; and how, and in what exercises, their time in this 
life was to be employed. This being done, Oabrid said, Lord, 
what more must I write ? The pen resisteth, and refuseth to 
be guided forwards ! God then took the deed, and, before he 
folded it, signed it with his sacred hand, and affixed thereunto 
Iiis royal signet, as an indication of his incontestable and irrev- 
ocable promise and covenant. Then Gabriel was commanded 
to convey what he had written throughout the hosts of Angels ; 
with orders that they all, without exception, should fall down 
and worship the same : and it was so abundantly replenished 
with glory, that the angelical potentates universally reverenced 
and paid liomags thereunto. Gabriel, returning, said, O Lord ! 
I have obeyed thy commnnds ; what else ami to do? God 
replied, Close up the writing in this crystal ; for this is the 
inviolable covenant of the fealty the mortals I will hereafter 
create shall pay unto me, and by tlie which they shall ac- 



knowledge me. El Hassan tells us, that no sooner had the 
blessed Angel closed the said crystal, but so terrible and aston- 
ishing a voice issued out thereof, and it cast so unusual and 
glorious a light, that, with the surprise of so great and unex- 
pected a mystery, the Angel remained fixed and immovable; 
and although he had a most ardent desire to be let into the 
secret arcana of that wonderful prodigy, yet all his innate 
courage and heavenly magnanimity were not sufficient to 
furnish him with assurance, or power, to make the inquiry. 

All being now completed, and put in order, God said to his i 
Angels, " Which of you will descend to the Earth, and bring |, 
me up a handful thereof? " When immediately such infinite \ 
number^ of celestial spirits departed, that the universal surface 
was covered with them ; where, consulting among themselves, 
they unanimously confirmed their loathing and abhorrence to 
touch it, saying, How dare we be so presumptuous as to 
expose, before the throne of the Lord, so glorious and sovereign 
as ours is, a thing so filthy, and of a form and composition so 
vile and despicable ! and in effect, they all returned, fully 
determined not to meddle with it. After these went others, 
and then more ; but not one of them, either first or last, dared 
to defile the purity of their hands with it. Upon which 
Azarael, an Angel of an extraordinary stature, flew down, 
and, from the four corners of the Earth, brought up a handful 
of it which God had commanded. From the south and the 
north, from the west and from the east, took he it ; of all 
which four different qualities, human bodies are composed. , 

The Almighty, perceiving in what manner Azarael had sig- 
nalized himself in this affair, beyond the rest of the Angels, 
and taking particular notice of his goodly form and stature, 
said to him, " O Aiarael, it is my pleasure to constitute thee 
to be Death itself; thou shalt be him who separateth the souls 
from the bodies of those creatures I am about to make ; thou 
henceforth shalt be called Aiarael Malec el Jllout, or Azarael, 
the Angel of Death." 

Then God caused the Earth, which Azarael had brought, 
to be washed and purified in the fountains of Heaven ; and 
El Hassan tells us, that it became so resplendently clear, that .; 
it cast a more shining and beautiful light than the Sun in its 
utmost glory. Gabriel was then commanded to convey this 
lovely, though as yet inanimate, himp of clay, throughout the 
Heavens, the Earth, the Centres, and the Seas; to the intent, 
and with a positive injunction, that whatsoever had life might 
behold it, and pay honor and reverence thereunto. 

When the Angels saw all these incomprehensible mysteries, 
and that so beautiful an image, they said, " Lord ! if it will 
be pleasing in thy sight, we will, in thy most high and mighty 
name, prostrate ourselves before it : " To which voluntary pro- 
posal, God replied ; I am content you pay adoration to it ; 
and I command you so to do: — when instantly they all 
bowed, inclining their shining celestial countenances at his 
feet ; only JEAZts detained himself, obstinately refusing ; proudly 
and arrogantly valuing himself upon his heavenly compo- 
sition. To whom God sternly said, " Prostrate thyself to 
Adam." He made a show of so doing, but remained only 
upon his knees, and then rose up, before he had performed 
what God had commanded him. When the Angels beheld 
his insolence and disobedience, they a second time prostrated 
themselves, to complete what the haughty and presumptuous 
Angel had left undone. From hence it is, that in all our 
prayers, at each inclination of the body, we make two pros- 
trations, one immediately after the other. God being highly 
incensed against the rebellious Eblis, said unto him, " Why 
didst thou not reverence this statue which 1 have made, as the 
other Angels all have done?" To which Eblis replied, "I 
will never lessen or disparage my grandeur so much, as to 
humble myself to a piece of clay ; I, who am an immortal 
Seraphim, of so apparently a greater excellency than that; 1, 
whom thou didst create out of the celestial fire, what an in- 
dignity would it be to my splendor, to pay homage to a thing 
composed of so vile a metal !" The irritated IMonarch, with a 
voice of thunder, then pronounced against him this direful 
anathema and malediction : Begone, enemy ; depart, Rebel^ 
from my abode ! Thou no longer shalt continue in my ce- 
lestial dominions. — Go, thou accursed flaming thunderbolt 
of fire ! My curse pursue thee ! My condemnation overtake 
thee ! My torments afflict thee ! And my chastisement 
accompany thee! — Thus fell this enemy of God and man- 
kind, both he, and all his followers and abettors, who sided or 






BOOK II. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



241 



were p irtakcrs with him in liis piide and presumptuous dis- 
obedience. 

God now was pleased to publish and nuike maniff^st iiis 
design of animating Man, out of liiul beautiful and resplendent 
crystal ; and accordingly commandi-d Gabriel to breathe into 
the body of clay, that it might become flesh and blood : But 
at the instant, as the immaculate Spirit was going to enter 
therein, it returned, and humbling itself before the Lord, 
said, O Merciful King! for what reason is it that thou in- 
tendest to enclose me in this loathsome prison? I, who am 
thy servant, thou shuttest up within mine enemy, where my 
purity will be defiled, and where, against my will, I shall dis- 
obey thee, wiiiiout being able to resist the instigation and 
power of this rebellious flesh; whereby I shall become liable 
to sutfer thy rigorous punishment, insupportable and unequal 
to my strength, for having perpetrated the enormities ob- 
noxious to the frailty of human flesh: Spare me, O Lord: 
spire me! sutfer me not to taste of this bitter draught! To 
thee it belongs to command, and to me to supplicate thee. 

Thus spoke the pure and unspotted Spirit, when God, to 
give it some satisfaction to these complaints, and that it might 
contentedly resign itself to obey his commands, ordered it 
should be conducted near his throne, where, in innumerable 
and infinite parts thereof, it beheld certain letters deciphered 
up and down, importing, IMahomet the triumphant leader ! 
And over all the seven heavens, on their gates, and in all their 
books, he saw those words stamped, exceedingly bright and 
respk'ndent. This was the blazon which all the Angels and 
other celestial beings carried between their beautiful eyes, and 
for their devices on their apparel. 

The Spirit, having seen all this, retnrned to the throne 
of glory, and being very desirous to understand the signitica- 
tion of those ciphers and characters, he asked. What name 
was that which shined so in every pi ice .' To which question 
God answered. Know, that from thee, and from that flesh, 
shall proceed a chieftain, a leader, who shall bear that name, 
and use th it language ; by whom, and for whose sake, I the 
Lord, the heavens, the earths, and the seas, shall be honored, 
as shall likewise all who believe in that name. 

The Spirit, hearing these wonders, immediately conceived 
80 mighty a love to the body, a love not to be expressed, nor 
even imagined, that it longed with impatience to enter into it ; 
which it had no sooner done, but it miraculously and arti- 
ficially was influenced and dislillcd into every individual part 
and member thereof, whereby the body became animated. — 
Rabadan. 

It is to be regretted, that the original of this very curious 
poem has not been published, and that it did not meet with a 
more respectable translator. How well would the erudition 
of Sale have been employed in elucidating it ! 



W^ierc art thou, Hudeirah, now ? — 17, p. 237. 

These lines contain the various opinions of the Mahom- 
medans respecting the intermediate state of the Blessed, till 
the Day of Judgment. 



Is thy soul in Zemzem-well 1 — 17, p. 237. 

Hagar, being near her time, and not able any longer to 
endure the ill-treatment she received from Sara, resolved to 
run away. Abraham, coming to hear of her discontent, and 
fearing she might make away with the child, especially if she 
came to be delivered without the assistance of some other 
women, followed her, and found her already delivered of a son ; 
who, dancing with his little feet upon the ground, had made way 
for a spring to break forth. But the water of the spring came 
j forth in such abundance, as also with such violence, that 
Hagar could make no use of it to quench her thirst, which 
was then very great. Abraham, coming to the place, com- 
manded the spring to glide more gently, and to suffer that 
water might bo drawn out of it to drink ; and having there- 
upon stayed the course of it with a little bank of sand, he 
took of it, to make Hagar and her child drink. The said 
spring is to this day called Semsem, from Abraham making 
use of that word to stay it. — Olearius. 
31 



Jlnd with the tiring reptile lashed his neck. — 22, p. 238. 

Excepting in this line, I have avoided all resemblance to 
the powerful poetry of Lucan. 

.^spicit astantem projecti corporis umbram, 
Exanimes artus, invisaque claustra timcntem 
Carceris antiqui ; pavet ire in pectus apertam^ 
Visccraque, et ruptas letali vulncrcfibras. 
Ah miser, extremum ciii mortis munus iniqiuB 
Eripitur, non posse mori .' miratur Ericktho 
Husfatis licuisse moras irataque morti 
Verberat immotum vico serpcnte cadaver. 
******* 
Protinus astrictus caluit cruor, atraqvefovit 
Vulnera, et in venas extremaque memln-a cucurrit. 
PercusscB gelido trepidant sub prctore fibrae ; 
Et nova desuetis siibrepens vita medullis, 
Miscctur morti : tunc umnis pnlpilat artus ; 
Tendantur nervi ; ncc se tellure cadaver 
Paulutiin per membra levat, terraque repulsum est, 
Erectumque simul. Distaito lumina rictu 
J^udantur. J^ondum fades vivcntis in iUo, 
Jam morientis erat ; remanet pallurquc rigorque, ' 

Et stupet Hiatus mundu. Llcan. 

A curious instance of French taste occurs in this part of 
Brebeuf's translation. The re-animated corjise is made the 
corpse of Burrhus, of whose wife, Octavia, Sextus is enam- 
ored. Octavia hears that her husband has fallen in battle ; 
she seeks his body, but in vain. A light at length leads her to 
the scene of Erichtho's incantations, and she beholds Burrhus, 
to all appearance, living. The witch humanely allows then> 
time for a long conversation, which is very complimentary on 
the part of the husband. 

Brebeuf was a man of genius. The Pharsalia is as weU 
told in his version as it can be in thi> detestable French heroic 
couplet, which epigrammatizes every thing. He had courage 
enough, though a Frenchman, to admire Lucan, — and yet 
could not translate him w ilhout introducing a love-story. 



Tlicy mingle the Arrows of Chance.— Q4, p. 238. 

This was one of the superstitions of tlie Tagan Arabs for 
bidden by Mahommed. 

The mode of divining by arrows was seen by Pietro Dcll« 
Valle at Aleppo. The Maliommedan conjurer made two 
persons sit down, one facing the other, and gave each of them? 
four arrows, which they were to hold perpendicularly, the 
point toward the ground. After questioning them concerning 
the business of which they wished to be informed, he mut 
tered his invocations ; and the eight arrows, by virtue of thes«« 
charms, altered their posture, and placed themselves point to 
point. Whether those on the left, or those on the right, werp 
above the others, decided the question. 



TTie powerful gem, &c. — 25, p, 238. 

Some imagine that the crystal is snow turned to ice, which 
has been hardening thirty years, and is turned to a rock by 

ago. Mirror uf Stones, by Camillu^ Teonardus, physician of 

Pisaro, dedicated to Casar Borgia. 

In the cabinet of the Prince of Monaco, among other 
rarities, are two pieces of crystal, each larger than both hands 
clinched together. In the middle of one is about a glass-full 
of water, and in the other is some moss, naturally enclosed 
there when the crystals congealed. These pieces are very 
curious. — Tavernier. 

Crystal, precious stones, every stone that has a regular 
figure, and even flints in small masses, and consisting of con- 
centric coats, whether found in the perpendicular fissures of 
rocks, or elsewhere, are only exudations, or the concreting 
juices of flint in large masses ; they are, therefore, new and 
spurious productions, the genuine stalactites of flint or of 
granite. — Buffon. 

Gem of the gem, &c. — 27, p. 238. 
Burguillos, or Lope de "Vega, makes an odd metaphor from 
such an illustration : 



242 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK II. 



Es Verba de Dios diamante 
En el anillo de cobre 
De nuestro circulo pobre. 



Before the tent they spread the skin. — 32, p. 239. 
With the Arabs either a round skin is laid on the ground 
for a small company, or large, coarse woollen cloths for a great 
number, spread all over the room, and about ten dishes re- 
peated six or seven times over, laid round at a great feast, and 
whole sheep and lambs boiled and roasted in the middle. 
When one company has done, another sits round, even to the 
meanest, till all is consumed. And an Arab Prince vk^ill often 
dine in the street before his door, and call to all that pass, 
even beggars, in the usual expression, Bisimilldh, that is, in 
the name of God ; who come and sit down, and when they 
have done, give their Hamdellilah, tliat is, God be praised 5 
for the Arabs, who are great levellers, put every body on a 
footing with them, and it is by such generosity and hospitality 
that they maintain their interest. — Pococke. 



With no false colors, &c. — 33, p. 239. 

'Tis the custom of Persia to begin their feasts with fruits 
and preserves. We spent two hours in eating only those and 
irinking beer, hydromel, and aquavitae. Then was brought 
up the meat in great silver dishes ; they were full of rice of 
divers colors, and upon that, several sorts of meat, boiled and 
roasted, as beef, mutton, tame fowl, wild ducks, fish, and 
other things, all very well ordered, and very delicate. 

The Persians use no knives at table, but the cooks send up 
the meat ready cut up into little bits, so that it was no trouble 
to us to accustom ourselves to their manner of eating. Rice 
serves them instead of bread. They take a mouthful of it, 
with the two fore-fingers and the thumb, and so put it into 
their mouths. Every table had a carver, whom they call 
SufFret-zi, who takes the meat brought up in the great dishes, 
to put it into lesser ones, which he fills with three or four 
^orts of meat, so as that every dish may serve two, or at most 
three persons. There was but little drunk till towards the 
end of the repast, and then the cups went about roundly, and 
the dinner was concluded with a vessel of porcelane, full of a 
hot, blackish kind of drink, which they call Kahawa, {Coffee.) 
— Ambassador'' s Travels. 

They laid upon the floor of the Ambassador's room a fine 
silk cloth, on which there were set one and thirty dishes of 
silver, filled with several sorts of conserves, dry and liquid, 
and raw fruits, as Melons, Citrons, duinces. Pears, and some 
others not known in Europe. Some time after, that cloth 
was taken away, that another might be laid in the room of it, 
and upon this was set rice of all sorts of colors, and all sorts 
of meat, boiled and roasted, in above fifty dishes of the same 
metal. — Ambassador's Travels. 

There is not any thing more ordinary in Persia than rice 
soaked in water 5 they call it Plan, and eat of it at all their 
meals, and serve it up in all their dishes. They sometimes 
put thereto a little of the juice of pomegranates, or cherries 
and saffron, insomuch that commonly you have rice of several 
colors in the same dish.— Ambassador's Travels. 



And whoso drank of the cooling draught. — 34, p. 239. 

The Tamarind is equally useful and agreeable ; it has a 
pulp of a vinous taste, of which a wholesome, refreshing liquor 
is prepared 3 its shade shelters houses from the torrid heat of 
the sun, and its fine figure greatly adorns the scenery of the 
country. — JSTiebuhr. 



He had pierced the Melon's pulp. — 35, p. 239. 

Of pumpkins and melons, several sorts grow naturally in the 
woods, and serve for feeding camels. But the proper melons 
are planted in the fields, where a great variety of them is to 
be found, and in such abundance, that the Arabians of all 
ranks use them, for some part of the year, as their principal 
article of food. They afford a very agreeable liquor. When 
its fruit is nearly ripe, a hole is pierced into the pulp ; this 



hole is then stopped with wax, and the melon left upon the 
stalk. Within a few days the pulp is, in consequence of this 
process, converted into a delicious liquor. — Jfiebuhr. 



And listened, with full hands.— 36, p. 239. 

L'aspect imprevu de taut de Castillans, 
D'etonnement, d'effroi^ peint ses regards brillans ; 
Ses mains du choix des fruits sefoi-raant une etude, 
Demeurent un moment dans le mime attitude. 

Madame Boccage. La Columbiade 



It is the hour of prayer. — 39, p. 239. 

The Arabians divide their day into twenty-four hours, and 
reckon them from one setting sun to another. As very few 
among them know what a watch is, and as they conceive but 
imperfectly the duration of an hour, they usually determine 
time almost as when we say, it happened about noon, about 
evening, <fcc. The moment when the sun disappears is called 
Maggrib ; about two hours afterwards they call it El ascha ; 
two hours later. El M'drfa ; midnight, JVus el lejl ; the dawn 
of morning. El fedsjer ; sunrise, Es subhh. They eat about 
nine in the morning, and that meal is called El ghadda ; noon, 
Ed duhhr ; three hours after noon. El asr. Of all these di- 
visions of time, only noon and midnight are well ascertained j 
they both fall upon the twelfth hour. The others are earlier 
or later as the days are short or long. The five hours ap- 
pointed for prayer are Maggrib, J^us el lejl. El fedsjer, Duhhr, 
and El asr. — JViebuhr, Desc. de P Arabic. 

The Turks say, in allusion to their canonical hours, that 
prayer is a tree which produces five sorts of fruit, two of which 
the sun sees, and three of which he never sees. — Pietro 
della Valle. 



After the law they purified themselves. — 39, p. 240. 

The use of the bath was forbidden the Moriscoes in Spain, 
as being an anti- Christian custom ! I recollect no superstition 
but the Romish in which nastiness is accounted a virtue ; " as 
if," says Jortin, " piety and filth were synonymous, and re- 
ligion, like the itch, could be caught by wearing foul clothes." 



Felt not the Simoom pass. — 40, p. 240. 

The effects of the Simoom are instant suffocation to every 
living creature that happens to be within the sphere of its 
activity, and immediate putrefaction of the carcasses of the 
dead. The Arabians discern its approach by an unusual 
redness in the air, and they say that they feel a smell of 
sulphur as it passes. The only means by which any person 
can preserve himself from suffering by these noxious blasts, is 
by throwing himself down with his face upon the earth, till 
this whirlwind of poisonous exhalations has blown over, 
which always moves at a certain height in the atmosphere. 
Instinct even teaches the brutes to incline their heads to the 
ground on these occasions. — JViebuhr. 

The Arabs of the desert call these winds Semoum, or poison, 
and the Turks Shamyela, or wind of Syria, from which is 
formed the Samiel. 

Their heat is sometimes so excessive, that it is difficult to 
form any idea of its violence without having experienced it ; 
but it may be compared to the heat of a large oven at the 
moment of drawing out the bread. When these winds begin 
to blow, the atmosphere assumes an alarming aspect. The 
sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and 
heavy ; the sun loses his splendor, and appears of a violet 
color. The air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is in 
fact filled with an extremely subtile dust, which penetrates 
every where. This wind, always light and rapid, is not at 
first remarkably hot, but it increases in beat in proportion as 
it continues. All animated bodies soon discover it, by the 
change it produces in them. The lungs, which a too rarefied 
air no longer expands, are contracted, and become painful. 
Respiration is short and diflScult, the skin parched and dry, 
and the body consumed by an internal heat. In vam is 
recourse had to large draughts of water j nothing can restore 



BOOK III. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



243 



perspiration. In vain is coolness sought for ; all bodies in 
which it is usual to find it, deceive the hand that touches 
them. Marble, iron, water, notwithstanding the sun no 
longer appears, are hot. The streets are deserted, and the 
dead silence of night reigns every where. The inhabitants 
of houses and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and 
those of the desert in their tents, or in pits they dig in the 
earth, where they wait the termination of this destructive 
heat. It usually lasts three days ; but if it exceeds that time, 
it becomes insupportable. Woe to th^ traveller whom this 
wind surprises remote from shelter! he must suffer all its 
dreadful consequences, which sometimes are mortal. The 
danger is most imminent when it blows in squalls, for then 
the rapidity of the wind increases the heat to such a degree 
as to cause sudden death. This death is a real suffocation ; 
the lungs, being empty, are convulsed, the circulation dis- 
ordered, and the whole mass of blood driven by the heart 
towards tlie head and l)roast ; whence that haemorrhage at the 
nose and mouth which happens after death. This wind is 
especially fital to persons of a plethoric habit, and those in 
whom fatigue has destroyed the tone of the muscles and the 
vessels. The corpse remains a longtime warm, swells, turns 
blue, and is easily separated ; all which are signs of that putrid 
fermentation vvhich takes place in animal bodies when the 
humors become stagnant. These accidents are to be avoided 
by stopping the nose and mouth with handkerchiefs ; an 
efficacious method likewise is that practised by the camels, 
who bury their noses in the sand, and keep them there till 
the squall is over. 

Another quality of this wind is its extreme aridity; which 
is such, that water sprinkled on the floor evaporates in a few 
minutes. By this extreme dryness, it withers and strips all 
the plants ; and by exhaling too suddenly the emanations from 
animal bodies, crisps the skin, clos'is the pores, and causes that 
feverish heat which is the invariable effect of suppressed 
perspiration. — Volncy. 



THE THIRD BOOK. 



Time will produce events of which thou canst have no 
idea; and he to whom thou gavest no commission, will bring 
thee unexpected news. 

MoALLAKAT. Pocm of Tarofu. 



THALABA. 

the dead man has a ring, 



Oneiza, look 

Should it be buried with him? 



ONEIZA. 

O yes — yes ! 
A wicked man! whate'er is his must needs 
Be wicked too I 

THALABA. 

But see, — the sparkling stone ! 
How it hath caught the glory of the Sun, 
And shoots it back again in lines of light ! 

ONEIZA. 

Why do you take it from him, Thalaba ? — 
And look at it so close ? — it may have charms 
To blind, or poison ; — throw it in the grave ! 
I would not touch it ! 

THALABA. 

And around its rim 
Strange letters — 



ONEIZA. 

Bury it — oh! bury it! 

THALABA. 

It is not written as the Koran is : 

Some other tongue perchance ; — the accursed 

man 

Said he had been a traveller. 

MOATH, {coming from the tent.) 
Thalaba, 
What hast thou there ? 

THALABA. 

A ring the dead man wore ; 
Perhaps, my father, you can read its meaning. 



No, Boy ; — the letters are not such as ours. 
Heap the sand over it ! a wicked man 
Wears nothing holy. 

THALABA. 

Nay ! not bury it ! 
It may be that some traveller, who shall enter 

Our tent, may read it ; or if we approach 
Cities where strangers dwell and learned men, 
They may interpret. ^ 

MOATH. 

It were better hid 

Under the desert sands. This wretched man, 

Whom God hath smitten in the very purpose 

And impulse of his unpermitted crime, 

Belike was some magician, and these lines 

Are of the language that the Demons use. 

ONEIZA. 

Bury it ! bury it, dear Thalaba ! 



Such cursed men there are upon the earth, 

In league and treaty with the Evil powers, 

The covenanted enemies of God 

And of all good ; dear purchase have they made 

Of rule and riches, and their life-long sway. 

Masters, yet slaves of Hell. Beneath the roots 

Of Ocean, the Domdaniel caverns lie. 

Their impious meeting ; there they learn the words 

Unutterable by man who holds his hope 

Of heaven ; there brood the pestilence, and let 

The earthquake loose, 

THALABA. 

And he who would have kill'd me 
Was one of these ^ 

MOATH. 

I know not ; — but it may be 

That on the Table of Destiny, thy name 

Is written their Destroyer, and for this 

Thy life by yonder miserable man 

So sought; so saved by interfering Heaven. 



244 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK III. i 



THALABA. 

His ring has some strange power then ? 

MOATH. 

Every gem, 

So sages say, hath virtue ; but tlie science. 

Of difficult attainment ; some grow pale, 

Conscious of poison, or with sudden change 

Of darkness, warn the wearer , some preserve 

From spells, or blunt the hostile weapon's edge; 

Some open rocks and mountains, and lay bare 

Their buried treasures : others make the sight 

Strong to perceive the presence of those Beings 

Through whose pure essence, as through empty air, 

The unaided eye would pass ; 

And in yon stone I deem 

Some such mysterious quality resides. 

THALABA. 

My father, I will wear it. 

MOATH. 

Thalaba ! 

THALABA, 

In God's name, and the Prophets ! be its power 
Good, let it serve the righteous ; if for evil, 
God, and my trust in Him, shall hallow it. 



So Thalaba drew on 

The written ring of gold. 

Then in the hollow grave 

They laid Abdaldar's corpse. 

And levell'd over him the desert dust. 



The Sun arose, ascending from beneath 

The horizon's circling line. 

As Thalaba to his ablutions went, 

Lo ! the grave open, and the corpse exposed ! 

It was not that the winds of night 
Had swept away the sands which cover'd it; 

For heavy with the undried dew 

The desert dust lay dark and close around ; 

And the night air had been so calm and still, 

It had not from the grove 

Shaken a ripe date down. 



Amazed to hear the tale, 

Forth from the tent came Moath and his child. 

Awhile he stood contemplating the corpse 

Silent and thoughtfully ; 

Then turning, spake to Thalaba, and said, 

' I have heard that there are places by the abode 

Of holy men, so holily possess'd. 

That should a corpse be laid irreverently 

Within their precincts, the insulted ground. 

Impatient of pollution, heaves and shakes 

The abomination out. 

Have then in elder times the happy feet 

Of Patriarch, or of Prophet bless'd the place, 



Ishmael, or Houd, or Saleah, or, than all, 

Mahommed, holier name ? Or is the man 

So foul with magic and all blasphemy, 

That Earth, like Heaven, rejects him ? It is best 

Forsake the station. Let us strike our tent. 

The place is tainted — and behold 

The Vulture hovers yonder, and his scream' 

Chides us that still we scare him from the prey. 

So let the accursed one. 

Torn by that beak obscene, 

Find fitting sepulchre." 



Then from the pollution of death 

With water they made themselves pure ; 

And Thalaba drew up 

The fastening of the cords; 

And Moath furl'd the tent; 

And from the grove of palms Oneiza led 

The Camels, ready to receive their load. 

6. 

The dews had ceased to steam 

Toward the climbing sun. 

When from the Isle of Palms they went their way. 

And when the Sun had reach'd his southern 

height. 

As back they turn'd their eyes, 

The distant Palms arose 

Like to the top-sails of some fleet far-off 

Distinctly seen, where else 

The Ocean bounds had blended with the sky ! 

And when the eve came on. 

The sight returning reach'd the grove no more. 

They planted the pole of their tent, 

And they laid them down to repose. 

7. 

At midnight Thalaba started up. 

For he felt that the ring on his finger was moved ; 

He call'd on Allah aloud. 

And he call'd on the Prophet's name. 

Moath arose in alarm ; 

"What ails thee, Thalaba.'"' he cried; 

" Is the robber of night at hand .'' " 

" Dost thou not see," the youth exclaim'd, 

" A Spirit in the tent.^ " 

Moath look'd round and said, 

" The moon-beam shines in the tent ; 

I see thee stand in the light, 

And thy shadow is black on the ground." 



Thalaba answer'd not. 

" Spirit ! " he cried, " what brings thee here .'' 

In the name of the Prophet, speak; 

In the name of Allah, obey ! " 



He ceased, and there was silence in the tent. 

" Dost thou not hear .'' " quoth Thalaba; 

The listening man replied, 

" I hear the wind, that flaps 

The curtain of the tent." 



THALABA THE DESTROYER 



245 



10. 

" The Ring ! tlie Ring ! " the youth exclaim'd. 

" For that the Spirit of Evil comes ; 

By that 1 see, by that 1 hear. 

In the name of God, I ask thee, 

Who was he that slew my Father.' " 

DEMON. 

Master of the powerful Ring! 
Okba, the dread Magician, did the deed. 

THALABA. 

Where does the Murderer dwell ? 

DEMON. 

In the Domdaniel caverns, 
Under the Roots of the Ocean. 

THALABA. 

Why were my Father and my Brethren slain ? 

DEMON. 

We knew from the race of Hodeirah 
The destined Destroyer would come. 

THALABA, 

Bring me my Father's sword ! 

DEMON. 

A Fire surrounds the fatal sword ; 
No Spirit or Magician's hand 
Can pierce that fated Flame. 

THALABA. 

Bring me his bow and his arrows ! 

11. 

Distinctly Moath heard the youth, and She 

Who, through the Veil of Separation, watch'd 

The while in listening terror, and suspense 

All too intent for prayer. 

They heard the voice of Thalaba; 

But when the Spirit spake, the motionless air 

Felt not the subtile sounds, 

Too fine for mortal sense. 

12. 

On a sudden the rattle of arrows was heard, 

And a quiver was laid at the feet of the youth. 

And in his hand they saw Hodeirah's bow. 

He eyed the bow, he twang'd the string, 

And his heart bounded to the joyous tone. 

Anon he raised his voice and cried, 

" Go thy way, and never more, 

Evil Spirit, haunt our tent! 

By the virtue of the Ring, 

By Mahommed's holier might, 

By the holiest name of God, 

Thee, and all the Powers of Hell, 

1 adjure and I command 

Never more to trouble us ! " 

13. 

Nor ever from that hour 



Did rebel Spirit on the tent intrude ; 
Such virtue had the Spell. 

14. 

Thus peacefully the vernal years 

Of Thalaba past on. 

Till now, without an effort, he could bend 

Hodeira-i's stubborn bow. 

Black were his eyes, and bright ; 

The sunny hue of health 

Glow'd on his tawny cheek ; 

His lip was darken'd by maturing life; 

Strong were his shapely limbs, his stature tall ; 

Peerless among Arabian youtlis was he. 

15. 

Compassion for the child 

Had first old Moath's kindly heart possess'd, 

An orphan, wailing in the wilderness; 

But when he heard his tale, his wondrous tale, 

Told by the Boy, with such eye-speaking truth, 

Now with sudden bursts of anger. 

Now in the agony of tears. 

And now with flashes of prophetic jo}'. 

What had been pity became reverence then, 

And, like a sacred trust from Heaven, 

The Old Man cherish'd him. 

Now, with a father's love. 

Child of his choice, he loved the Boy, 

And, like a father, to the Boy was dear. 

Oneiza call'd him brother ; and the youth 

More fondly than a brother loved the maid ; 

The loveliest of Arabian maidens she. 

How happily the years 

Of Thalaba went by ! 

16. 

It was the wisdom and the will of Heaven, 

That in a lonely tent had cast 

The lot of Thalaba ; 

There might his soul develop best 

Its strengthening energies ; 

There might he from the world 

Keep his heart pure and uncontaminate. 

Till at the written hour he should be found 

Fit servant of the Lord, without a spot. 

17. 

Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled 

In that beloved solitude ! 

Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze 

Flow with cool current o'er his cheek ? 

Lo ! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore 

With lids half-closed he lies. 

Dreaming of days to come. 

His dog beside him, in mute blandishment. 

Now licks his listless hand, 

Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye, 

Courting the wonted caress. 

18. 

Or comes the Father of the Rains 

From his caves in the uttermost West ? 

Comes he in darkness and storms? 



246 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



When the blast is loud ; 

When the waters fill 

The traveller's tread in the sands j 

When the pouring shower 

Streams adown the roof; 

When the door-curtain hangs in heavier folds : 

When the out-strain'd tent flags loosely : 

Within there is the embers' cheerful glow, 

The sound of the familiar voice, 

The song that lightens toil, — 

Domestic Peace and Comfort are within. 

Under the common shelter, on dry sand. 

The quiet Camels ruminate their food ; 

The lengthening cord from Moath falls, 

As patiently the Old Man 

Entwines the strong palm-fibres ; by the hearth 

The Damsel shakes the coffee-grains. 

That with warm fragrance fill the tent; 

And while, with dexterous fingers, Thalaba 

Shapes the green basket, haply at his feet 

Her favorite kidling gnaws the twig, 

Forgiven plunderer, for Oneiza's sake. 

19. 

Or when the winter torrent rolls 

Down the deep-channel 'd rain-course, foamingly, 

Dark with its mountain spoils. 

With bare feet pressing the wet sand, 

There wanders Thalaba ; 

The rushing flow, the flowing roar. 

Filling his yielded faculties, 
A vague, a dizzy, a tumultuous joy. 

20. 

Or lingers it a vernal brook 

Gleaming o'er yellow sands ? 

Beneath the lofty bank reclined. 

With idle eye he views its little waves, 

Quietly listening to the quiet flow ; 

While in the breathings of the stirring gale, 

The tall canes bend above. 

Floating like streamers on the wind 

Their lank, uplifted leaves. 

21. 

Nor rich, nor poor, was Moath ; God hath given 

Enough, and blest him with a mind content. 

No hoarded gold disquieted his dreams ; 

But ever round his station he beheld 

Camels that knew his voice, 

And home-birds, grouping at Oneiza's call. 

And goats that, morn and eve. 

Came with full udders to the Damsel's hand. 

Dear child! the tentbeneath whose shade they dwelt. 

It was her work ; and she had twined 

His girdle's many hues; 

And he had seen his robe 

Grow in Oneiza's loom. 

How often, with a memory-mingled joy 

Which made her Mother live before his sight, 

He watch'd her nimble fingers thread the woof! 

Or at the hand-mill, when she knelt and toil'd, 

Toss'd the thin cake on spreading palm. 

Or fix'd it on the glowing oven's side. 

With bare, wet arm, and safe dexterity. 



22. 

'Tis the cool evening hour : 

The Tamarind from the dew 

Sheathes its young fruit, yet green. 

Before their tent the mat is spread ; 

The Old Man's solemn voice 

Intones the holy Book. 

What if beneath no lamp-illumined dome, 

Its marble walls bedeck'd with flourish'd truth, 

Azure and gold adornment ? Sinks the word 

With deeper influence from the Imam's voice. 

Where, in the day of congregation, crowds 

Perform the duty -task : 

Their Father is their Priest, 

The Stars of Heaven their point of prayer, 

And the blue Firmament 

The glorious Temple, where they feel 

The present Deity. 

23. 

Yet through the purple glow of eve 

Shines dimly the white moon. 

The slacken'd bow, the quiver, the long lance, 

Rest on the pillar of the Tent. 

Knitting light palm-leaves for her brother's brow, 

The dark-eyed damsel sits ; 

The Old Man tranquilly 

Up his curl'd pipe inhales 

The tranquillizing herb. 

So listen they the reed of Thalaba, 

While his skill'd fingers modulate 

The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones. 

24. 

Or if he strung the pearls of Poesy, 

Singing with agitated face, 

And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, 

A tale of love and woe ; 

Then, if the brightening Moon that lit his face, 

In darkness favor'd hers. 

Oh ! even with such a look as fables say 

The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg^ 

Till that intense affection 

Kindle its light of life. 

Even in such deep and breathless tenderness 

Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth. 

So motionless, with such an ardent gaze, — 

Save when from her full eyes 

She wipes away the swelling tears 

That dim his image there. 

25. 

She call'd him Brother; was it sister-love 

For which the silver rings 

Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms 

Shone daily brighten'd? for a brother's eye 

Were her long fingers tinged, 

As when she trimm'd the lamp. 

And through the veins and delicate skin 

The light shone rosy ? that the darken'd lids 

Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye .'' 

That with such pride she trick'd 

Her glossy tresses, and on holyday 

Wreathed the red flower-crown round 

Their waves of glossy jet ': 



BOOK III. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER 



247 



J low happily the days 

Of Thalaba went by ! 

Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled ! 

26. 

Yet was the heart of Thalaba 

Impatient of repose ; 

Restless he ponder 'd still 

The task for him decreed, 

The mighty and mysterious work announced. 

Day by day, with youthful ardor, 

He the call of Heaven awaits ; 

And oft in visions, o'er the murderer's head, 

He lifts the avenging arm ; 

And oft, in dreams, he sees 

The Sword that is circled with fire. 

27. 

One morn, as was their wont, in sportive mood, 

The youth and damsel bent Hodeirah's bow ; 

For with no feeble hand, nor erring aim, 

Oneiza could let loose the obedient shaft. 

With head back-bending, Thalaba 

Shot up the aimless arrow high in air. 

Whose line in vain the aching sight pursued. 

Lost in the depth of Heaven. 

' When will the hour arrive," exclaim'd the youth, 

" That 1 shall aim these fated shafts 

To vengeance long delay 'd? 

Have I not strength, my father, for the deed ? 

Or can the will of Providence 

Be mutable like man ? 

Shall I never be call'd to the task ? " 

28. 

" Impatient boy ! " quoth Moath, with a smile : 

" Impatient Thalaba ! " Oneiza cried, 

And she too smiled ; but in her smile 

A mild, reproachful melancholy mix'd. 

29. 

Then Moath pointed where a cloud 

Of locusts, from the desolated fields 

Of Syria, wing'd their way. 

" Lo ! how created things 

Obey the written doom ! " 

30. 
Onward they came, a dark, continuous cloud 

Of congregated myriads numberless, 
The rushing of whose wings was as the sound 
Of some broad river, headlong in its course, 
I' Plunged from a mountain summit ; or the roar 

Of a wild ocean in the autumnal storm, 

[! Shattering its billows on a shore of rocks. 

Onward they came ; the winds impell'd them on ; 

Their work was done, their path of ruin past. 

Their graves were ready in the wilderness. 

31. 

" Behold the mighty army ! " Moath cried ; 

"Blindly they move, impell'd 

By the blind Element. 

And yonder birds, our welcome visitants, 



See ! where they soar above tlie imbodied host, 
Pursue their way, and hang upon the rear, 

And thin the spreading flanks. 

Rejoicing o'er their banquet ! Deemest thou 

The scent of water on some Syrian mosque 

Placed with priest-mummery and fantastic rites 

Which fool the multitude, hath led them here 

From far Khorassan ? Allah, who appoints 

Yon swarms to be a punishment of man. 

These also hath he doom'd to meet their way ; 

Both passive instruments 

Of his all-acting will. 

Sole mover He, and only spring of all. 

32. 

While thus he spake, Oneiza's eye looks up 

Where one toward her flew. 

Satiate — for so it seem'd — with sport and food. 

The Bird flew over her. 

And as he past above, 

From his relaxing grasp a Locust fell ; — 

It fell upon the Maiden's robe. 

And feebly there it stood, recovering slow. 

33. 

The admiring girl survey'd 

His outspread sails of green ; 

His gauzy underwings. 

One closely to the grass-green body furl'd. 

One ruffled in the fall, and half unclosed. 

She view'd his jet-orb'd eyes, 

His glossy gorget bright, 

Grccn-glittering in the sun ; 

His plumy, pliant horns, 

That, nearer as she gazed, 

Bent tremblingly before her breath. 

She mark'd his yellow-circled front 

With lines mysterious vein'd ; 

And, " Know'st thou what is here inscribed, 

My father ? " said the Maid. 

'' Look, Thalaba ! perchance these lines 

Are in the letters of the Ring, 
Nature's own language written here." 

34, 

The youth bent down, and suddenly 

He started, and his heart 

Sprung, and his cheek grew red. 

For these mysterious lines were legible : — 

When the sun shall be darkened at noon, 

Son of Hodeirah, depart. 

And Moath look'd, and read the lines aloud ; 

The Locust shook his wings and fled, 

And they were silent all, 

35. 

Who then rejoiced but Thalaba.^ 

Who then v/as troubled but the Arabian Maid ? 

And Moath, sad of heart, 

Though with a grief suppress'd, beheld the youth 

Sharpen his arrows now, 

And now new-plume their shafts, 

Now, to beguile impatient hope, 

Feel every sharpen'd point, 



248 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK in. 



36. 

"Why is that anxious look," Oneiza ask'd, 

" Still upward cast at noon ? 

Is Thalaba aweary of our tent? " 

" I would be gone/' the youth replied, 

" That I might do my task, 

And full of glory to the tent return, 

Whence I should part no more." 

37. 

But on the noontide sun, 

As anxious and as oft, Oneiza's eye 

Was upward glanced in fear. 

And now, as Thalaba replied, her cheek 

Lost its fresh and lively hue ; 

For in the Sun's bright edge 

She saw, or thought she saw, a little speck. 

The sage Astronomer, 

Who, with the love of science full. 

Trembled that day at every passing cloud, — 

He had not seen it, 'twas a speck so small. 

38. 

Alas ! Oneiza sees the spot increase ! 

And lo ! the ready youth 

Over his shoulder the full quiver slings. 

And grasps the slacken'd bow. 

It spreads, and spreads, and now 

Hath shadow'd half the sun, 

Whose crescent-pointed horns 

Now momently decrease. 

39. 

The day grows dark ; the birds retire to rest ; 

Forth from her shadowy haunt 

Flies the large-headed screamer of the night. 

Far off the affrighted African, 

Deeming his God deceased, 

Falls on his knees in prayer, 

And trembles as he sees 

The fierce hyena's eyes 

Glare in the darkness of that dreadful noon, 

40. 

Then Thalaba exclaim'd, " Farewell, 

My father ! my Oneiza! " the Old Man 

Felt his throat swell with grief. 

" Where wilt thou go, my child ? " he cried ; 

" Wilt thou not wait a sign 

To point thy destined way? " 

" God will conduct me ! " said the faithful youth. 

He said, and from the tent. 

In the depth of the darkness departed. 

They heard his parting steps. 
The quiver rattling as he pass'd away. 



NOTES TO BOOK III, 

Every gem hath virtue. — 1, p. 244. 

From the Mirror of Stones I extract a few specimens of the 
absurd ideas once prevalent respecting precious stones. 

The Amethyst drives away drunkenness ; for, being bound on 
the navel, it restrains the vapor of the wine, and so dissolves 
the ebnety. 



Alectoria is a stone of a crystalline color, a little darkish, 
somewhat resembling limpid water ; and sometimes it has 
veins of the color of flesh. Some call it Gallinaceas, from 
the place of its generation, the intestines of capons, which 
were castrated at three years old, and had lived seven ; before 
which time the stone ought not to be taken out, for the older 
it is, so much the better. When the stone is become perfect 
in the capon, he don't drink. However, it is never found 
bigger than a large bean. The virtue of this stone is, to 
render him who carries it invisible. Being held in the mouth, 
it allays thirst, and therefore is proper for wrestlers ; makes a 
woman agreeable to her husband ; bestows honors, and pre- 
serves those already acquired ; it frees such as are bewitched ; 
it renders a man eloquent, constant, agreeable, and amiable ; 
it helps to regain a lost kingdom, and acquire a foreign one. 

Borax, JSTosa, Crapondinus, are names of the same stone, 
which is extracted from a toad. There are two species ; that 
which is the best is rarely found ; the other is black or dun 
with a cerulean glow, having in the middle the similitude of 
an eye, and must be taken out while the dead toad is yet 
panting ; and these are better than those which are extracted 
from it after a long continuance in the ground. They have a 
wonderful efficacy in poisons. For whoever has taken poison, 
let him swallow this ; which being down, it rolls about the 
bowels, and drives out every poisonous quality that is lodged 
in the intestines, and then passes through the fundament, and 
is preserved. 

Corvia, or Corvina, is a stone of a reddish color, and ac- 
counted artificial. On the calends of April boil the eggs, 
taken out of a crow's nest, till they are hard ; and being cold, 
let them be placed in the nest as they were before. When 
the crow knows this, she flies a long way to find the stone ; 
and having found it, returns to the nest ; and the eggs being 
touched with it, they become fresh and prolific. The stone 
must immediately be snatched out of the nest. Its virtue is 
to increase riches, to bestow honors, and to foretell many 
future events. 

Kinocetus is a stone not wholly useless, since it will cast 
out devils. 



Conscious of poison, &c. — 1, p. 244. 

Giafar, the founder of the Barmecides, being obliged to fly 
from Persia, his native country, took refuge at Damascus, and 
implored tiie protection of the Caliph Sohman. When he 
was presented to that Prince, the Caliph suddenly changed 
color, and commanded him to retire, suspecting that he had 
poison about him. Soliman had discovered it by means of 
ten stones which he wore upon his arm. They were fastened 
there like a bracelet, and never failed to strike one against tho 
other, and make a slight noise when any poison was near. 
Upon inquiry it was found, that Giafar carried poison in his 
ring, for the purpose of self-destruction, in case he had been 
taken by his enemies. — Marigny. 

These foolish old superstitions have died away, and gems 
are now neither pounded as poison, nor worn as antidotes. 
But the old absurdities respecting poisons have been renewed, 
in our days, by authors who have revived the calumnies 
alleged against the Knights-Templar, as if with the hope of 
exciting a more extensive persecution. 



Some blunt the hostile weapon'' s edge. — 1 , p. 244. 

In the country called Panten, or Tathalamasin, " there be 
canes called Cassan, which overspread the earth like grasse, 
and out of every knot of them spring foorth certaine branches, 
which are continued upon the ground almost for the space of 
a mile. In the sayd canes there are found certaine stones, 
one of which stones whosoever carryeth about with him, 
cannot be wounded with any yron ; and therefore the men of 
that country for the most part carry such stones with them, 
whithersoever they goe. Many also cause one of the armes of 
their children, while they are young, to be launced, putting 
one of the said stones into the wound, healing also, and closing 
up the said wound with the powder of a certain fish, (the 
name whereof I do not know,) which powder doth imme- 
diately consolidate and cure the said wound. And by the 
vertue of these stones, the people aforesaid doe for the most 
part triumph both on sea and land. Howbeit there is one 
kind of stratagcme which the enemies of this nation, knowing 



BOOK III. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



'M9 



the vertue of the sayd stones, doe practise against them : 
namely, they provide tliemselves armour of yron or Steele 
against their arrowes, and weapons also poisoned with the 
poyson of trees ; and they carry in their hands wooden stakes 
most sharp and hard-pointed, as if thry were yron : likewise 
they shoot arrowes without yron heades, and so they confound 
and slay some of their unarmed foes, trusting too securely 
unto the vertue of their stones." — Odorkus in HaJdnyt. 

We are obliged to jewellers for our best accounts of the 
East. Ill Tavemier there is a passage curiously characteristic 
of his profession. A European at Delhi complained to him 
that he had polished and seta large diamond for Oreng-zebe, 
who had never paid him for his work. But he did not un- 
derstand his trade, says Tavemier ; for if he had been a skilful 
jeweller, he would have known how to take two or three 
pieces out of the stone, and pay himself better than the Mogul 
would have done. 

places by the abode 

Of holy men — holily possrs^ed. — 4, p. 244. 

And Elisha died, and they buried him. And the bands of 
the Moabites invaded the land at the coming in of the year. 

And it came to pass as they were burying a man, that 
behold they spied a band of men ; and they cast the man into 
the sepulchre of Elisha : and when the man was let down, and 
touched the bones of Elisha, he revived and stood up on his 
feet. — 2 Kiiiffs, xiii. 20, 21. 

" It hapi)ened the dead corpse of a man was cast ashore at 
Chatham, and, being taken up, was buried decently in the 
church-yard. Now there was an image or rood in the church, 
called our Lady of Chatham. This Lady, say the Monks, 
went the next night and roused up the clerk, telling him that 
a sinful person was buried near the place where she was wor- 
fihijiped, who offended her eyes with his ghastly griiming ; 
and unless he were removed, to the great grief of good people 
she must remove from thence, and could work no more 
miracles. Therefore she desired him to go with her to take 
him up, and throw him into the river again: which being 
done, soon after the body floated again, and was taken up and 
buried in the church-yard ; but from that time all miracles 
ceased, and the place where he was buried did continually 
sink downwards. This tale is still remembered by some 
aged people, receiving it by tradition from the Popish times 
of darkness and idolatry." — Admirable Curiosities, Rarities, 
and Woudi-rs in England. 

When Alboquerquc wintered at the isle of Camaram, in 
the Red sea, a man at arms, who died suddenly, was thrown 
overboard. In the night the watch felt several shocks, as 
though the ship were striking on a sand-bank. They put out 
the boat, and found the doad body clinging to the keel by the 
rudder. It was taken up and buried on shore ; and in the 
morning, it was seen lying on the grave. Frey Francisco 
was then consulted. He conjectured, that the deceased had 
died under excommunication, and therefore absolved him. 
They interred him again, and then he rested in the grave. — 
Joani de Barros. Dec. 2. 8. 3. 



So foul, that Earth rejects him. — 4, p. 244. 

Matthew of Westminster says, the story of the Old 
Woman of Berkeley will not appear incredible, if w-e read the 
dialogue of St. Gregory, in which he relates how the body of 
a man buried in tlie church was thrown out by the Devils. 
Charles Martel also, because he had appropriated great part 
of the tithes to pay his soldiers, was most miserably, by the 
wicked Spirits, taken bodily out of his grave. 

The Turks report, as a certain truth, that the corpse of 
Heyradin Barbarossa was found, four or five times, out of the 
ground, lying by his sepulchre, after he had been there in- 
humed : nor could they possibly make him lie quiet in his 
grave, till a Greek wizard counselled them to bury a black 
dog together with the body ; which done, he lay still and 
gave them no farther trouble Morgan's History of Algiers. 

In supernatural affairs, seals and dogs seem to possess a 
fiedative virtue. When peace was made, about the year 
1170, between the Earls of Holland and Flanders, " it was 

32 



concluded, that Count Floris should send unto Count Philip, 
a thousand men, expert in making of ditches, to stop the hole 
which had beene made neere unto Dam, or the Sluce, 
whereby the countrey was drowned round about at everie 
high sea ; the wliich the Flemings could by no means fill up, 
neither with wood, nor any other matter, for that all sunke as 
in a gulfe without any bottome ; whereby, in succession of 
time, Bruges, and all that jurisdiction, had been in daunger to 
have bin lost by inundation, and to become all sea, if it were 
not speedily repaired. Count Floris ha\ing taken possrs*>ion 
of the isle of Walcharen, returned into Holland, from whence 
hee sent the best workmen he could find in all his countries, 
into Flanders, to make dikes and causeies, and to stop the 
hole neere unto this Dam, or Sluce, and to recover the 
drowned land. These diggers being come to the place, they 
found at the entrie of this bottomless hole, a Sea-dog, the 
which for six dayes together, did nothing but crie out and 
howle very fearfully. They, not knowing what it might 
signifie, having consulted of this accident, they resolved to 
cast this dog into the hole. There was a mad-headed Hol- 
lander among the re>t, who going into the bottome of the 
ilike, tooke the dogge by the taile, and cast him into the 
middest of the gulfe ; then speedily they cast earth and torfe 
into it, so as they found a bottome, and by little and little 
filled it up. And for that many workmen came to the re- 
pairing of this dike, who, for that they would not be far from 
their worke, coucht in Cabines, which seemed to be a pretie 
towne. Count Philip gt ve unto all these Hollanders, Zee- 
landers, and others, that would inhabit there, as much land 
as they could recover from Dam to Ardenbourg, for them and 
their successors, forever, with many other immunities and 
freedoms. By reason whereof many planted themselves 
there, and in succession of time, made a good towne there, 
the which by reason of this dog, which they cast into the 
hole, they named Hondt.sdam, tliat is to say, a dug's sluce ; 
Dam in Flemish signifying a since, and Ilondt dog ; and 
therefore at this day, the said towne (which is simply called 
Dam) carrieth a dog in their amies and blason." — Oriiae- 
stonc's Historic of the J^eUier lands, 1G08. 



The Vulture havers yonder, &c. — 4, p. 244. 

The Vulture is very serviceable in Arabia, clearing the 
earth of all carcasses, which corrupt very rapidly in hot 
countries. He also destroys the field mice, which multiply 
so prodigiously in some provinces, that, were it not for this 
assistance, the peasant might cease from the culture of the 
fields as absolutely vain. Their performance of these im- 
portant services induced the ancient Egyptians to pay those 
birds divine honors, and even at present it is held unlawful 
to kill them in all the countries which they frequent. — 
J\ricbulir. 



His dog beside him, &c. — 17, p. 245. 

The Bedouins, who at all points, are less superstitious than 
the Turks, have a breed of very tall greyhounds, which like- 
wise mount guard around their tents ; but they take great 
care of these useful servants, and have such an affection for 
them, that to kill the dog of a Bedouin would be to endanger 
your own life. — Sonnini. 



Or comes the Father of the Rains. — 18, p. 245. 

The Arabs call the West and South-West winds, which 
prevail from November to February, the fathers of the rains. 
— Volney. 



Entwines the strong palm-fbres, <fcc. — 18, p. 246. 
Of the Palm leaves they make mattresses, baskets, and 
brooms ; and of the branches, all sorts of cage-work, square 
baskets for packing, that serve for many uses instead of boxes ; 
and the ends of the boughs that grow next to the trunk being 
beaten like flax, the fibres separate, and being tied together at 
the narrow end, they serve for brooms. — Pococke. 



250 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK III. 



Shapes the green basket, &c. — 18, p. 246. 
The Doum, or wild palm-tree, grows in abundance, from 
which these people, when necessity renders them industrious, 
find great advantage. The shepherds, mule-drivers, camel- 
drivers, and travellers, gather the leaves, of which they make 
mats, fringes, baskets, hats, shooaris, or large wallets to carry 
corn, twine, ropes, girths, and covers for their pack-saddles. 
This plant, with which also they heat their ovens, produces a 
mild and resinous fruit, that ripens in September and October. 
It is in form like the raisin, contains a kernel, and is astringent, 
and very proper to temper and counteract the effects of the 
watery and laxative fruits, of which these people in summer 
make an immoderate use. That Power which is ever provi- 
dent to all, has spread this wild plant over their deserts to 
supply an infinity of wants that would otherwise heavily 
burden a people so poor. — Chenier. 



Or lingers it a vernal brook. — 20, p. 246. 

We passed two of those valleys so common in Arabia, which, 
when heavy rains fall, are filled with water, and are then 
called wadi, or rivers, although perfectly dry at other times of 
the year. — We now drew nearer to the river, of which a 
branch was dry, and having its channel filled with reeds 
growing to the height of 20 feet, served as a line of road, which 
was agreeably shaded by the reeds. -;- JSTiebuhr. 

My brethren have dealt deceitfully as a brook, and as the 
stream of brooks they pass away. 

Which are blackish by reason of the ice, and wherein the 
snow is hid : 

What time they wax warm they vanish ; when it is hot, 
they are consumed out of their place. 

The paths of their way are turned aside ; they go to nothing, 
and perish — Job vi. 15. 



JVor rich, nor ■ 



Moatk.—2l, p. 



The simplicity, or, perhaps, more properly, the poverty, of 
the lower class of the Bedouins, is proportionate to that of 
their chiefs. — All the wealth of a family consists of movables, 
of which the following is a pretty exact inventory : — A few 
male and female camels, some goats and poultry, a mare and 
her bridle and saddle, a tent, a lance sixteen feet long, a 
crooked sabre, a rusty musket, v.'ith a flint or matchlock; a 
pipe, a portable mill, a pot for cooking, a leathern bucket, a 
small coftee-roaster ; a mat, some clothes, a mantle of black 
woollen, and a few glass or silver rings, which the women 
wear upon their legs and arms ; if none of these are wanting, 
their furniture is complete. But what the poor man stands 
most in need of, and what he takes most pleasure in, is his 
mare ; for this animal is his principal support. With his 
mare the Bedouin makes his excursions against hostile tribes, 
or seeks plunder in the country, and on the highways. The 
mare is preferred to the horse, because she does not neigh, is 
more docile, and yields milk, which, on occasion, satisfies the 
thirst and even the hunger of her master. — Volney. 

The Sheik, says Volney, with whom I resided in the 
country of Gaza, about the end of 1784, passed for one of 
the most powerful of those districts ; yet it did not appear to 
me that his expenditure was greater than that of an opulent 
farmer. His personal effects, consisting in a few pelisses, 
carpets, arms, horses, and camels, could not be estimated at 
more than fifty thousand livres, (a little above two thousand 
pounds ;) and it must be observed, that in this calculation, 
four mares of the breed of racers are valued at six thousand 
livres, (two hundred and fifty pounds,) and each camel at ten 
pounds sterling. We must not therefore, when we speak of 
the Bedouins, affix to the words Prince and Lord the ideas 
they usually convey ; we should come nearer the truth, by 
comparing them to substantial farmers, in mountainous coun- 
tries, whose simplicity they resemble in their dress, as well as 
in their domestic life and manners. A Sheik, who has the 
command of five hundred horse, does not disdain to saddle and 
bridle his own, nor to give him his barley and chopped straw. 
In his tent, his wife makes the coffee, kneads the dough, and 



superintends the dressing of the victuals. His daughters and 
kinswomen wash the linen, and go with pitchers on their heads, 
and veils over their faces, to draw water from the fountain. 
These manners agree precisely with the descriptions in Homer, 
and the history of Abraham, in Genesis. But it must be 
owned, that it is difficult to form a just idea of them without 
having ourselves been eye-witnesses. — Volneij. 



JVo hoarded gold disquieted his dreams. — 21, p. 246. 

Tlius confined to the most absolute necessaries of life, the 
Arabs have as little industry as their wants are few ; all their 
arts consist in weaving their clumsy tents, and in making mats 
and butter. Their whole commerce only extends to the 
exchanging camels, kids, stallions, and milk, for arms, clothing, 
a little rice or corn, and money, -which they bwy. — Volney. 



And he had seen his robe 

Orow in Oneiza's loom. — 21, p. 246. 

The chief manufacture among the Arabs is the making of 
Hykes, as they call woollen blankets, and webs of goat's hair 
for their tents. The women alone are employed in this work, 
as Andromache and Penelope were of old ; who make no use 
of a shuttle, but conduct every thread of the woof with their 
fingers. — Shaw. 

Or at the hand-mill when she knelt. — 21, p. 246. 

If mine heart have been deceived by a woman, or if I have 
laid wait at my neighbor's door. 
Then let my wife grind unto another. — Job xxxi. 9, 10. 



With bare, wet arm, &c. — 21, p. 246. 

I was much amused by observing the dexterity of the Arab 
women in baking their bread. They have a small place built 
with clay, between two and three feet high, having a hole at 
the bottom, for the convenience of drawing out the ashes, 
something similar to that of a lime-kiln. The oven (which I 
think is the most proper name for this place) is usually about 
fifteen inches wide at the top, and gradually grows wider to 
the bottom. It is heated with wood, and when sufficiently 
hot, and perfectly clear from smoke, having nothing but clear 
embers at bottom, (which continue to reflect great heat,) they 
prepare the dough in a large bowl, and mould the cakes, to the 
desired size, on a board or stone placed near the oven. After 
they have kneaded the cake to a proper consistence, they pat 
it a little, then toss it about with great dexterity in one hand, 
till it is as thin as they choose to make it. They then wet 
one side of it with water, at the same time wetting the hand 
and arm, with which they put it into the oven. The wet side 
of the cake adheres fast to the side of the oven till it is 
sufficiently baked, when, if not paid sufficient attention to, it 
would fall down among the embers. If they were not ex- 
ceedingly quick at this work, the heat of the oven would burn 
the skin from off their hands and arms ; but with such 
amazing dexterity do they perform it, that one woman will 
continue keeping three or four cakes at a time in the oven till 
she has done baking. This mode, let me add, does not require 
half the fuel that is made use of in Europe — Jackson. 



The Tamarind sheathes its young fruit, yet green. — 22, p. 246. 
Tamarinds grow on great trees, full of branches, whereof 
the leaves are not bigger than, nor unlike to, the leaves of pim- 
pernel, only something longer. The flower at first is like 
the peaches, but at last turns white, and puts forth its fruit at j 
the end of certain strings ; as soon as the sun is set, the leaves 
close up the fruit, to preserve it from the dew, and open as 
soon as that luminary appears again. The fruit at first is 
green, but ripening it becomes ofadark-gray, drawing towards 
a red, enclosed in husks, brown or tawny, of taste a little 
bitter, like our prunelloes. The tree is as big as a walnut- 
tree, full of leaves, bearing its fruit, at the branches, like the 



BOOK III. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



251 



sheath of a knife, but not so straight, rather bent like a bow, 
— MaiideLlo. 



Intones the holy Book. — 22, p. 246. 

I have often, says Niebuhr, heard the Sheiks sing passages 
from the Koran. They never strain the voice by attempting 
to raise it too high ; and this natural music pleased me very 
much. 

The airs of the Orientals are all grave and simple. They 
choose tlieir singers to sing so distinctly, that every word may 
be comprehended. When several instruments are played at 
once, and accompanied by the voice, you hear them all render 
the s inie melody, unless some one mingles a running base, 
either singing or playing, always in the same key. If tliis 
music is not greatly to our taste, ours is as little to the taste of 
the Orientals. — Mebuhr. 



Tts marble walls, &c. — 22, p. 246. 

The Mosques, which they pronounce Mesg-jid, are built 
exactly in the fashion of our churches, wiiere, instead of such 
seats and benches as we make use of, they only strew the floor 
with mats, upon which they perform the several sittings and 
prostrations that are enjoined in their religion. Near the 
middle, particularly of the principal Mosque of each city, there 
is a large pulpit erected, which is balustruded round, with 
about half-a-dozen steps leading up to it. Upon these (for I 
am told none are permitted to enter the pulpit) the Mufty, 
or one of the Im-ams, placeth himself every Friday, the day 
of the congregation, as they call it, and from thence either 
explaineth some part or other of the Koran, or else exiiovteth 
the people to piety and good works. That end of these 
Mosques, which regards Mecca, whither they direct them- 
selves throughout the wliole course of their devotions, is called 
the Ki!)Iah, in which there is commonly a niche, representing, 
as a judicious writer conjectures, the presence, and at the same 
time the invisibility of the Deity. There is usually a square 
tower erected at the other end, with a flag-staft' upon the top 
of it. Hither the crier ascends at the appointed times, and, 
displaying a small Hag, advertiseth the people, witli a loud 
voice from each side of the battlements, of the hour of 
prayer. These places of the Mahometan worship, together 
with tlie Mufty, Im-ams, and other persons belonging to 
them, are maintained out of certain revenues arising from the 
rents of lands and houses, either left by will or set apart by 
the public for that use. — Shmc. 

All the Mosques are built nearly in the same style. They 
are of an oblong square form, and covered in the middle with 
a large dome, on the top of which is fixed a gilt crescent. In 
front there is a handsome portico covered with several small 
cupolas, and raised one step above the pavement of the court. 
The Turks sometimes, in the hot season, perform their de- 
votions there ; and between the columns, upon cross iron 
bars, are suspended a number of lamps, for illuminations on 
the Thursday nights, and on all festivals. The entrance 
into the Mosque is by one large door. All these edifices are 
solidly built of freestone, and in several the domes are covered 
with lead. The minarets stand on one side, adjoining to the 
body of the Mosque. They are sometimes square, but more 
commonly round and taper. The gallery for the maazecn, or 
criers, projecting a little from the column near the top, has 
some resemblance to a rude capital ; and from this the spire, 
tapering more in proportion than before, soon terminates in a 
point crowned with a crescent. — RusseWs .Aleppo, 



The Stars of Heaven their point of prayer. — 22, p. 246. 

The Keabe is the point of direction, and the centre of union 
for the prayers of the whole human race, as the Beith-mamour "f" 
is for those of all the celestial beings ; the Kursyf for those 



* Beilh-mamour, which means the house of prosperity and felicity, is 
the ancient Keabe of Mecca ; which, according to tradition, was talien up 
into Heaven by the Angels at the deluge, where it was placed perpendicu- 
larly over the present sanctuary. 

t Kursy, which signifies a seat, is the eighth firmament. 



of the four Arch-angels, and the Arsch * for those of the 
cherubims and seraphims who guard the throne of the Al- 
mighty. The inhabitants of Mecca, who enjoy the happiness 
of contemplating the Keabe, are obliged, when they pray, to 
fix their eyes upon the sanctuary ; but they who are at a 
distance from this valuable privilege, are required only, during 
prayer, to direct their attention towards that hallowed edifice. 
The believer who is ignorant of the position of the Keabe must 
use every endeavor to gain a knowledge of it ; and after he 
has shown great solicitude, whatever be his success, his 
prayer is valid. — Z)' Olisson. 



Rest on the pillar of the Tent. — -23, p. 246, 

The Bedoweens live in tents, called Hymas, from the shade 
they aflford the inhabitants, and Beet el Shar, Houses of Hair, 
from the matter they are made of. They are the same with 
what the antients called Mapalia, which being then, as they 
are to this day, secured from the heat and inclemency of tho 
weather, by a covering only of such hair-cloth as our coal 
sacks are made of, might very justly be described by Virgil 
to have thin roofs. When we find any number of them 
together, (and t have seen from three to three hundred,) tiicn 
they are usually placed in a circle, and constitute a Dou-war. 
The fashion of each tent is the same, being of an olWong 
figure, not unlike the bottom of a ship turned upside down, 
as Sallust hath long ago described them. However, they 
difl^er in bigness, according to the number of people who live 
in them ; and are accordingly supported, some with one 
pillar, others with two or three; whilst a curtain or carpel 
placed, upon occasion, at each of these divisions, separateth 
the whole into so many apartments. The pillar, which 
I have mentioned, is a straight pole, 8 or 10 feet high, and 3 
or 4 inches in thickness, serving not only to support the tent, 
but being full of hooks fixed there for tiie purpose, the Arabs 
hang upon it their clothes, baskets, saddles, and accoutre- 
ments of war. Holofernes, as we read in Judith, xiii. G, 
made the like use of the pillar of his tent, by hanging hia 
fiinchion upon it : it is there called the pillar of the bed, from 
the cu>tom, perhaps, that hath always prevailed, of having the 
upper end of the carpet, mattrass, or whatever else they lie 
upon, turned from the skirts of the tent that way. But the 
Kcjvioneiov, Canopy, as we render it, (ver. 9,) should, I 
presume, be rather called the gnat or muskeeta net, which is 
a close curtain of gauze or fine linen, used all over the Le- 
vant, by people of better fashion, to keep out the flies. The 
Arabs have nothing of this kind ; who, in taking their rest, 
lie horizontally upon the ground, without bed, mattrass, or 
pillow, wrapping themselves up only in their Hykes, and 
lying, as they find room, upon a mat or carpet, in the middle 
or corner of the tent. Those who are married, have each of 

them a corner of the tent, cantoned off" with a curtain 

Shaw. 

The tents of the Moors are somewhat of a conic form, are 
seldom more than 8 or 10 feet high in the centre, and from 
20 to 25 in length. Like those of the remotest antiquity, 
their figure is that of a ship overset, the keel of which is 
only seen. These tents are made of twine, composed of 
goat's hair, camel's wool, and the leaves of the wild palm, 
so that they keep out water; but, being black, they produce 
a disagreeable efl'ect at a distant view. — Chenier. 



Knitting light palm-leaves for her brothcr^s brow. — 23, p. 246. 

In the kingdom of Imam, the men of all ranks shave their 
heads. In some other countries of Yemen, all the Arabs, 
even the Sheiks themselves, let their hair grow, and wear 
neither bonnet nor Sasch, but a handkerchief instead, in 
which they tie their hair behind. Some let it fall upon their 
shoulders, and bind a small cord round their heads instead 
of a turban. The Bedouins, upon the frontiers of Hedsjas 
and of Yemen, wear a bonnet of palm-leaves, neatly platted. 
— JViebuhr. 



* Arsch is the throne of the Almighty, which is thought (o be placed 
on the ninth, which is the highest of the firmaments. 



252 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK III 



So listen they the reed, &.c. — 23, p. 246. 

The music of the Bedoweens rarely consists of more than 
one strain, suitable to their homely instruments, and to their 
simple invention. The Arabebbah, as they call the bladder 
and string, is in tije highest vogue, and doubtless of great 
antiquity ; as is also the Gasapli, which is only a common 
reed, open at each end, having the side of it bored, with three 
or more holes, according to the ability of the person who is to 
touch it ; though the compass of their tunes rarely or never 
exceeds an octave. Yet sometimes, even in this simplicity of 
harmony, they observe something of method and ceremony ; 
for in their historical Cantatas especially, they have their 
preludes and symphonies ; each stanza being introduced with 
a flourish from the Arabebbah, while the narration itself is 
accompanied with the softest touches they are able to make, 
upon the Gasaph. The Tarr, another of their instruments, is 
made like a Sive, consisting (as Isidore describeth the Tym- 
panum) of a thin rim, or hoop of wood, with a skin of parch- 
ment stretched over the top of it. This serves for the bass in 
all their concerts, which they accordingly touch very artfully 
with their fingers, and the knuckles or palms of their hands, 
as the time and measure require, or as force and softness are to 
be communicated to the several parts of the performance. 
The Tarr is undoubtedly the Tympanum of the Antients, 
which appears as well from the general use of it all over 
Barbary, Egypt, and the Levant, as from the method of 
playing upon it, and the figure of the instrument itself, being 
exactly of the same fashion with what we find in the hands of 
Cybele and the Bacchanals among the Basso Relievos and 
Statues of the Antients. — Shaw. 

Tlie Arabs have the Cussuba, or cane, which is only a piece 
of large cane or reed, with stops or holes, like a flute, and 
somewhat longer, which they adorn with tossels of black silk, 

and play upon like the German flute. Morgan's Hist, of 

Algiers. 

The young fellows, in several towns, play prettily enough 
on pipes made, and sounding very much like our flagelet, of 
the tliigh-bones of cranes, storks, or such large fowl. — lb. 

How great soever may have been the reputation the Libyans 
once had of being famous musicians, and of having invented 
the pipe or flute, called by Greek authors Hippophorbos, I 
fancy few of them Avould be now much liked at our Opera. 
As for this tibicen, flute or pipe, it is certainly lost, except it 
be the gayta, somewhat like the hautbois, called zurna, in 
Turkish, a martial instrument. Julius Pollux, in a chapter 
entitled De tibiarum specie, says Hippophorbos, quam quidem 
Libyes Scenetes invcnerunt; and again, showing the use and 
quality thereof, hcscverd apud equorum pascua utuntur, ejusque 
materia decorticata laurus est, cor enim ligni eztractum acu- 
tissimam dat sonum. The sound of the gayta agrees well with 
this description, though not the make. Several poets mention 
the tibicen Libycas and Arabicus; and Athenseus quotes Duris, 
and says, Libycas tibia Poetce appellant, ut inquit Duris, libro 
secundo de rebus gestis Agathoclis, quod Scirites, primus, ut 
credunt, tibicinum artis inventor, 6 gente JVomadum Libycorum 
fuerit, primusque tibia Cerealium hymnorum cantor. — lb. 



Or if he strung the pearls of Poesy. — 24, p. 246. 

PersaB " pulcherrim'i usi translatione, pro versdsfacere dicunt 
margaritas Jiecterc ; quemadmodum in illo Ferdusii versiculo 
' Siquidem calami acumine adamantino margaritas nexi, in scien- 
ticB mare penitus me immei-si.' " — Poeseos Asiaticae Commen- 
tarii. 

This is a favorite Oriental figure. " After a little time, 
lifting his head from the collar of reflection, he removed the 
talisman of science from the treasure of speech, and scattered 
skirts-full of brilliant gems and princely pearls before the 
company in his mirth-exciting deliveries." — Bahar Danush. 

Again, in the same work — " he began to weigh his stored 
pearls in the scales of delivery." 

Abu Temtim, who was a celebrated poet himself, used to 
say, that " fine sentiments, delivered in prose, were like gems 
scattered at random ; but that when they were confined in a 
poetical measure, they resembled bracelets and strings of 
pearls." — Sir IV. Jones, Essay on the Poetry of the Eastern 
J^ations. 



In Mr. Carlyle's translations from the Arabic, a Poet says 
of his friends and himself. 

They are a row of Pearls, and I 
The silken thread on which they lie 

I quote from memory, and recollect not the Author's name. 
It is somewhat remarkable, that the same metaphor is among 
the quaintnesses of Fuller. " Benevolence is the silken thread, 
that should run through the pearl chain of our virtues." — 
Holy State. 

It seems the Arabs are still great rhymers, and their verses 
are sometimes rewarded ; but I should not venture to say, 
that there are great Poets among them. Yet I was assured in 
Yemen that it is not uncommon to find them among the 
wandering Arabs in the country of Dsjaf. It is some few 
years since a Sheik of these Arabs was in prison at Sana : 
seeing by chance a bird upon a roof opposite to him, he rec- 
ollected that the devout Maliommedans believe they perform 
an action agreeable to God in giving liberty to a bird encaged. 
He thought therefore he had as much right to liberty as a 
bird, and made a poem upon the subject, which was first 
learnt by his guards, and tiien became so popular, that at last 
it reached the Imam. He was so pleased with it, that he 
liberated the Sheik, whom he had arrested for his robberies. — 
JViebiihr, Desc. de V Arabic. 



A tale of love and woe. — 24, p. 246. 

They are fond of singing with a forced voice in the high 
tones, and one must have lungs like theirs to support the effort 
for a quarter of an hour. Their airs, in point of character 
and execution, resemble nothing we have heard in Europe, 
except the Seguidillas of the Spaniards. They have divisions 
more labored even than those of the Italians, and cadences 
and inflections of tone impossible to be imitated by European 
throats. Their performance is accompanied with sighs and 
gestures, which paint the passions in a more lively manner 
than we should venture to allow. They maybe said to excel 
most in the melancholy strain. To behold an Arab with his 
head inclined, his hand applied to his ear, his eyebrows knit, 
his eyes languishing ; to hear liis plaintive tones, his length- 
ened notes, his sighs and sobs, it is almost impossible to refrain 
from tears, which, as their expression is, are far from bitter: 
and indeed they must certainly find a pleasure in shedding 
them, since, among all their songs, they constantly prefer that 
which excites them most, as, among all accomplishments, 
singing is that they most admire. — Vulney. 

All their literature consists in reciting tales and histories in 
the manner of the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. They 
have a peculiar passion for such stories ; and employ in them 
almost all their leisure, of which they have a great deal. In 
the evening they seat themselves on the ground at the door of 
their tents, or under cover if it be cold, and there, ranged in a 
circle round a little fire of dung, their pipes in their mouths, 
and their legs crossed, tliey sit awhile in silent meditation, 
till, on a sudden, one of them breaks forth with. Once upon a 
time, — and continues to recite the adventures of some young 
Shaik and female Bedouin : he relates in what manner the 
youth first got a secret glimpse of his mistress, and how he 
became desperately enamored of her : he minutely describes 
the lovely fair, extols her black eyes, as large and soft as those 
of the gazelle ; her languid and impassioned looks ; her arched 
eyebrows, resembling two bows of ebony ; her waist, straight 
and supple as a lance ; he forgets not her stops, liglit as those 
of the young fiUey, nor her eyelashes blackened with Jcohl, nor 
her lips painted blue, nor her nails tinged with the golden- 
colored henna, nor her breasts, resembling two pomegranates, 
nor her words, sweet as honey. He recounts the sufiferings 
of the young lover, so coasted with desire and passion, that his 
body no longer yields any shadow. At length, after detailing 
his various attempts to see his mistress, the obstacles on the 
part of the parents, the invasions of the enemy, the captivity 
of the two lovers, &c., he terminates, to the satisfaction of 
the audience, by restoring them, united and happy, to the pa- 
ternal tent, and by receiving the tribute paid to his eloquence, 
in the masha allak* he has merited. The Bedouins have 
likewise their love-songs, which have more sentiment and 

* An exclamation of praise, equivalent to admirahlv "»«iZ/ 



BOOK III. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



253 



nature in tliciii th in those of the Turks and inhabitants of 
the towns ; doubtless because tlie former, whoso manners are 
chaste, know what love is ; while the latter, abandoned to 
debauchery, are acquainted only with enjoyment. — Volney. 



The Mother Ostrich fixes on her cgg. — 2A, p. 240. 

We read in an Old Arabian Manuscript, that when the 
ostrich would hatch her eggs, she does not cover them, as 
other fowls do, but both the male and female contribute to 
hatch them by the eflicacy of their looks only ; and therefore 
when one has occasion to go to look for food, it advertises its 
companion by its cry, and the other never stirs during its 
absence, but remains with its eyes fixed upon the eggs, till 
the return of its mate, and then goes in its turn to look for 
food } and this care of theirs is so necessary, that it cannot 
be suspended for a moment ; for, if it should, their eggs would 
immediately become addle. — Vanslehe. 

This is said to emblem the perpetual attention of the 
Creator to the Universe. 



Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms. — 25, p. 246. 

"She had laid aside the rings which used to grace her 
ankles, lest the sound of them should expose her to calamity." 
— Asiatic Researches. 

Most of the Indian women have on each arm, and also above 
the ankle, ten or twelve rings of gold, silver, ivory, or coral. 
They spring on the leg, and, when they walk, make a noise, 
with which they are much pleased. Their hands and toes are 
generally adorned with large rings. — Sonnerat. 

" In that day the Lord will take away the bravery of their 
iinklinff ornamints about their feet, and their cauls, and their 
round tires like the moon." 

" The chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers, 

" The bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs," &,c. — Isaiah, 
jii. 18. 



Were her Ion ff fingers tinged. — 23, p. 246. 

His fingers, in beauty and slendrrncss appearing as the 
Yed Bieza,* or the rays of the sun, being tinged with Ilinna, 
seemed branches of transp irent red coral. — Bahar Danush. 

She dispenses gifts with small, delicate fingers, sweetly 
glowing at their tips, like the white and crimson worm of 
D.ibia, or dentifrices made of Esel wood. — Moallalcat. Poem 
of Ainriolkais. 

The Hinna, says the translator of the Bahar-Danush, is 
esteemed not merely ornamental, but medicinal ; and I have 
myself often experienced in India a most refreshing coolness 
through the whole habit, from an embrocation, or rather 
plaster of Hinna, applied to the soles of my feet, by pre- 
scription of a native [diysician. The eft'ect lasted for some 
days. Bruce says it is used not only for ornament, but as an 
astringent to keep the hands and feet dry. 

This unnatural ftshion is extended to animals. 

De[)arting from the town of Anna, we met, about five 
hundred paces from the gate, a young man of good family 
followed by two servants, and mounted, in the fashion of tlie 
country, upon an ass, whose rump was painted red. — Ta- 
vernier. 

In Persia, " they dye the tails of those horses which are of 
alight color with red or orange." — Hamcay. 

Ali, the Moor, to whose capricious cruelty Mungo Park 
was sd long exposed, " always rode upon a milk-white horse, 
with its tail dyed red." 

When Pietro della Valle went to Jerusalem, all his camels 
were made orange-color with henna. He says he had seen 
in Rome the manes and tails of certain horses which came 
from Poland and Hungary colored in like manner. He 
conceived it to be the same plant, which was sold, in a dry or 
pulverized state, at Naples, to old women, to dye their gray 
hairs flaxen. 

Alfniado, a word derived from Alfena, the Portuguese or 
Moorish name of this plant, is still used in Portugal as a 
phrase of contempt for a fop. 

* The miraculously shiuing hand of Moses. 



The light shone rosy 7 that the darkened lids, &,c. — 25, p. 246. 

The blackened eyelids and the reddened fingers were 
Eastern customs, in use among the Greeks. They are still 
among the tricks of the Grecian toilet. The females of 
the rest of Europe have never added them to their list of 
ornaments. 



Wreathed the red flower-crown round, &c. — 25, p. 246. 

The Mimosa Selam produces splendid flowers of a beautiful 
red color, with which the Arabians crown their heads on their 
days of festival. — JViebahr. 



Their work was done, their path of ruin} 



30, p. 247. 



The large locusts, which are near three inches long, are not 
the most destructive ; as they fly, they yield to the current of 
the wind, which hurries them into the sea, or into sandy 
deserts, where they perish with hunger or fatigue. The 
young locusts, that cannot fly, are the most ruinous ; they are 
about fifteen lines in length, and the thickness of a goose 
quill. They creep over the country in such multitudes that 
they leave not a blade of grass behind ; and the noise of their 
feeding announces their approach at some distance. The de- 
vastations of locusts increase the price of provisions, and 
often occasion famines ; but the IMoors find a kind of compen- 
sation in making food of these insects ; prodigious quantities 
are brought to market, salted and dried, like red herrings. 
They have an oily and rancid taste, which habit only can 
render agreeable : they are eat here, however, with pleasure. 
— Chenier. 

In 1778, the empire of Morocco was ravaged by these 
insects. In the summer of that year, such clouds of locusts 
came from the south, that they darkened the air, and devoured 
a part of the harvest. Their offspring, which they left on the 
ground, committed still much greater mischief. Locusts ap- 
peared, and bred anew in the following year, so that in the 
spring the country was wholly covered, and they crawled one 
over the other in search of their subsistence. 

It has been remarked, in speaking of the climate of Mo- 
rocco, that the young locusts are those which are the most 
mischievous ; and that it seems almost impossible to rid the 
land of these insects and their ravages, when the country once 
becomes thus afflicted. In order to preserve the houses and 
gardens in the neighborhood of cities, they dig a ditch two 
feet in depth, and as much in width. This they palisade 
with reeds close to each other, and inclined inward toward 
the ditch ; so that the insects, unable to climb up the slippery 
reed, fall back into the ditch, where they devour one another. 

This was the means by which the gardens and vineyards of 
Rabat, and the city itself, were delivered from this scourge, in 
1779. The intrenchment, which was, at least, a league in 
extent, formed a semicircle from the sea to the river, which 
separates Rabat from Sallee. The quantity of young locusts 
here assembled was so prodigious, that, on the third day, the 
ditch could not be approached, because of the stench. The 
whole country was eaten up, the very bark of the fig, pome- 
granate, and orange tree, — bitter, hard, and corrosive as it 
was, — could not escape the voracity of these insects. 

The lands, ravaged throughout all the western provinces, 
produced no harvest ; and the Moors, being obliged to live on 
their stores, which the exportation of corn (permitted till 
1774) had drained, began to feel a dearth. Their cattle, for 
which they make no provision, and which, in these climates, 
have no other subsistence than that of daily grazing, died with 
hunger; nor could any be preserved but those which were in 
the neighborhoodof mountains, or in marshy grounds, where 
the re-growth of pasturage is more rapid. 

In 1780, the distress was still further increased. The dry 
winter had checked the products of the earth, and given birth 
to a new generation of locusts, who devoured whatever had 
escaped from the inclemency of the season. The husbandman 
did not reap even what he had sowed, and found himself des- 
titute of food, cattle, or seed corn. In this time of extreme 
wretchedness, the poor felt all the horrors of famine. They 
were seen wandering over the country to devour roots, and, 
perhaps, abridged their days, by digging into the entrails of 



254 



xMOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK III. 



the earth in search of the crude means by which they might 
be preserved. 

Vast numbers perished of indigestible food and want. I 
have beheld country people in the roads, and in the streets, 
who had died of hunger, and who were thrown across asses to 
be taken and buried. Fathers sold their children. The hus- 
band, with the consent of his wife, would take her into another 
province, there to bestow her in marriage, as if she were his 
sister, and afterwards come and reclaim her when his wants 
were no longer so great. I have seen women and children run 
after camels and rake in their dung, to seek for some indi- 
gested grain of barley, which, if they found, they devoured 
with avidity. — Chenier. 



From far Khorassan ? — 31, p. 247. 

The Abmelec, or eater of locusts, or grasshoppers, is a bird 
which better deserves to be described, perhaps, than most 
others of which travellers have given us an account, because 
the facts relating to it are not only strange in themselves, but 
so well and distinctly attested, that however surprising they 
may seem, we cannot but afford them our belief. The food of 
this creature is the locust, or the grasshopper ; it is of the size 
of an ordinary hen, its feathers black, its wings large, and its 
flesh of a grayish color. They fly generally in great flocks, 
as the starlings are wont to do with us. But the thing which 
renders these birds wonderful is, that they are so fond of the 
water of a certain fountain in Corasson, or Bactria, that where- 
ever that water is carried, they follow ; on which account it is 
carefully preserved ; for wherever the locusts fall, the Arme- 
nian priests, who are provided with this water, bring a quanti- 
ty of it and place in jars, or pour it into little channels in the 
fields : the next day whole troops of these birds arrive, and 
quickly deliver the people from the locusts. — Universal His- 
tory. 

Sir John Chardin has given us the following passage from an 
ancient traveller, in relation to this bird. In Cyprus, about 
the time that the corn was ripe for the sickle, the earth pro- 
duced such a quantity of cavalettes, or locusts, that they ob- 
scured sometimes the splendor of the sun. Wherever these 
came, they burnt and eat up all. For this there was no remedy, 
since, as fast as they were destroyed, the earth produced more : 
God, however, raised them up a means for their deliverance, 
which happened thus. In Persia, near the city of Cuerch, 
there is a fountain of water, which has a wonderful property 
of destroying these insects j for a pitcher full of this being 
carried in the open air, without passing through house or vault, 
and being set on an high place, certain birds which follow it, 
and fly and cry after the men who carry it from the fountain, 
come to the place where it is fixed. These birds are red and 
black, and fly in great flocks together, like starlings ; the 
Turks and Persians call them Mussulmans. These birds no 
sooner came to Cyprus, but they destroyed the locusts with 
which the island was infested : but if the water be spilt or 
lost, these creatures immediately disappear ; which accident 
fell out when the Turks took this island : for one of them 
going up into the steeple of Famagusta, and finding there a 
pitcher of this water, he, fancying that it contained gold or 
silver, or some precious thing, broke it, and spilt what was 
therein : since which the Cypriots have been as much tor- 
mented as ever by the locusts. 

On the confines of the Medes and of Armenia, at certain 
times, a great quantity of birds are seen who resemble our 
blackbirds, and they have a property sufliciently curious to 
make me mention it. When the corn in these parts begins to 
grow, it is astonishing to see the number of locusts with which 
all the fields are covered. The Armenians have no other 
method of delivering themselves from these insects, than by 
going in procession round the fields, and sprinkling them with 
a particular water, which they take care to preserve in their 
houses, for this water comes from a great distance. They 
fetch it from a well belonging to one of their convents near 
the frontiers, and they say that the bodies of many Christian 
martyrs were formerly thrown into this well. These proces- 
sions, and the sprinkling, continue three or four days ; after 
which, the birds that I have mentioned come in great flights ; 
and whether it be that they eat the locusts, or drive them 
away, in two or three days the country is cleared of them. — 
Tavernier. 



At Mosul and at Haled, says Niebuhr, I heard much of the 
locust bird, without seeing it. They there call it Sarnarmar, 
or, as others pronounce it, Samarmog: It is said to be black, 
larger than a sparrow, and no ways pleasant to the palate. I 
am assured that it every day destroys an incredible number of 
locusts ; they pretend, nevertheless, that the locusts some- 
times defend themselves, and devour the bird with its feathers, 
when they have overpowered it by numbers. When the chil- 
dren in the frontier towns of Arabia catch a iive locust, they 
place it before them and cry Samarmog! And because it 
stoops down terrified at the noise, or at the motion of the child, 
or clings more closely to its place, the children believe that it 
fears the name of its enemy, that it hides itself, and attempts 
to throw stones. The Samarmog- is not a native of Mosul or 
Haleb, but they go to seek it in Khorasan with much cere- 
mony. When the locusts multiply very greatly, the govern- 
ment sends persons worthy of trust to a spring near the vil- 
lage of Samarun, situated in a plain between four mountains, 
by Mesched, or Musa er ridda, in that province of Persia. 
The deputies, with the ceremonies prescribed, fill a chest 
with this water, and pitch the chest so that the water may 
neither evaporate nor be spilt before their return. From the 
spring to the town whence they were sent, the chest must 
always be between heaven and earth ; they must neither 
place it on the ground, nor under any roof, lest it should lose 
all its virtue. Mosul being surrounded with a wall, the water 
must not pass under the gateway, but it is received over the 
wall, and the chest placed upon the Mosque JVebhi Ourgis, a 
building which was formerly a church, and which, in prefer- 
ence to all the other buildings, has had from time immemorial 
the honor to possess this chest upon its roof. When this 
precious water has been brought from Khorasan with the 
requisite precautions, the common Mahommedans, Christians, 
and Jews of Mosul, believe that the Samarmog follows the 
water, and remains in the country as long as there is a single 
drop left in the chest of JVebbi Ourgis. Seeing one day a 
large stork's nest upon this vessel, I told a Christian of some 
eminence in the town, how much I admired the quick smell 
of the Samarmog, who perceived the smell of the water 
through such a quantity of ordure ; he did not answer me, but 
was very much scandalized that the government should have 
permitted the stork to make her nest upon so rare a treasure, 
and still more angry, that for more than nine years, the 
government had not sent to procure fresh water. — JViebuhr, 
Desc. de P Arable. 

Dr. Russel descril)es this bird as about the size of a starling ; 
the body of a flesh color, the rest of its plumage black, the 
bill and legs black also. 



For these mysterious lines were legible. — 34, p. 247. 

The locusts are remarkable for the hieroglyphic that they 
bear upon the forehead ; their color is green throughout the 
whole body, excepting a little yellow rim that surrounds their 
head, which is lost at their eyes. This insect has two upper 
wings, pretty solid ; they are green, like the rest of the body, 
except that there is in each a little white spot. The locust 
keeps them extended like great sails of a ship going before 
the wind ; it has besides two other wings underneath the 
former, and which resemble a light transparent stuff pretty 
much like a cobweb, and which it makes use of in the man- 
ner of smack sails that are along a vessel ; but when the 
locust reposes herself, she does like a vessel that lies at 
anchor, for she keeps the second sails furled under the first. — 
J^Torden. 

The Mahommedans believe some mysterious meaning is 
contained in the lines upon the locust's forehead. 

I compared the description in the poem with a locust which 
was caught in Leicestershire. It is remarkable that a single 
insect should have found its way so far inland. 



Flies the large-headed Screamer of the night. — 39, p. 248. 

An Arabian expression from the Moallakat: — " She turns 
her right side, as if she were in fear of some large-headed 
Screamer of the night." — Poem of Antara. 



BOOK IV. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



255 



Glare in the darkness of that drcailfal noon. — 39, p. 248. 

In the ninth volume of the Spectator is an account of the 
total Eclipse of the Sun, Friday, April ^2, 1715. It is in a 
strain of vile bombast ; yet some circumstances are so fine, 
that even such a writer could not spoil them : " The different 
modifications of the light formed colors the eye of man has 
been five hundred years unacquainted with, and for wliich I 
can find no name, unless I may be allowed to call it a dark, 
gloomy sort of light, that scattered about a more sensible and 
genuine horror, than the most consummate darkness. All the 
birds were struck dumb, and hung their wings in moody sor- 
row ; some few pigeons, that were on the wing, were afraid 
of being benighted even in the morn, alighted, and took shel- 
ter in the houses. The heat went away by degrees with the 
light. But when the rays of the sun broke out afresh, the joy 
and the thanks that were in me, that God made to us these 
signs and marks of his power before he exercised it, were ex- 
quisite, and such as never worked upon rac so sensibly before. 
With my own ears I heard a cock crow as at the dawn of day, 
and he welcomed with a strange gladness, which was plainly 
discoverable by the cheerful notes of his voice, the sun at its 
second rising, and the returning light." 

The Paper is signed B., and is perhaps by Sir Richard 
Blackmore. 



THE FOURTH BOOK. 



Fas est quoque hruUB 
Telluri, docilcm monilis calcstibus esse 



Mambruni Constantinus. 



Whose is yon dawning form, 

That in the darkness meets 

The delegated youth ? 

Dim as the shadow of a fire at noon, 

Or pale reflection, on the evening brook. 

Of glow-worm on the bank, 
Kindled to guide her winged paramour. 



A moment, and the brightening image shaped 

His Mother's form and features. " Go," she cried, 

" To Babylon, and from the Angels learn 

What talisman thy task requires." 

3. 

The Spirit hung toward him when she ceased. 

As though with actual lips she would have given 

A mother's kiss. His arms outstretch'd, 

His body bending on. 

His mouth unclosed and trembling into speech. 

He press'd to meet the blessing; but the wind 

Play'd on his cheek : he look'd, and he beheld 

The darkness close. "Again! again!" he cried, 

" Let me again behold thee ! " from the darkness 

His Mother's voice went forth — 

"Thou shalt behold me in the hour of death." 

4. 

Day dawns, the twilight gleam dilates, 
The Sun comes forth, and like a god 
Rides through rejoicing heaven. 
Old Moath and his daughter, from their tent, 



Beheld the adventurous youth, 

Dark-moving o'er the sands, 

A lessening image, trembling through their tears 

Visions of high emprise 

Beguiled his lonely road ; 

And if sometimes to Moath's tent 

The involuntary mind recurr'd. 

Fancy, impatient of all painful thoughts, 

Pictured the bliss should welcome his return. 

In dreams like these he went ; 

And still of every dream 

Onciza form'd a part, 

And hope and memory made a mingled joy. 



In the eve he arrived at a Well ; 

An Acacia bent over its side. 

Under whose long light-hanging boughs 

He chose his nights abode. 

There, due ablutions made, and prayers performd, 

The youth his mantle spread, 

And silently produced 

His solitary meal. 

The silence and the solitude recall'd 

Dear recollections ; and with folded arms, 

Thinking of other days, he sate, till thought 

Had left him, and the Acacia's moving shade 

Upon the sunny sand 

Had caught his idle eye ; 

And his awaken'd ear 

Heard the gray Lizard's chirp, 

The only sound of life. 



As thus in vacant quietness he sate, 

A Traveller on a Camel reach'd the Well, 

And courteous greeting gave. 

The mutual salutation past. 

He by tlie cistern, too, his garment spread, 

And friendly converse cheer'd the social meal. 



The Stranger was an ancient man. 

Yet one whose green old age 

Bore the fair characters of temperate youth : 

So much of manhood's strength his limbs retain'd, 

It seem'd he needed not the staff he bore. 

His beard was long, and gray, and crisp ; 

Lively his eyes, and quick, 

And reaching over them 

The large broad eyebrow curl'd. 

His speech was copious, and his winning words 

Enrich'd with knowledge, that the attentive youth 

Sate listening with a thirsty joy. 



So, in the course of talk. 

The adventurer youth inquir'd 

Whither his course was bent. 

The Old Man answered, "To Bagdad I go 

At that so welcome sound, a flash of joy 

Kindled the eye of Thalaba; 

"And I too," he replied, 

" Am journeying thitherward ; 

Let me become companion of thy way I " 



256 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK IV. 



Courteous the Old Man smiled, 
And willing in assent. 

9. 

OLD MAN, 

Son, thou art young for travel. 

THALABA. 

Until now 
I never past the desert boundary. 

OLD MAN. 

It is a noble city that we seek. 

Thou wilt behold magnificent Palaces, 

And lofty Minarets, and high-domed Mosques, 

And rich Bazars, whither from all the world 

Industrious merchants meet, and market there 

The world's collected wealth. 

THALABA. 

Stands not Bagdad 

Near to the site of ancient Babylon, 

And Nimrod's impious temple ? 

OLD MAN. 

From the walls 
'Tis but a long day's distance, 

THALABA. 

And the ruins ? 

OLD MAN. 

A mighty mass remains ; enough to tell us 

How great our fathers were, how little we. 

Men are not what they were ; their crimes and 

follies 

Have dwarfd them down from the old hero race 

To such poor things as we ! 

THALABA. 

At Babylon 

I have heard the Angels expiate their guilt, 

Haruth and Maruth. 

OLD MAN. 

'Tis a history 

Handed from ages down; a nurse's tale. 

Which children, open-eyed and mouth'd, devour; 

And thus, as garrulous Ignorance relates. 

We learn it and believe. But all things feel 

The power of Time and Change ; thistles and grass 

Usurp the desolate palace, and the weeds 

Of Falsehood root in the aged pile of Truth. 

How have you heard the tale .? 

THALABA 

Thus : — on a time 

The Angels at the wickedness of man 

Express'd indignant Avonder ; that in vain 

Tokens and signs were given, and Prophets 

sent. 

Strange obstinacy this ! a stubbornness 

Of sin, they said, that should forever bar 

The gates of mercy on them. Allah heard 

Their unforgiving pride, and bade that two 



Of these untempted Spirits should descend, 

Judges on Earth. Haruth and Maruth went, 

The chosen Sentencers ; they fairly heard 

The appeals of men to their tribunal brought, 

And rightfully decided. At the length 

A Woman came before them ; beautiful 

Zohara was, as yonder Evening Star, 

In the mild lustre of whose lovely light 

Even now her beauty shines. They gazed on her 

With fleshly eyes; they tempted her to sin. 

The wily woman listen'd, and required 

A previous price, the knowledge of the name 

Of God. She learnt the wonder-working name, 

And gave it utterance, and its virtue bore her 

Up to the glorious Presence, and she told 

Before the awful Judgment- Seat her tale. 

OLD MAN. 

I know the rest. The accused Spirits were call'd , 

Unable of defence, and penitent, 

They own'd their crime, and heard the doom 

deserved. 

Then they besought the Lord that not forever 

His wrath might be upon them, and implored 

That penal ages might at length restore them 

Clean from offence : since then by Babylon, 

In the cavern of their punishment, they dwell. 

Runs the conclusion so ? 

THALABA. 

So I am taught. 

OLD MAN. 

The common tale ! And likely thou hast heard 

How that the bold and bad, with impious rites, 

Intrude upon their penitence, and force. 

Albeit from loathing and reluctant lips, 

The sorcery-secret.'' 

THALABA. 

"" Is it not the truth .' 

OLD MAN. 

Son, thou hast seen the Traveller in the sands 
Move through the dizzy light of hot noon-day, 

Huge as the giant race of elder times ; 

And his Camel, than the monstrous Elephant 

Seem of a vaster bulk. 

THALABA. 

A frequent sight. 

OLD MAN. 

And hast thou never, in the twilight, fancied 

Familiar object into some strange shape 

And form uncouth ? 

THALABA. 

Ay ! many a time. 

OLD MAN. 

Even so 

Things view'd at distance, through the mist of fear, 

By their distortion terrify and shock 

The abused sight. 



BOOK IV. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



257 



THALABA. 

But of these Angels' fate 
Thus in the uncreated book is written. 

OLD MAN. 

Wisely from legendary fables Heaven 
Inculcates wisdom. 

THALABA. 

How then is the truth ? 

Is not the dungeon of their punishment 

By ruin'd Babylon ? 

OLD MAN. 

By Babylon 
Haruth and Maruth may be found. 

THALABA. 

And there 
Magicians learn their impious sorcery ? 

OLD MAN. 

Son, what thou say'st is true, and it is false. 
But night approaches fast; I have travell'd far, 

And my old lids are heavy ; — on our way 
We shall have hours for converse ; — let us now 
Turn to our due repose. Son, peace be with thee 

10. 

So in his loosen'd cloak 

The Old Man wrapt himself, 

And laid his limbs at length ; 

And Thalaba in silence laid him down. 

Awhile he lay, and watcli'd the lovely Moon, 

O'er whose broad orb the boughs 

A mazy fretting framed. 

Or with a pale, transparent green 

Lighting the restless leaves. 

The thin Acacia leaves that play'd above. 

The murmuring wind, the moving leaves, 

Soothed him at length to sleep, 
With mingled lullabies of sight and sound. 

11. 

Not so the dark Magician by his side, 

Lobaba, who from the Domdaniel caves 

Had sought the dreaded youth. 

Silent he lay, and simulating sleep. 

Till, by the long and regular breath he knew, 

The youth beside him slept. 

Carefully then he rose, 

And bending over him, survey "d him near ; 

And secretly he cursed 

The dead Abdaldar's ring, 

Arm'd by whose amulet 

He slept from danger safe. 

12. 

Wrapt in his mantle Thalaba reposed, 

His loose right arm pillowing his easy head. 

The Moon was on the Ring, 

Whose crystal gem return 'd 

A quiet, moveless light. 

Vainly the Wizard vile put forth his hand, 

33 



And strove to reach the gem ; 

Charms, strong as hell could make them, kept it 

safe. 

He call'd his servant-fiends. 

He bade the Genii rob the sleeping youth 

By the virtue of the Ring, 

By Mahommed's holier power, 

By the holiest name of God, 

Had Thalaba disarm'd the evil race. 

13. 

Baffled and weary, and convinced at length, 

Anger, and fear, and rancor gnawing him. 

The accursed Sorcerer ceased his vain attempts. 

Content perforce to wait 

Temptation's likelier aid. 

Restless he lay, and brooding many a w^ile. 

And tortured with impatient hope. 

And envying with the bitterness of hate 

The innocent youth, who slept so sweetly by. 

14. 

The ray of morning on his eyelids fell, 

And Thalaba awoke, 

And folded his mantle around him, 

And girded his loins for the day ; 

Then the due rites of lioliness observed. 

His comrade too arose. 

And with the outward forms 

Of rigliteousness and prayer insulted God. 

They fill'd their water skin, they gave 

The Camel his full draught. 

Then on the road, while yet the morn was young, 

And the air was fresh with dew. 

Forward the travellers went, 

Witli various talk beguiling the long way. 

But soon the youth, whose busy mind 

Dwelt on Lobaba's wonder-stirring words, 

Renew'd the unfinish'd converse of the night. 

15. 

THALABA. 

Thou said'st that it is true, and yet is false. 

That men accurst attain at Babylon 

Forbidden knowledge from the Angel pair : — 

How mean you ? 

LOBABA. 

All things have a double power, 

Alike for good and evil. The same fire 

That on the comfortable hearth at eve 

Warm'd the good man, flames o'er the house at 

night; 

Should we for this forego 

The needful element.-* 

Because the scorching summer Sun 

Darts fever, wouldst thou quench the orb of day .'* 

Or deemest thou that Heaven in anger form'd 

Iron to till the field, because when man 

Had tipt his arrows for the chase, he rush'd 

A murderer to the war .'' 

THALABA. 

What follows hence ? 



258 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



That nothing in itself is good or evil, 

But only in its use. Think you the man 

Praiseworthy, who by painful study learns 

The knowledge of all simples, and their power, 

Healing or harmful ? 

THALABA. 

All men hold in honor 

The skilful Leech. From land to land he goes 

Safe in his privilege ; the sword of war 

Spares him ; Kings welcome him with costly gifts; 

And he who late had from the couch of pain 

Lifted a languid look to him for aid, 

Beholds him with glad eyes, and blesses him 

In his first thankful prayer 

LOBABA. 

Yet some there are 

Who to the purposes of wickedness 

Apply this knowledge, and from herbs distil 

Poison, to mix it in the trusted draught. 

THALABA. 

Allah shall cast them in the eternal fire 
Whose fuel is the cursed ! there shall they 

Endure the ever-burning agony. 
Consuming still in flames, and still renew'd. 

LOBABA. 

But is their knowledge therefore in itself 
Unlawful .'' 

THALABA. 

That were foolishness to think. 

LOBABA. 

Oh, what a glorious animal were Man, 
Knew he but his own powers, and, knowing, gave 

them 

Room for their growth and spread ! The Horse 

obeys 

His guiding will ; the patient Camel bears him 

Over these wastes of sand ; the Pigeon wafts 

His bidding through the sky ; — and with these 

triumphs 

He rests contented ! — with these ministers, — 

When he might awe the Elements, and make 

Myriads of Spirits serve him ! 

THALABA. 

But as how ? 
By a league with Hell, a covenant that binds 
! The soul to utter death ! 

LOBABA. 

Was Solomon 

Accurst of God ? Yet to his talismans 

Obedient, o'er his throne the birds of Heaven, 

Their waving wings his sun-shield, fann'd around 

him 
The motionless air of noon; from place to place, 

As his will rein'd the viewless Element, 

He rode the Wind ; the Genii rear'd his temple, 

And ceaselessly in fear while his dread eye 



O'erlook'd them, day and night pursued their toil. 
So dreadful was his power. 

THALABA. 

But 'twas from Heaven 

His wisdom came ; God's special gift, — the guerdon 

Of early virtue. 

LOBABA. 

Learn thou, O young man ! 

God hath appointed wisdom the reward 

Of study ! 'Tis a well of living waters, 

Whose inexhaustible bounties all might drink ; 

But few dig deep enough. Son ! thou art silent, — 

Perhaps I say too much, — perhaps offend thee. 

THALABA. 

Nay, I am young, and willingly, as becomes me. 
Hear the wise words of age. 

LOBABA: 

Is it a crime 

To mount the Horse, because, forsooth, thy feet 

Can serve thee for the journey ? — Is it sin. 

Because the Hern soars upward in the sky 

Above the arrow's flight, to train the Falcon 

Whose beak shall pierce him there ? The powers 

which Allah 

Granted to man, were granted for his use ; 

All knowledge that befits not human weakness 

Is placed beyond its reach. — They who repair 

To Babylon, and from the Angels learn 

Mysterious wisdom, sin not in the deed. 

THALABA. 

Know you these secrets ? 

LOBABA. 

1 ? alas ! my Son, 
My age just knows enough to understand 
How little all its knowledge ! Later years, 

Sacred to study, teach me to regret 

Youth's unforeseeing indolence, and hours 

That cannot be recall'd ! Something I know 

The properties of herbs, and have sometimes 

Brought to the afilicted comfort and relief 

By the secrets of my art ; under His blessing 

Without whom all had fail'd ! Also of (xems 

I have some knowledge, and the characters 

That tell beneath what aspect they were set. 

THALABA. 

Behke you can interpret then the gravmg 
Around this Ring ! 

LOBABA. 

My sight is feeble, Son, 
And I must view it closer ; let me try ! 

16. 

The unsuspecting Youth 

Held forth his finger to draw off" the spell. 

Even whilst he held it forth. 

There settled there a Wasp, 

And just above the Gem infix'd its dart; 



BOOK IV. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER 



259 



All purple-swollen, the hot and painful flesh 

Rose round the tighten'd Ring. 

The baffled Sorcerer knew the hand of Pleaven, 

And inwardly blasphemed. 

17. 

Ere long, Lobaba's heart, 

Fruitful in wiles, devised new stratagem. 

A mist arose at noon, 

Like the loose, hanging skirts 

Of some low cloud, that, by the breeze impell'd, 

Sweeps o'er the mountain side. 

With joy the thoughtless youth 

That grateful shadowing hail'd ; 

For grateful was the shade, 

While through the silver-lighted haze, 

Guiding their way, appear'd the beamless Sun. 

But soon that beacon fail'd; 

A heavier mass of cloud, 

Impenetrably deep, 

Hung o'er the wilderness. 

*' Knowest thou the track.? " quoth Thalaba, 

" Or should we pause, and wait the wind 

To scatter this bewildering fog? " 

The Sorcerer ansvver'd him — 

" Now let us hold right on ; for if we stray, 

The Sun to-morrow will direct our course." 

So saying, he toward the desert depths 

Misleads the youth deceived. 

18. 

Earlier the night came on. 

Nor moon, nor stars, were visible in heaven ; 

And when at morn the youth unclosed his eyes, 

He knew not where to turn his face in prayer. 

" What shall w^e do.? " Lobaba cried ; 

" The lights of heaven have ceased 

To guide us on our way. 

Should we remain and wait 

More favorable skies, 

Soon would our food and water fail us here ; 

And if we venture on, 
There are the dangers of the wilderness ! " 

19. 

" Sure it were best proceed ! " 

The chosen youth replies ; 

" So haply we may reach some tent, or grove 

Of dates, or station'd tribe. 

But idly to remain. 

Were yielding effortless, and waiting death." 

The wily sorcerer willingly assents, 

And farther in the sands, 

Elate of heart, he leads the credulous youth. 

20. 

Still o'er the wilderness 

Settled the moveless mist. 

The timid Antelope, that heard their steps. 

Stood doubtful where to turn in that dim light; 

The Ostrich, blindly hastening, met them full. 

At night, again in hope, 

Young Thalaba lay down ; 

The morning came, and not one guiding ray 



Through the thick mist was visible, 
The same deep moveless mist that mantled all. 

21. 

Oh for the Vulture's scream. 

Who haunts for prey the abode of human-kind ! 

Oh for the Plover's pleasant cry 

To tell of water near ! 

Oh for the Camel-driver's song ! 

For now the water-skin grows light. 

Though of the draught, more eagerly desired, 

Imperious prudence took with sparing thirst. 

Oft from the third night's broken sleep, 

As in his dreams he heard 

The sound of rusliing winds, 

Started the anxious youth, and look'd abroad 

In vain ! for still the deadly calm endured. 

Another day pass'd on ; 

The water-skin was drain'd ; 

But then one hope arrived, 

For there was motion in the air ! 

The sound of the wind arose anon, 

That scatter'd the thick mist. 

And lo ! at length the lovely face of Heaven ! 

22. 

Alas ! a wretched scene 

Was open'd on their view. 

They look'd around ; no wells were near, 

No tent, no human aid ! 

Flat on the Camel lay the water-skin. 

And their dumb servant difficultly now, 

Over hot sands and under the hot sun, 

Dragg'd on with patient pain 

23. 

But, oh, the joy ! the blessed siglit ! 

When in that burning waste the Travellers 

Saw a green meadow, fair with flowers besprent, 

Azure and yellow, like the beautiful fields 

Of England, when amid the growing grass 

The blue-bell bends, the golden king-cup shines, 

And the sweet cowslip scents the genial air, 

In the merry month of May I 

Oh, joy ! the Travellers 

Gaze on each other with hope-brighten'd eyes, 

For sure through that green meadow flows 

The living stream ! And lo ! their famish'd beast 

Sees the restoring sight ! 

Hope gives his feeble limbs a sudden strength ; 

He hurries on ! — 

24 

The herbs so fair to eye 

Were Senna, and the Gentian's blossom blue. 

And kindred plants, that with unwater'd root 

Fed in the burning sand, whose bitter leaves 

Even frantic Famine loathed. 

25. 

In uncommunicating misery 

Silent they stood. At length Lobaba said, 

" Son, we must slay the Camel, or we die 

For lack of water 1 thy young hand is firm, — 



260 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



Draw forth the knife and pierce him!" Wretch 

accurst ! 

Who that beheld thy venerable face, 

Thy features stiff with suffering, the dry lips, 

The feverish eyes, could deem that all within 

Was magic ease, and fearlessness secure, 

And wiles of hellish import ? The young man 

Paused with reluctant pity ; but he saw 

His comrade's red and painful countenance. 

And his own burning breath came short and 

quick, 

And at his feet the grasping beast 

Lies, over-worn with want. 

26. 
' Then from his girdle Thalaba took the knife 
With stern compassion, and from side to side 
Across the Camel's throat 
Drew deep the crooked blade. 
Servant of man, that merciful deed 
Forever ends thy suffering; but what doom 
Waits thy deliverer ? " Little will thy death 
Avail us!" thought the youth. 
As in the water-skin he pour'd 
The Camel's hoarded draught; 
It gave a scant supply. 
The poor allowance of one prudent day. 

27. 
Son of Hodeirah, though thy steady soul 

Despair'd not, firm in faith, 

Yet not the less did suffering nature feel 

Its pangs and trials. Long their craving thirst 

Struggled with fear, by fear itself inflamed ; 

But drop by drop, that poor. 

That last supply is drain'd. 

Still the same burning sun ! no cloud in heaven! 

The hot air quivers, and the sultry mist 

Floats o'er the desert, with a show 
Of distant waters, mocking their distress. 

28. 

The youth's parch'd lips were black, 

His tongue was dry and rough, 

His eyeballs red with heat. 

Lobaba gazed on him with looks 

That seem'd to speak of pity, and he said, 

" Let me behold thy Ring ; 

It mg,y have virtue that can save us yet ! " 

With that he took his hand, 

And view'd the writing close, 

Then cried with sudden joy, 

" It is a stone that whoso bears, 

The Genii must obey ! 

Now raise thy voice, my Son, 

And bid them in His name that here is written 

Preserve us in our need." 



29. 

" Nay ! " answer'd Thalaba; 

*' Shall I distrust the providence of God .? 

Is it not He must save .'' 

If Allah wills it not. 

Vain were the Genii's aid." 



30. 

Whilst he spake, Lobaba's eye, 

Upon the distance fix'd, 

Attended not his speech. 

Its fearful meaning drew 

The looks of Thalaba ; 

Columns of sand came moving on; 

Red in the burning ray. 

Like obelisks of fire. 

They rush'd before the driving wind. 

Vain were all thoughts of flight 1 

They had not hoped escape. 

Could they have back'd the Dromedary tnen, 

Who, in his rapid race. 

Gives to the tranquil air a drowning force. 

31. 

High — high in heaven upcurl'd 

The dreadful sand-spouts moved ; 

Swift as the whirlwind that impell'd their way 

They came toward the travellers ! 

The old Magician shriek'd, 

And lo ! the foremost bursts. 

Before the whirlwind's force. 

Scattering afar a burning shower of sand. 

" Now by the virtue of the Ring, 

Save us ! " Lobaba cried, 

" While yet tnou hast the power, 

Save us ! O save us ! now ! " 

The youth made no reply. 

Gazing in awful wonder on the scene. 

32. 

"Why dost thou wait ? " the Old Man exclaim'd ; 

" If Allah and the Prophet will not save. 

Call on the Powers that will ! " 

33. 

"Ha! do I know thee. Infidel accurst.^ " 

Exclaim'd the awaken'd youth. 

" And thou hast led me hither. Child of Sin ! 

That fear might make me sell 

My soul to endless death ! " 

34. 

" Fool that thou art ! " Lobaba cried, 

" Call upon Him whose name 

Thy charmed signet bears. 

Or die the death thy foolishness deserves ! " 

35. 

" Servant of Hell ! die thou ! " quoth Thalaba. 

And leaning on his bow. 

He fitted the loose string, 

And laid the arrow in its resting-place. 

"Bow of my Father, do thy duty now ! " 

He drew the arrow to its point ; 

True to his eye it fled, 

And full upon the breast 

It smote the Sorcerer. 
Astonish'd Thalaba beheld 
The blunted point recoil. 

36. 

A proud and bitter smile 
Wrinkled Lobaba's cheek. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



261 



*' Try once again thine earthly arms ! " he cried. 

" Rash Boy I the Power I serve 

Abandons not his votaries. 

It is for Allah's wretched slaves, like thou, 

To serve a master, v/ho in the hour of need 

Forsakes them to tlieir fate ! 

I leave thee ! " — and he shook his staff, andcall'd 

The Chariot of his charms. 

37. 

Swift as the viewless wind, 

Self-moved, the Chariot came ; 

The Sorcerer mounts the seat. 

" Yet once more weigh thy danger ! " he resumed ; 

" Ascend the car witli me, 

And with the speed of thought 

We pass the desert bounds." 

The indignant youth vouchsafed not to reply ; 

And lo ! the magic car begins its course ! 

38. 

Hark ! hark ! — he shrieks — Lobaba shrieks ! 

What, wretch, and hast thou raised 

The rushing terrors of the Wilderness 

To fall on thine own head ? 

Death ! death ! inevitable death ! 

Driven by the breath of God, 

A column of the Desert met his way. 



NOTES TO BOOK IV. 

How great our fathers were, how little we. — 9, p. 25G. 

The Mussulmans are immutably prepossessed, that as the 
Earth approaches its dissolution, its sons and daughters grad- 
ually decrease in their dimensions. As for Dagjial, they 
say he will find the race of mankind dwindled into such 
diminutive pigmies, that their habitations in cities, and all the 
best towns, will be of no other fabric than llie shoes and 
slippers made in these present ages, placed in rank and file, 
in seemly and regular order ; allowing one pair for two round 
families. — Mor<Tan^s Hist, of Algiers. 

The Cady then asked me, "If I knew when Hagiuge was 
to come ? " " I have no wish to know any thing al)out him," 
said I; "I hope those days are fir off, and will not happen in 
my time." "What do your books say concerning him.''" 
says he, affecting a look of great wisdom. " Do they agree 
with ours ? " " I don't know that," said I, " till 1 hear what 
IS written in your books." " Hagiuge Magiuge," says he, 
"are little people not so big as bees, or like Ihe zimb, or fly 
of Sennaar, that came in great swarms out of tiie earth, ay, 
in multitudes that cannot be counted ; two of their chiefs are 
to ride upon an ass, and every htir of that ass is to be a pipe, 
and every pipe is to jilay a diflercnt kind of music, and all 
that hear and follow them are to he carried to hell." " I 
know them not," said 1 ; " and in the name of the Lord, I 
fear them not, were they twice as little as you say they are, 
and twice as numerous. I trust in God I shall never be so 
fond of music as to go to hell after an ass, for all the tunes 
that he or they can play." — Bruce. 

These very little people, according to Thevenot, are to be 
great drinkers, and will drink the sea dry. 



In the mild lustre, &;c. — 9, p. 258. 

The story of Haruth and Maruth, as in the Poem, may be 
found in D'Herbelot, and in Sale's notes to the Koran. Of 
the different accounts, I have preferred that which makes 
Zohara originally a woman, and metamorphoses her into the 



planet Venus, to that which says the planet Venus descended 
as Zohara to tempt the Angels. 

The Arabians have so childish a love of rhyme, that when 
two names are usually coupled, they make them jingle, as in 
the case of Haruth and Maruth. Thus they call Cain and 
Abel, Abel and Kabel. I am infurmed that the Koran is 
crowded with rhymes, more particularly at the conclusion of 
the chapters. 



A previous price, the knowledge of the name 
Of Qod. 9, p. 256. 

The Ism-Ablah — The Science of the Name of God. 

They pretend that God is the lock of this science, and Ma- 
hommed the key ; that consequently none but Mahommedana 
can attain it ; that it discovers what passes in distant coun- 
tries ; that it familiarizes the possessors with the Genii, who 
are at the command of the initiated, and who instruct them ; 
that it places the winds and the seasons at their disposal ; 
that it heals the bite of serpents, the lame, the maimed, and 
the blind. They say, that some of their greatest Saints, such 
as Mdulkadir, Cheilani of Bagdad, and IbnMwan, who resided 
in the south of Yemen, were so far advanced in this science 
by their devotion, that they said their prayers every noon in 
the Kaba of Mecca, and were not absent from their own 
houses any other part of the day. A merchant of Mecca, who 
had learnt it in all its forms from Mahommed el Dsjanadsenji, 
(at present so famous in that city,) pretended that he himself, 
being in danger of perishing at sea, had fastened a billet to 
the mast, with the usual ceremonies, and that immediately 
the tempest ceased. He showed me, at Bombay, but at a dis- 
tance, a book which contained all sorts of figures and mathe- 
matical tables, with instructions how to arrange the billets, 
and the appropriate prayers for every circumstance. But he 
would neither sufi'er me to touch the book, nor copy the 
title. 

There are some Mahommedans who shut themselves up in 
a dark place without eating and drinking for a long time, and 
tiiere with a loud voice repeat certain short prayers till they 
faint. When they recover, they pretend to have seen not 
only a crowd of spirits, but God himself, and even the Devil. 
But the true initiated in the Ism-Allah do not seek these 
visions. The secret of discovering hidden treasures belongs 
also, if I mistake not, to the Ism-AllaJi. — JViebuhr. 



Huge CLS the giant race of elder times. — 9, p. 256. 

One of the Arabs, whom we saw from afar, and who was 
mounted upon a camel, seemed higher than a tower, and to be 
moving in the air ; at first this was to me a strange appear- 
ance ; however, it was only the effect of refraction ; the 
Camel, which the Arab was upon, touching the ground like all 
others. There was nothing then extraordinary in this phe- 
nomenon, and I afterwards saw many appearances exactly 
similar in the dry countries. — J^iebuhr. 

" They surprised you, not indeed by a sudden assault; but 
they advanced, and the sultry vapor of noon, through which 
you saw them, increased their magnitude." — Moallakat. 
Poem of Harcth. 



So in his loosened cloak 

The Old Man wrapt himself. — 10, p. 257. 

One of these Hijkcs is usually six yards long and five or 
six feet broad, serving the Arab for a complete dress in the 
day, and for his bed and covering in the night. It is a 
loose but troublesome kind of garment, being frequently dis- 
concerted and falling upon the ground, so tlmt the person who 
wears it is every moment obliged to tuck it up, and fold it 
anew about his body. This shows the great use there is for 
a girdle in attending any active employment, and, in conse- 
quence thereof, the force of the Scripture injunction alluding 
thereunto, oT having our loins girded. The method of wear- 
ing these garments, with the use they are at other times put 
to, in serving for coverlets to their beds, should induce us to 
take the finer sort of them, at least, such as are worn by the 
ladies and persons of distinction, to be the peplus of the 
ancients. It is very probable likewise, that the loose folding 



262 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK IV, 



garment (the Toga I take it to be) of the Romans was of 
this kind , for if the drapery of their statues is to instruct us, 
this is actually no other than what the Arabs appeiir in, when 
they are folded up in their Iltjkes. Instead of the fibula, 
they join together, with thread or a wooden bodkin, the two 
upper corners of this garment, which being first placed over 
one of their shoulders, they fold the rest of it afterwards 
round their bodies. — Shaw. 

The employment of the women is to prepare their wool, 
spin, and weave in looms hung lengthways in their tents. 
Those looms are formed by a list of an ell and a half long, to 
which the threads of the warp are fixed at one end, and at the 
other on a roller of equal length ; the weight of which, being 
suspended, keeps them stretched. The threads of the warp 
are so hung as to be readily intersected. Instead of shuttles, 
the women pass the thread of the woof through the warp 
with their fingers, and with an iron comb, having a handle, 
press the woof to give a body to their cloth. Each piece, of 
about five ells long, and an ell and a half wide, is called a 
haick j it receives neither dressing, milling, nor dyeing, but is 
immediately fit for use. It is the constant dress of the JMoors 
of the country, is witliout seam, and incapable of varying, 
according to the caprices of fashion : when dirty, it is washed. 
The Moor is wrapped up in it day and night ; and this haick 
is the living model of the drapery of the ancients. — Chenier. 

If thou at all take thy neighbor's raiment to pledge, thou 
shalt deliver it unto him by that the Sun goeth down. 

For that is his covering only ; it is his raiment for his skin : 
wherein shall he sleep.'' — ^jotZu^, xxii. 26, 27, 



Consuming still inflames, and still renewed. — 15, p. 258. 

Fear the fire, whose fuel is men and stones prepared for the 
unbelievers. — Koran, Chap. 2. 

Verily, those who disbelieve our signs, we will surely cast 
to be broiled in hell-fire ; so often as their skins shall be well 
burned, we will give them other skins in exchange, that they 
may take the sharper torment. — Koran, Chap. 4. 



Their waving wings his sun-shield. — 15, p. 258. 

The Arabians attribute to Solomon a perpetual enmity and 
warfare against wicked Genii and Giants ; on the subject of 
his wonder-working Ring, their tales are innumerable. They 
have even invented a whole race of Pre-Adamite Solomons, 
who, according to them, governed the world successively, to 
the number of 40, or, as others affirm, as many as 72. All 
these made the evil Genii their unwilling drudges. — VHer- 
helot. 

Anchieta was going in a canoe to the mouth of the river 
Aldea, a delightful spot, surrounded with mango-trees, and 
usually abounding with birds called goarazes, that breed there. 
These birds are about the size of a hen, their color a rich 
purple inclining to red. They are white when hatched, and 
soon become black; but as they grow larger, lose that color, 
and take this rich and beautiful purple. Our navigators had 
reached the place, but when they should have enjoyed the fine 
prospect which delights all who pass it, the sun was excessively 
hot ; and this eye-pleasure was purchased dearly, when the 
whole body was in a profuse perspiration, and the rowers were 
in a fever. Their distress called upon Joseph, and the remedy 
was no new one to him. He saw three or four of these birds 
perched upon a mango, and calling to them in the Brazilian 
language, which the rowers understood, said. Go you, call 
your companions, and come to shade these hot servants of the 
Lord. The birds stretched out their necks as if in obedience, 
and away they went to seek for others, and in a short time 
they came flying in the shape of an elegant cloud, and they 
shadowed the canoe a good league out to sea, till the fresh 
sea-breeze sprung up. Then he told them they might go 
about their business ; and they separated with a clamor of 
rude, but joyful sounds, which were only understood by the 
Author of Nature, who created them. This was a greater 
miracle than that of the cloud with which God defended his 
chosen people in the wilderness from the heat of the sun, in- 
asmuch as it was a more elegant and fanciful parasol. Acho 
quefoy maior portento este que o da nuvem, com que Decs defendeo 



no deserto a seu Povo mimoso do color do sol, tanto quanta mais 
tem de gracioso et aprasivel este chapeo de sol, que aquelle. 

This was one of Anchieta's common miracles. Jacob 
Biderman has an epigram upon the subject, quoted in the 
Jesuit's Life. 

Hesperii peterent cum barbara littora mystcB, 

Et sociis mger pluribus unus erat, 
Ille saum extiacto, Phoehi quia lampadis cestu 

Occultoque uri, questus ab igne caput ; 
Qumsiit in prora, si quam daret angulus umbram, 

JVtilla sed in prorcB partibus umbra fuit. 
QucBsilt in piLppi, nihil umbra puppis habebat, 

Summa sed urebant solis, et ima faces. 
His cupiens Anchieta malis succurrere, solam 

Aera per medium tendere vidit avem, 
Vidit, ei sociaa, ait, i, qucsre cohortes, 

Aliger atque redux cum legione veni. 
Dicta probavit avis, celerique citatior Euro, 

Cognatam properat, queerer e jussa gregem, 
Milleqae mox sociis comitala revertitur alis, 

Mille sequi vises, mille prceire ducem. 
Mille supra, et totidem, juxtaque, infraque volabanty 

Omnis ad Anchietm turba vocata preces. 
Et simul expands facta testudine pennis, 

Desuper in tost.as incuhuere rates. 
Etprucul inde ditm, et lucem pepulere diet, 

Debile dum mollis conderet umbra caput. 
Scilicet hmc fierent, ut canopea repente 

Anchieta artifices esse coegit aves. 

Vida do Veneravel Padre Joseph de Anchieta, da Companhia 
de Jesu, Taumaturgo do Jfovo Mtindo, na Provincia do Brasil. 
composta pello P. Simam de Vasconcellos, da mesma Companhia. 
— Lisboa. 1672. 

The Jesuits probably stole this miracle from the Arabian 
story of Solomon ; not that they are by any means deficient in- 
invention ; but they cannot be suspected of ignorance. 

In that rare book, the Margarita Philosophica Basilice, 1535, 
is an account of a parasol more convenient, though not in so 
elegant a taste, as that of the wonder-working Anchieta. There 
is said to be a nation of one-legged men ; and one of these 
unipeds is represented in a print, lying on his back, under the 
shade of his own great foot. 

The most curious account of Solomon's wisdom is in Da 
Bartas. 

Hee knowes — 

Whether the Heaven's sweet-sweating kisse appear 

To be Pearls parent, and the Oysters pheer, 

And whether, dusk, it makes them dim withall, 

Cleer breeds the cleer, and stormy brings the pale ; 

Whether from sea the amber-greece be sent, 

Or be some fishes pleasant excrement ; 

He knowes why the Earth's immoveable and round, 

The lees of Nature, centre of the mound ; 

Hee knows her measure ; and hee knows beside 

How Coloqaintida (duely apply'd) 

Within the darknesse of the Conduit-pipes, 

Amid the winding of our inward tripes, 

Can so discreetly the white humour take. 

Sylvester^s Du Bartas. 



He rode the wind, &c. — 15, p. 258. 
" And we made the wind * subject unto Solomon ; it blew 
in the morning for a month, and in the evening for a month. 
And we made a fountain of molten brass to flow f for him. 
And some of the Genii were obliged to work in his presence, 
by the will of his Lord ; and whoever of them turned aside 
from our command, we will cause him to taste the pain of 



* They say that he had a carpet of g-reen sillf, on which his throne was 
placed, being of a prodigious length and breadth, and sufficient for all his 
forces to stand on, the men placing themselves on his right hand, and the 
spirits on his left; and (hat when all were in order, the wind, at his com- 
mand, took up the carpet and transported it, with all that were upon it, 
wheresoever he pleased ; the army of birds at the same time flying over 
their heads, and forming a kind of canopy to shade them from the sun. 

t A fountain of molten brass. This fountain, they say, was in Yeman, 
and flowed three days in a month. 



BOOK IV. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



263 



hell-tire.* They made for iiiin whatever he pleased, of 
palaces and statues,! and large dishes like fish-ponds, | and 
caldrons standing firm on their trevets.^ And we said. 
Work righteousness, O family of David, with thanksgiving: 
for fiiw of my servants are thankful. And when we had de- 
creed that Solomon should die, nothing discovered his death 
unto them, except the creeping thing of the earth, which 
gnawed his 6taff.|| 

And when his hody fell down, the Genii plainly perceived, 
that if they had known that which is secret, they had not 
continued in a vile punishment." — Koran, Chap. 34. 



Oh for the Plover^ s pleasant cry. — 21, p. 259. 

In places where there was water, wo found a beautiful 
variety of the plover. — JViebuhr. 



Oh for the Camel-driver'' s song. — 21, p. 259. 

The camels of the hot countries are not fastened one to 
the tail of the other, as in cold climates, but suffered to go 
at their will, like herds of cows. The camel-driver follows 
singing, and from time to time, giving a sudden whistle. The 
louder he sings and whistles, the faster the camels go ; and 
they stop as soon as he ceases to sing. The camel-drivers, to 
relieve each other, sing alternately 3 and when they wish tlieir 
beasts to browse for half an hour on what they can find, they 
amuse themselves by smoking a pipe ; after which, beginning 
again to sing, the camels immediately proceed. — Tavernier. 



Even.frantic Famine loathed. — 24, p. 259. 

At four in the afternoon, we had an unexpected entertain- 
ment, which filled our hearts with a very short-lived joy. The 
whole plain before us seemed thick covered with green grass 
and yellow daisies. We advanced to the place with as much 
speed as our lame condition would suffer us ; but how ter- 
rible was our disappointment, when we found the whole of 
that verdure to consist in senna and coloquintida, the most 
nauseous of plants, and the most incapable of being substi- 
tuted as food for man or beast ! — Bruce. 



Then from his girdle Thalaba took the knife. — 26, p. 260. 

The girdles of these people arc usually of worsted, very 
artfully woven into a variety of figures, and made to wrap 

* We will cause him to taste the pain of hell-fire ; or, as some expound 
the words, we caused him to taste the pain of burning ; by which they 
luiderstand tlie correction the disobedient Genii received at the hauds of 
the Angel set over them, who whipped them with a whip of fire. 

t St;itues. Some suppose lliese were images of the Angels and Prophets, 
and that the making of them was not forbidden, or else that ihey were not 
Biich Images as were forbidden by the law. Some say these Spirits made 
him two lions, which were placed at the foot of his throne, and two eajles, 
which were set above it ; and that when he mounted it, the lions stretched 
out their paws, and when he sat down, the eagles shaded huii with their 
wings. 

X Dishes like fishponds ; being so monstrously large, that a thousand 
men might eat out of each of them at once. 

§ And caldrons standing firm on their trevets. — These caldrons, they 
say, were cut out of the mountains of Yemsn, and were so vastly big, that 
tliey could not be moved ; and people went up to them by steps. 

II Nothing discovered his dealh but the crceplnj thing of the earth 
which gnawed his stafl". — The commentators, to explain this passage, tell 
us, that David, having laid tlie foundations of the temple of Jerusalem, 
which was to be In lieu of tlie tabernacle of Moses, when he died, left it 
to be finished by his son Solomon, who employed the Genii in the work: 
that Solomon, before the edifice was completed, perceiving his end drew 
nigh, begged of God that his death might be concealed from the Genii, 
till they had entirely finished it; that God therefore so ordered it, that 
Solomon di^d as he stood at his prayers, leaning on his staff", which sup- 
ported the body in that posture a full year ; and the Genii, supposing him 
to be alive, continued their work during that term ; at the expiration 
whereof, the temple being perfectly completed, a worm, which had gotten 
into the staff, ate it through, and the corpse fell to the ground, and dis- 
covered the king's death. 

Possibly this fable of the temple being built by Genii, and not by men, 
imglu take its rise from what is mentioned in Scripture, that the house 
was built of stone, made ready before it was brought thither; so that there 
was neither hammer nor axe, nor tool of iron heard in the house while it 
was building. 



several times about their bodies ; one end of them, by being 
doubled and sewn along the edges, serves them for a purse, 
agreeable to the acceptation of the word Zwj//? in the Holy 
Scriptures : the Turks and Arabs make a further use of their 
girdles, by fixing their knives and poniards in them ; whilst 
the Hojias, i. c. the writers and secretaries, are distinguished 
by having an inkhorn, the badge of their office, suspended in 
the like situation. — Shaw. 



■Across the CameVs throat. — 26, p. 260. 

On the road we passed the skeleton of a camel, which now 
and then happens in the desert. These are poor creatures 
that have perished with fatigue ; for those which are killed 
for the sustenance of the Arabs, are carried away, bones and 
all together. Of the hides arc made the soles of the slippers 
which are worn in Egypt, without any dressing but what the 
sun can give them. The circumstances of this animal's 
death, when his strength fails him on the road, have some- 
thing in them affecting to humanity. Such are his patience 
and perseverance, that he pursues his journey without flag- 
ging, as long as he has power to support its weight ; and such 
are his fortitude and spirit, that he will never give out, until 
nature sinks beneath the complicated ills which press upon 
him. Then, and then only, will he resign his burden and 
body to the ground. ]S'or stripes, nor caresses, nor food, nor 
rest, will make him rise again ! His vigor is exhausted, and 
life ebbs out apace. This the Arabs are very sensible of, and 
kindly plimge a sword into the breast of the dying beast, to 
shorten his pangs. Even the Arab feels remorse when he 
commits this deed ; his hardened heart is moved at the loss 
of a faithful servant — Eijles Irwin. 

In the Monthly Magazine for January, 1800, is a letter from 
Professor Heering recommending the introduction of these 
animals at the Cape ; but the camel is made only for level 
countries. " The animal is very ill qualified to travel upon 
the snow or wet ground : the breadth in which they carry 
their legs, when they slip, often occasions their splitting 
themselves ; so that when they fall with great burdens, they 
seldom rise again." — Jonas Hanicay. 

The African Arabs say, if one should put the question, 
Which is bcdt for you, Camel, to go up hill or down 1 he will 
make answer, Ood^6 curse light on 'em both, wheresoever they 
are to be met with. — Morgan's Hist, of Algiers. 

No creature seems so peculiarly fitted to the climate in 
which it exists. We cannot doubt the nature of the one has 
been adapted to that of the other by some disposing intelli- 
gence. Designing the camel to dwell in a country where he 
can find little nourishment, nature has been sparing of her 
materials in the whole of his formation. She has not bo- 
stowed upon him the plump fleshiness of the ox, horse, or 
elephant ; but limiting herself to what is strictly necessary, 
she has given him a small head without ears, at Lite end of a 
long neck without flesh. She has taken from his logs and 
thighs every muscle not immediately jequisite for motion 5 
and, in short, has bestowed on his withered body only the 
vessels and tendons necessary to cormect his frame together. 
She has furnished him with a strong jaw, that he may grind 
the hardest aliments ; but lest he should consume too much, 
she has contracted his stoinach, and obliged him to chew the 
cud. She has lined his foot with a lump of flesh, which, 
sliding in the mud, and being no way adapted for climbing, 
fits him only for a dry, level, and sandy soil, like that of 
Arabia. SJie has evidently destined him likewise to sla- 
very by refusing him every sort of defence against his 
enemies. Destitute of the horns of the bull, the hoofs 
of the horse, the tooth of the elephant, and the swiftness 
of the stag, how can the camel resist or avoid the attacks 
of the lion, the tiger, or even the wolf.-" To preserve the 
species, therefore, nature has concealed him in the depths of 
the vast deserts, where the want of vegetables can attract 
no game, and whence the want of game repels every vora- 
cious animal. Tyranny must have expelled man from the 
habitable parts of the earth, before the camel could have lost 
his liberty. Become domestic, he has rendered habitable the 
most barren soil the world contains. He alone supplies all 
his master's wants. The milk of the camel nourishes the 



264 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER 



BOOK IV. 



family of the Arab, under the various forms of curds, cheese, 
and butter 3 and they often feed upon his flesh. Slippers and 
harness are made of his skin, and tents and clothing of his 
hair. Heavy burdens are transported by his means, and when 
the earth denies forage to the horse, so valuable to the Bed- 
ouin, the she-camel supplies that deficiency by her milk, at 
no other cost, for so many advantages, than a few stalks of 
brambles or wormwood, and pounded date-kernels. So great 
is the importance of the camel to the desert, that were it de- 
prived of that useful animal, it must infallibly lose every 
inhabitant. — Volney. 



Of distant waters^ &c. — 27, p. 260. 

Where any parts of these deserts is sandy and level, the 
horizon is as fit for astronomical observations as the sea, and 
appears, at a small distance, to be no less a collection of water. 
It was likewise equally surprising to observe, in what an ex- 
traordinary manner every object appeared to be magnified 
within it ; insomuch that a shrub seemed as big as a tree, and 
a flock of Achbobbas might be mistaken for a caravan of 
camels. This seeming collection of water always advances 
about a quarter of a mile before us, whilst the intermediate 
space appears to be in one continued glow, occasioned by the 
quivering, undulating motion of that quick succession of 
vapors and exhalations, which are extracted by the powerful 
influence of the sun. — Shaw. 

In the Bahar Danush is a metaphor drawn from this optical 
deception. "It is the ancient custom of fortune, and time 
has long established the habit, that she at first bewilders the 
thirsty travellers in the path of desire, by the misty vapors of 
disappointment; but when their distress and misery has reached 
extremity, suddenly relieving them from the dark windings of 
confusion and error, she conducts them to the fountains of 
enjoyment." 

" The burning heat of the sun was reflected with double 
violence from the hot sand, and the distant ridges of the hills, 
seen through the ascending vapors, seemed to wave and fluc- 
tuate like the unsettled sea." — Mungo Park. 

" I shake the lash over my camel, and she quickens her 
pace, while the sultry vapor rolls in waves over the burning 
cWSs.^'' — Moallakat. Poem of Tarafa. 



His tongue was dry and rough. — 28, p. 260. 

Perhaps no traveller but Mr. Park ever survived to relate 
similar sufferings. 

"I pushed on as fast as possible, in hopes of reaching 
some watering-place in the course of the night. My thirst 
was, by this time, become insufferable; my mouth was 
parched and inflamed; a sudden dimness would frequently 
come over my eyes, with other symptoms of fainting ; and 
my horse being very much fatigued, I began seriously to 
apprehend that I should perish of thirst. To relieve the 
burning pain in my mouth and throat, I chewed the leaves 
ot different shrubs, but found them all bitter, and of no service 
to me. 

" A little before sunset, having reached the top of a gentle 
rising, I climbed a high tree, from the topmost branches of 
which I cast a melancholy look over the barren wilderness, 
but without discovering the most distant trace of a human 
dwelling. The same dismal uniformity of shrubs and sand 
every where presented itself, and the horizon was as level and 
uninterrupted as that of the sea. 

" Descending from the tree, I found my horse devouring 
the stubble and brushwood with great avidity ; and as I was 
now too faint to attempt walking, and my horse too much 
fatigued to carry me, I thought it but an act of humanity, and 
perhaps the last I should ever have it in my power to perform, 
to take oflf his bridle, and let him shift for himself: in doing 
which I was suddenly afl"ected with sickness and giddiness, 
and falling upon the sand, felt as if the hour of death was fast 
approaching. Here then, thought I, after a short, but in- 
effectual struggle, terminate all my hopes of being useful in 
my day and generation ; here must the short span of my life 
come to an end. — I cast (as I believed) a last look on the 
surrounding scene, and whilst I reflected on the awful change 
that was about to take place, this world, with its enjoyments. 



seemed to vanish from my recollection. Nature, however, 
at length, resumed its functions ; and on recovering my senses, 
I found myself stretched upon the sand, with the bridle still 
in my hand, and the sun just sinking behind the trees. I now 
summoned all my resolution, and determined to make another 
effort to prolong my existence. And as the evening was 
somewhat cool, I resolved to travel as far as my limbs would 
carry me, in hopes of reaching (my only resource) a watering- 
place. With this view I put the bridle on my horse, and 
driving him before me, went slowly along for about an hour, 
when I perceived some lightningfrom the north-east — a most 
delightful sight, for it promised rain. The darkness and light- 
ning increased very rapidly ; and in less than an hour I heard 
the wind roaring among the bushes. I had already opened 
my mouth to receive the refreshing drops which I expected, 
but 1 was instantly covered with a cloud of sand, driven with 
such force by the wind, as to give a very disagreeable sensa- 
tion to my face and arms, and I was obliged to mount my horse 
and stop under a bush to prevent being suffocated. — The 
sand continued to fly in amazing quantities, for near an hour, 
after which I again set forward, and travelled with difficulty 
until ten o'clock. About this time, I was agreeably surprised 
by some very vivid flashes of lightning, followed by a few 
heavy drops of rain. In a little time, the sand ceased to fly, 
and I alighted, and spread out all my clean clothes to collect 
the rain, which at length I saw w^ould certainly fall. — For 
more than an hour it rained plentifully, and I quenched my 
thirst by wringing and sucking my clothes." — Park's Trav- 
els in the Interior of Africa. 



Could they have lacked the Dromedary, Sec. — 30, p. 260. 

All the time I was in Barbary, I could never get sight of 
above three or four Dromedaries. These the Arabs call Me- 
hera ; the singular is Meheri. They are of several sorts and 
degrees of value, some worth many common Camels, others 
scarce worth two or three. To look on, they seem little dif- 
ferent from the rest of that species, only I think the excres- 
cence on a Dromedary's back is somewhat less than that 
of a Camel. What is reported of their sleeping, or rather 
seeming scarce alive, for some time after coming into this 
world, is no fable. The longer they lie so, the more excellent 
they prove in their kind, and consequently of higher price and 
esteem. None lie in that trance more than ten days and 
nights. Those that do are pretty rare, and are called Aashari, 
from Aashara, which signifies ten, in Arabic. I saw one such, 
perfectly white all over, belonging to Leila Oumane, Princess 
of that noble Arab Neja, named Heyl ben Ali, I spoke of, 
and upon which she put a very great value, never sending it 
abroad but upon some extraordinary occasion, when the 
greatest expedition was required ; having others, inferior in 
swiftness, for more ordinary messages. They say that one of 
these Aasharies will, in one night, and through a level coun- 
try, traverse as much ground as any single horse can perform 
in ten, which is no exaggeration of the matter, since many 
have affirmed to me, that it makes nothing of holding its rapid 
pace, which is a most violent hard trot, for four-and-twenty 
hours upon a stretch, without showing the least sign of wea- 
riness, or inclination to bait, and that having then swallowed 
a ball or two of a sort of paste, made up of barley-meal, and 
may be a little powder of dates among it, with a bowl of 
water, or Camel's milk, if to be had, and which the courier 
seldom forgets to be provided with, in skins, as well for the 
sustenance of himself as of his Pegasus, the indefatigable ani- 
mal will seem as fresh as at first setting out, and ready to 
continue running at the same scarce credible rate, for as many 
hours longer, and so on from one extremity of the African 
Deserts to the other, provided its rider could hold out without 
sleep or other refreshment. This has been averred to me, by, 
I believe, more than a thousand Arabs and Moors, all agree- 
ing in every particular. 

I happened to be, once in particular, at the tent of that 
Princess, with Ali ben Mahamoud, the Bey, or Vice-Roy of 
the Algerine Eastern Province, when he went thither to cele- 
brate his nuptials with Ambarca, her only daughter, if I mis- 
take not. Among other entertainments she gave her guests, 
the favorite white Dromedary was brought forth, ready sad- 
dled and bridled. I say bridled, because the thong, which 



BOOK V. 



TIIALABA THE DESTROYER. 



265 



serve-s instead of a bridle, was put ihrougli the hole purposely 
made in the gristle of tiie creature's nose. The Arab aji- 
pointed to mount, was straitly laced, from the very loins quite 
to his throat, in a strong leathern jacket, they never riding 
these anim lis any otherwise accoutred ; so impetuously violent 
are the concussions the rider undergoes, during lh;it rapid 
motion, that were he to be loose, I much question whether a 
few hours such unintermitting agitation would not endanger 
the bursting of some of his entrails ; and this the Arabs scru- 
ple not to acknowledge. \Vp were to be diverted with seeing 
this fine Aashari run against some of the swiftest buibs in the 
whole Neja, which is famed for having good ones, of the 
true Libyan breed, shaped like greyhounds, and which will 
sometimes run down an ostrich ; whicii few of the very best 
can pretend to do, especially upon a hard ground, jierfectly 
level. We all started like r:icers, and for the first spirt, most 
of the best mounted among us kept up pretty well, but our 
grass-fed horses soon flagged: several of the Libyan and 
Numidian runners held p.ice till we, who still followed upon 
a good round hand-gallop, could no longer discern them, and 
then gave out ; as we were told after their return. When the 
Dromedary had been out of our sight about an half an hour, we 
again espied it flying towards us with an amazing velocity, and 
in a very few moments was among us, and seemingly nothing 
concerned ; while the horses and mares were all in a foam, and 
scarce able to breathe, as was, likewise, a fleet, tall greyhound 
bitch, of the young Piinces, who had followed and kept pace 
the whole time, and was no sooner got back to us, but lay 
down panting as if ready to expire. I cannot tell how many 
miles we went, but we were near three hours in coming lei- 
surely hack to the tents, yet miide no stop in the way. The 
young Prince Uamet ben al Guydom ben Sakhari, and his 
younger brother Alessoud, told their new brother-in law, that 
they defied all the potentates of Africa to show him such an 
Aashari; and the Arab who rode it, challenged the Bey to lay 
bis lady a wager of 1000 ducats, that ho did not bring him an 
answer to a letter from the Prince of Wargala, in less than 
four days, though Leo Africanus, Rlarmol, and several others, 
assure us, that it is no less than forty Spanish leagues, of four 
miles each, south of Tuggart, to which place, upon another 
occasion, as t shall observe, we made six tedious days march 
from the neighborhood of Hiscara, north of which we were 
then, at least thirty hours riding, if I remember rightly. How- 
ever, the Bey, who was a native of Biscara, and consequently 
well ac(iuainfed with the Sahara, durst not take him up. By 
all circumstances, and the description given us, besides what 
1 know of the matter myself, it could not be much less than 
400 miles, and as many back again, the fellow off'ered to ride, 
in so short a time ; nay, many other Arabs boldly proffered to 
venture all they were worth in the world, that he would per- 
form it with all the ease imaginable. — J\Ior>>au's Hiatvry of 
Algiers. 

Chenier says, " The Dromedary can travel 60 leagues in a 
day ; his motion is so raj id, that the rider is obliged to be 
girthed to the saddle, and to have a handkerchief before his 
mouth, to break the current of the wind." These accounts 
are probably much exaggerated. 

" The royal couriers in Persia wear a white sash girded 
from the shoulders to their waist many times round their 
bodies, by which means they are enabled to ride for many days 
without great fatigue." — Hunway. 



Tlie dreadful sand-spouts moved. — 31, p. 2G0. 

We were here at once surprised and terrified by a sight 
Burely the most magnificent in the world. In that vast ex- 
panse of desert, from W, and to N. W. of us, we saw a number 
of prodigious pillars of sand at different distances, at times 
moving with great celerity, at others stalking with a majestic 
slowness ; at intervals we thought they were comingin a very 
few moments to overwhelm us, and small quantities of sand 
did actually, more thin once, reach us. Again they would 
retreat so as to be almost out of sight, their tops reaching to 
the very clouds. There the tops often separated from the 
bodies, and these, once disjointed, dispersed in the air, and 
did not appear more. Sometimes they were broken near the 
middle, as if struck with a large cannon-shot. About noon, 
they began to advance with considerable swiftness upon us, 
34 



the wind being very strong at north. Eleven of them ranged 
alongside of us, about the distance of throe miles. The 
greatest diameter of the largest appeared to me, at that dis- 
tance, as if it would measure ten feet. They retired from us 
with a wind at S. E., leaving an impression upon my mind to 
which I can give no name ; though surely one ingredient in it 
was fear, with a considerable deal of wonder and astonish- 
ment. It was in vain to think of flying ; the swiftest horse, or 
the fastest-sailing ship, could be of no u^e to carry us out of 
this danger ; and tlie full persuasion of this rivetted me as if 
to the spot where I stood. 

On the 15th, the same appearance of moving pillars of sand 
presented themselves to us, only they seemed to be more in 
number, and less in size. They came several times in a di- 
rection close upon us ; that is, I believe, within less than two 
miles. They began immediately after sunrise, like a thick 
wood, and almost darkened the sun. His rays shining through 
them for near an hour, gave them an appearance of pillars of 
fire. Our people now became desperate ; the Greeks shrieked 
out, and said it was the day of juilgnient, Ismael pronounced 
it to be hell, and the Tucotories that the world was on fire. — 
Bruce. 



THE FIFTH BOOK. 



Thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle ; thou 
hast subdued under me those that rose up against me. 

Psalm xviii. 39. 



1. 

When Thalaba from adoration rose, 

The air was cool, the sky 

With welcome clouds o'ercast, 

Which soon came down in rain. 

He lifted up his fever'd face to heaven, 

And bared his head, and stretch'd his hands 

To that delightful shower, 

And felt the coolness permeate every limb, 

Freshening his powers of life. 

2. 

A loud, quick panting ! Thalaba looks up ; 

He starts, and his instinctive hand 

Grasps the knife hilt ; for close beside 

A Tiger passes him. 

An indolent and languid eye 

The passing Tiger turn'd ; 

His head was hanging down. 

His dry tongue lolling low. 

And the short panting of his breath 

Came through his hot, parch'd nostrils painfully. 

The young Arabian knew 

The purport of his hurried pace. 

And following him in hope. 

Saw joyful from afar 
The Tiger stoop and drink. 



A desert Pelican had built her nest 

In that deep solitude ; 

And now, return'd from distant flight, 

Fraught with the river-stream, 

Her load of water had disburden'd there. 

Her young in the refreshing bath 

Dipp'd down their callow heads, 



266 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



Fill'd the swollen membrane from their plumeless 

throat 

Pendent, and bills yet soft; 

And buoyant with arch'd breast, 

Plied in unpractised stroke 

The oars of their broad feet. 

They, as the spotted prowler of the wild 

Laps the cool wave, around their mother crowd, 

And nestle underneath her outspread wings. 

The spotted prowler of the wild 

Lapp'd the cool wave, and satiate, from the nest, 

Guiltless of blood, withdrew. 



The mother-bird had moved not, 
But, cowering o'er her nestlings, 

Sate confident and fearless, 

And watch'd the wonted guest. 

But, when the human visitant approach'd, 

The alarmed Pelican, 

Retiring from that hostile shape, 

Gathers her young, and menaces with wings, 

And forward thrusts her threatening neck, 

Its feathers ruffling in her wrath. 

Bold with maternal fear. 

Thalaba drank, and in the water-skin 

Hoarded the precious element. 

Not all he took, but in the large nest left 

Store that sufficed for life ; 

And journeying onward, blest the Carrier Bird, 

And blest, in thankfulness, 

Their common Father, provident for all. 



With strength renew'd, and confident in faith. 

The son of Hodeirah proceeds; 

Till, after the long toil of many a day. 

At length Bagdad appear'd. 

The City of his search. 

He, hastening to the gate. 

Roams o'er the city with insatiate eyes ; 

Its thousand dwellings, o'er whose level roofs 

Fair cupolas appear'd, and high-domed mosques. 

And pointed minarets, and cypress groves. 

Every where scatter'd in unwithering green. 



Thou too art fallen, Bagdad ! City of Peace, 

Thou too hast had thy day ; 
And loathsome Ignorance and brute Servitude 

Pollute thy dwellings now, 
Erst for the Mighty and the Wise renown'd. 

O yet illustrious for remember'd fame, — 

Thy founder the Victorious, — and the pomp 

Of Haroun, for whose name, by blood defiled, 

Yahia's, and the blameless Barmecides', 

Genius hath wrought salvation, — and the years 

When Science with the good Al-Maimon dwelt : 

So one day may the Crescent from thy Mosques 

Be pluck'd by Wisdom, when the enhghten'd arm 

Of Europe conquers to redeem the East 1 

7. 

Then Pomp and Pleasure dwelt within her walls ; 

The Merchants of the East and of the West 



Met in her arch'd Bazars; 

All day the active poor 

Shower'd a cool comfort o'er her thronging streets ; 

Labor was busy in her looms ; 

Through all her open gates 

Long troops of laden Camels lined the roads. 

And Tigris bore upon his tameless stream 

Armenian harvests to her multitudes. 



But not in sumptuous Caravansary 

The adventurer idles there, 

Nor satiates wonder with her pomp and wealth ; 

A long day's distance from the walls 

Stands ruined Babylon ; 

The time of action is at hand ; 

The hope that for so many a year 

Hath been his daily thought, his nightly dream, 

Stings to more restlessness. 

He loathes all lingering that delays the hour 

When, full of glory, from his quest return'd, 

He on the pillar of the Tent beloved 

Shall hanoj Hodeirah's sword. 



The many-colored domes 

Yet wore one dusky hue ; 

The Cranes upon the Mosque 

Kept their night-clatter still ; 

When through the gate the early Traveller past. 

And when at evening o'er the swampy plain 

The Bittern's boom came far. 

Distinct in darkness seen 

Above the low horizon's lingering light, 

Rose the near ruins of old Babylon. 

10. 

Once from her lofty walls the Charioteer 

Look'd down on swarming myriads; once she 

flung 

Her arches o'er Euphrates' conquer'd tide, 

And through her brazen portals when she pour'd 

Her armies forth, the distant nations look'd 

As men who watch the thunder-cloud in fear, 

Lest it should burst above them. She was fallen, 

The Queen of cities, Babylon, was fallen I 

Low lay her bulwarks ; the black Scorpion bask'd 

In the palace courts; within the sanctuary 

The She-Wolf hidher whelps. 

Is yonder huge and shapeless heap, what once 

Hath been the aerial Gardens, height on height 

Rising like Media's mountains crown'd with wood, 

Work of imperial dotage ? Where the fame 

Of Belus ? Where the Golden Image now, 

Which, at the sound of dulcimer and lute. 

Cornet and sacbut, harp and psaltery. 

The Assyrian slaves adored? 

A labyrinth of ruins, Babylon 

Spreads o'er the blasted plain : 

The wandering Arab never sets his tent 

Within her walls ; the Shepherd eyes afar 

Her evil towers, and devious drives his flock. 

Alone unchanged, a free and bridgeless tide, 

Euphrates rolls along. 

Eternal Nature's work. 



BOOK V. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



267 



11. 

Through the broken portal, 

Over weedy fragments, 

Thalaba went his way. 

Cautious he trod, and felt 

The dangerous ground before him with his bow. 

Tlie Jackal started at his steps ; 

The Stork, alarm'd at sound of man. 

From her broad nest upon the old pillar top. 

Affrighted fled on flapping wings ; 

The Adder, in her haunts disturb'd. 

Lanced at the intruding staff her arrowy tongue. 

12. 

Twilight and moonshine dimly mingling gave 

An awful liglit obscure. 

Evening not wholly closed. 

The Moon still pale and faint ; 

An awful light obscure, 

Broken by many a mass of blackest shade ; 

Long column stretching dark through weeds and 

moss. 

Broad length of lofty wall, 

Whose windows lay in light. 

And of their former shape, low arch'd or square. 

Rude outline on the earth 

Figured, with long grass fringed. 

13. 

Reclined against a column's broken shaft. 

Unknowing whitherward to bend his way, 

He stood, and gazed around. 

The Ruins closed him in ; 
It seem'd as if no foot of man 
For ages had intruded there. 

14. 

Soon at approaching step 

Startling, he turn'd and saw 

A Warrior in the moon-beam drawing near. 

Forward the Stranger came. 

And with a curious eye 

Perused the Arab youth. 



"And who art thou," the Stranger cried, 

"That, at an hour like this, 

Wanderest in Babylon ? 

A way -be wilder 'd traveller, seekest thou 

The ruinous shelter here .'' 

Or comest thou to hide 

The plunder of the night .' 

Or hast thou spells to make 

These ruins, yawning from their rooted base, 

Disclose their secret wealth .? ' 

16. 

The youth replied, "Nor wandering traveller, 

Nor robber of the night, 

Nor skill'd in spells am I. 

1 seek the Angels here, 

Haruth and Maruth. Stranger, in thy turn. 

Why wanderest thou in Babylon, 

And who art thou, the questioner .'' " 



17. 

The man was fearless, and the temper'd pride 

Which toned the voice of Thalaba 

Displeased not him, himself of haughty heart. 

Heedless he answered, " Knowest thou 

Their cave of punishment? " 

18. 

THALABA. 

Vainly I seek it. 

STRANGER. 

Art thou firm of foot 
To tread the ways of danger .'' 

THALABA. 

Point the path ! 

STRANGER. 

Young Arab ! if thou hast a heart can beat 
Evenly in danger ; if thy bowels yearn not 
With human fears at scenes where, undisgraced, 
The soldier, tried in battle, might look back 
And tremble, follow me ! — for I am bound 
Into that cave of horrors. 

19. 

Thalaba 

Gazed on his comrade : he was young, of port 

Stately and strong; belike his face had pleased 

A woman's eye; but the youth read in it 

Unrestrain'd passions, the obdurate soul 

Bold in all evil daring ; and it taught, 

By Nature's irresistible instinct, doubt 

Well-timed and wary. Of himself assured, 

Fearless of man, and firm in faith, 

" Lead on ! " cried Thalaba. 

Mohareb led the way ; 

And through the ruin'd streets, 

And through the farther gate, 

They pass'd in silence on. 

20. 
What sound is borne on the wind .? 

Is it the storm that shakes 

The thousand oaks of the forest.'' 

But Thalaba's long locks 

Flow down his shoulders moveless, and the wind 

In his loose mantle raises not a fold. 

Is it the river's roar 

Dash'd down some rocky descent .'' 

Along the level plain 

Euphrates glides unheard. 

What sound disturbs the night, 

Loud as the summer forest in the storm, 

As the river that roars among rocks .'' 

21. 

And what the heavy cloud 

That hangs upon the vale. 

Thick as the mist o'er a well-water'd plain, 

Settling at evening when the cooler air 

Lets its day- vapors fall ; 

Black as the sulphvir-cloud. 

That through Vesuvius, or from Hecla's mouth, 

Rolls up, ascending from the infernal fires .? 



268 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



22. 

From Ait's bitumen-lake 

That heavy cloud ascends ; 

That everlasting roar 

From where its gushing springs 

Boil their black billows up. 

Silent the Arabian youth, 

Along the verge of that wide lake, 

Follow'd Mohareb's way, 

Toward a ridge of rocks that bank'd its side, 

There, from a cave, with torrent force, 

And everlasting roar, 

The black bitumen roll'd. 

The moonlight lay upon the rocks ; 

Their crags were visible, 

The shade of jutting cliffs. 

And where broad lichens whiten 'd some smooth spot, 

And where the ivy hung 

Its flowing tresses down. 

A little way within the cave 

The moonlight fell, glossing the sable tide 

That gush'd tumultuous out. 

A little way it entered then the rock 

Arching its entrance, and the winding way, 

Darken'd the unseen depths. 

23. 

No eye of mortal man. 

If unenabled by enchanted spell. 

Had pierced those fearful depths j 

For mingling with the roar 

Of the portentous torrent, oft were heard 

Shrieks, and wild yells that scared 

The brooding Eagle from her midnight nest. 

The aiFrighted countrymen 

Call it the Mouth of Hell ; 

And ever, when their way leads near, 

They hurry with averted eyes, 

And dropping their beads fast, 

Pronounce the Holy Name. 

24. 

There pausing at the cavern-mouth, 

Mohareb turn'd to Thalaba : 

" Now darest thou enter in ? " 

" Behold ! " the youth replied. 

And leading in his turn the dangerous way. 

Set foot within the cave. 

25. 

" Stay, Madman !" cried his comrade: "wouldst 

thou rush 

Headlong to certain death ? 

Where are thine arms to meet 

The Keeper of the Passage? " A loud shriek, 

That shook along the windings of the cave, 

Scatter'd the youth's reply. 

26. 

Mohareb, when the long reechoing ceased, 

Exclaim'd, "Fate favor'd thee. 

Young Arab ! when she wrote upon thy brow 

The meeting of to-night ; 

Else surely had thy name 

This hour been blotted from the Book of Life ! " 



27. 

So saying, from beneath 

His cloak a bag he drew : 

" Toung Arab ! thou art brave," he cried ; 

" But thus to rush on danger unprepared. 

As lions spring upon the hunter's spear. 

Is blind, brute courage. Zohak keeps the cave 

Against that Giant of primeval days : 

No force can win the passage." Thus he said, 

And from his wallet drew a human hand, 

Shrivell'd, and dry, and black} 

And fitting, as he spake, 

A taper in its hold, 

Pursued : " A murderer on the stake had died ; 

I drove the Vulture from his limbs, and lopp'd 

The hand that did the murder, and drew up 

The tendon-strings to close its grasp, 

And in the sun and wind 

Parch'd it, nine weeks exposed. 

The Taper, — but not here the place to impart, 

Nor hast thou undergone the rites 

That fit thee to partake the mystery. 

Look ! it burns clear, but with the air around 

Its dead ingredients mingle deathiness. 

This when the Keeper of the Cave shall feel, — 

Maugre the doom of Heaven, — 

The salutary spell 

Shall lull his penal agony to sleep, 

And leave the passage free." 

28. 

Thalaba answer' d not. 

Nor Avas there time for answer now, 

For lo ! Mohareb leads, 

And o'er the vaulted cave. 

Trembles the accursed taper's feeble light. 

There, where the narrowing chasm 

Rose loftier in the hill. 

Stood Zohak, wretched man, condemn'd to keep 

His Cave of punishment. 

His was the frequent scream 

Which when, far off, the prowling Jackal heard. 

He howl'd in terror back : 

For from his shoulders grew 

Two snakes of monster size. 

Which ever at his head 

Aim'd their rapacious teeth. 

To satiate raving hunger with his brain. 

He, in the eternal conflict, oft would seize 

Their swelling necks, and in his giant grasp 

Bruise them, and rend their flesh with bloody 

nails. 

And howl for agony. 

Feeling the pangs he gave ; for of himself 

Co-sentient and inseparable parts. 

The snaky torturers grew. 

29. 

To him approaching now, 

Mohareb held the wither' d arm. 

The taper of enchanted power. 

The unhallow'd spell, in hand unholy held. 

Then minister'd to mercy ; heavily 

The wretch's eyelids closed ; 

And welcome and unfelt. 



BOOK V. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



269 



Like the release of death, 
A sudden sleep surprised his vital powers. 

30. 

Yet though along the cave relax'd 

Lay Zohak's giant limbs, 

The twin-born serpents kept the narrow pass, 

Kindled their fiery eyes, 
Darted their tongues of terror, and roll'd out 

Their undulating length, 
Like the long streamers of some gallant ship 

Buoy'd on the wavy air, 

Still struggling to flow on, and still withheld. 

The scent of living flesh 

Inflamed their appetite. 

3L 

Prepared for all the perils of the cave, 

Mohareb came. He from his wallet drew 

Two human heads, yet warm. 

O hard of heart ! whom not the visible power 

Of retributive Justice, and the doom 

Of Zohak in his sight, 

Deterr'd from equal crime ! 

Two human heads, yet warm, he laid 

Before the scaly guardians of the pass ; 

They to their wonted banquet of old years 

Turn'd eager, and the narrow pass was free. 

32. 

And now before their path 

The opening cave dilates ; 

They reach a spacious vault. 

Where the black river-fountains burst their way. 

Now as a whirlwind's force 

Had centred on the spring, 

The gushing flood roll'd up ; 

And now the deaden'd roar 

Echoed beneath, collapsing as it sunk 

Within a dark abyss, 

Adown whose fathomless gulfs the eye was lost. 

33. 

Blue flames that hover'd o'er the springs 

Flung through the cavern their uncertain light; 

Now waving on the waves they lay, 

And now their fiery curls 

Flow'd in long tresses up, 

And now contracting, glow'd with whiter heat: 

Then up they shot again. 

Darting pale flashes through the tremulous air; 

The flames, the red and yellow sulphur-smoke, 

And the black darkness of the vault, 

Commingling indivisibly. 

34. 

"Here," quoth Mohareb, "do the Angels dwell. 

The Teachers of Enchantment." Thalaba 

Then raised his voice, and cried, 

" Haruth and Maruth, hear me ! Not with rites 

Accursed, to disturb your penitence, 

And learn forbidden lore, 

Repentant Angels, seek I your abode ; 

But sent by Allah and the Prophet here, 

Obediently I come ; 



Their chosen servant I ; 
Tell me the Talisman " — 

35. 

" And dost thou think," 

INIohareb cried, as with a smile of scorn 

He glanced upon his comrade, " dost thou think 

To trick them of their secret.'' For the dupes 

Of human-kind keep this lip-righteousness ! 

'Twill serve thee in the Mosque 

And in the Market-place ; 

But Spirits view the heart. 

Only by strong and torturing spells enforced, 

Those stubborn Angels teach the charm 

By which we must descend " 

36. 

"Descend?" said Thalaba. 

But then the wrinkling smile 

Forsook Mohareb's cheek. 

And darker feelings settled on his brow. 

" Now, by my soul," quoth he, " and I believe, 

Idiot ! that I have led 

Some camel-kneed prayer-monger through the 

cave ! 

What brings thee hither ? Thou shouldst have a 

hut 

By some Saint's grave beside the public way, 

There to less-knowing fools 

Retail thy Koran-scraps, 

And, in thy turn, die civet-like, at last, 

In the dung-perfume of thy sanctity ! — 

Ye whom I seek ! that, led by me, 

Feet uninitiate tread 

Y'our threshold, this atones ! — 

Fit sacrifice he falls ! " 
And forth he flash'd his cimeter. 
And raised the murderous blow. 



There ceased his power ; his lifted arm, 

Suspended by the spell, 

Hung impotent to strike. 

" Poor hypocrite ! " cried he, 

" And this then is thy faith 

In Allah and the Prophet ! They had fail'd 

To save thee, but for Magic's stolen aid ; 

Yea, they had left thee yonder Serpent's meal, 

But that, in prudent cowardice, 

The chosen Servant of the Lord came in. 

Safe follower of my path ! " 

38. 

" Blasphemer ! dost thou boast of guiding me ? " 

Quoth Thalaba, with virtuous pride inflamed. 

" Blindly the wicked work 

The righteous will of Heaven ! 

Sayest thou that, diffident of God, 

In Magic spells I trust ? 

Liar ! let witness this ! " 

And he drew oflf Abdaldar's Ring, 

And cast it in the gulf. 

A skinny hand came up. 

And caught it as it fell, 

And peals of devilish laughter shook the Cave. 



270 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK V. 



39. 

Then joy suffused Mohareb's cheek, 

And Thalaba beheld 

The blue blade gleam, descendmg to destroy. 

40. 

The undefended youth 

Sprung forward, and he seized 

Mohareb in his grasp, 

And grappled with him breast to breast. 

Sinewy and large of limb Mohareb was, 

Broad-shoulder' d, and his joints 

Knit firm, and in the strife 

Of danger practised well. 

Time had not thus matured young Thalaba ; 

But high- wrought feeling now. 

The inspiration and the mood divine. 

Infused a force portentous, like the strength 

Of madness through his frame. 

Mohareb reels before him ; he right on, 

With knee, with breast, with arm, 

Presses the staggering foe ; 

And now upon the brink 

Of that tremendous spring, — 

There with fresh impulse and a rush of force, 

He thrust him from his hold. 

The upwhirling flood received 

Mohareb, then, absorb'd. 

Engulf d him in the abyss. 

41. 

Thalaba's breath came fast ; 

And, panting, he breathed out 

A broken prayer of thankfulness. 

At length he spake and said, 

" Haruth and Maruth ! are ye here ? 

Or hath that evil guide misled my search .'' 

I, Thalaba, the Servant of the Lord, 

Invoke you. Hear me. Angels ! so may Heaven 

Accept and mitigate your penitence ! 

I go to root from earth the Sorcerer brood ; 

Tell me the needful Talisman ! " 

42. 

Thus, as he spake, recumbent on the rock 

Beyond the black abyss. 

Their forms grew visible. 

A settled sorrow sate upon their brows — 

Sorrow alone, for trace of guilt and shame 

None now remain'd ; and gradual, as by prayer 

The sin was purged away. 

Their robe of glory, purified of stain, 

Resumed the lustre of its native light. 

43. 

In awe the youth received the answering voice — 

" Son of Hodeirah ! thou hast proved it here ; 

The Talisman is Faith." 



NOTES TO BOOK V. 

Laps the cool wave, &;c. — 3, p. 266. 

The Pelican makes choice of dry and desert places to lay 
her eggs ; when her young are hatched, she is obliged to 



bring water to them from great distances. To enable her 
to perform this necessary office, Nature has provided her with 
a large sack, which extends from the tip of the under man- 
dible of her bill to the throat, and holds as much water as 
will supply her brood for several days. This water she pours 
into the nest, to cool her young, to allay their thirst, and to 
teach them to swim. Lions, Tygers, and other rapacious 
animals resort to these nests, and drink the water, and are 
said net to injure the young. — Smellie^s Philosophy of Matural 
History. 

It is perhaps from this power of carrying a supply of water 
that the Pelican is called Jimmel el Bahar, the Camel of the 
River. Bruce notices a curious blunder upon this subject in 
the translation of Norden's travels. " On looking into Mr. 
Norden's Voyage," says he, " I was struck at first sight with 
this paragraph : ' We saw, this day, abundance of camels ; but 
they did not come near enough for us to shoot them.' I 
thought with myself, to shoot camels in Egypt would be very 
little better than to shoot men, and that it was very lucky for i] 
him the camels did not come near, if that was the only thing ' 
that prevented him. Upon looking at the note, I see it is a 
small mistake of the translator, who says, that in the original ' 
it is Chameaux d'eau, Water Camels ; but whether they are a 
particular species of camels, or a diiFerent kind of animal, he 
does not know." 

Every where scattered, &;c. — 5, p. 266. 

These prominent features of an Oriental city will be found I 
in all the views of Sir John Chardin. 

The mosques, the minarets, and numerous cupolas, form a 
splendid spectacle ; and the flat roofs of the houses, which are 
situated on the hills, rising one behind another, present a 
succession of hanging terraces, interspersed with cypress and 
poplar trees. — RusseVs JVai. Hist, of Aleppo. 

The circuit of Ispahan, taking in the suburbs, is not less 
than that of Paris ; but Paris contains ten times the number 
of its inhabitants. It is not, however, astonishing that this 
city is so extensive and so thinly peopled, because every family 
has its own house, and almost every house its garden ; so that 
there is much void ground. From whatever side you arrive, 
you first discover the towers of the mosques, and then the 
trees which surround the houses 5 at a distance, Ispahan 
resembles a forest more than a town. — Tavernier. 

Of Alexandria, Volney says, " The spreading palm-trees, the 
terraced houses, which seem to have no roof, the lofty, slender 
minarets, all announce to the traveller that he is in another 
world." 



Thou too art fallen, Bagdad ! City of Peace. — 6, p. 266. 

Almanzor, riding one day with his courtiers along the banks 
of the Tigris, where Seleucia formerly stood, was so delighted 
with the beauty of the country, that he resolved there to build 
his new capital. Whilst he was conversing with his attendants 
upon this project, one of them, separating from the rest, met a 
Hermit, whose cell was near, and entered into talk with him, 
and communicated the design of the Caliph. The Hermit 
replied, he well knew, by a tradition of the country, that a 
city would one day be built in that plain, but that its founder 
would be a man called Moclas, a name very different from 
both those of the Caliph, Giafl^ar and Almanzor. 

The Officer rejoined Almanzor, and repeated his conver- 
sation with the Hermit. As soon as the Caliph heard the 
name of Moclas, he descended from his horse, prostrated 
himself, and returned thanks to God, for that he was chosen 
to execute his orders. His courtiers waited for an expla- 
nation of this conduct with eagerness, and the Caliph told 
them thus: — During the Caliphate of the Ommiades, my 
brothers and myself being very young, and possessing very 
little, were obliged to live in the country, where each in rota- 
tion was to provide sustenance for the whole. On one of 
my days, as I was without money, and had no means of pro- 
curing food, I took a bracelet belonging to my nurse, and 
pawned it. This woman made a great outcry, and, after 
much search, discovered that I had been the thief. In her 
anger she abused me plentifully, and, among other terms of 
reproach, she called me Moclas, the name of a famous robber 
in those days ; and, during the rest of her life, she never called 



lOOK V. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



271 



me by any otlicr name. Tlicrcfore I know that God has 
destined me to perform this work. — Marigmj. 

Alniunzor named his new city Dar-al-Salam, the City of 
Peace ; but it obtained the name of Bagdad, from tliat of 
this Hermit, who dwelt upon its site. 



Thy founder the Victorious, &c. — 6, p. 2G6. 

Almanzor signifies the Victorious. 

Bagdad was founded in conseiiuence of a singular super- 
stition. A sect called Ravendiens conceived, that they ought 
to render those honors to the Caliphs wiiich the Moslem hold 
should only be paid to the Deity. They therefore came in 
great numbers to Ilaschemia, where the Caliph Almanzor 
usually resided, and made around his palace the same pro- 
cessions and ceremonies which the iMoslcni make around the 
Temple at Mecca. The Caliph prohibited this, commanding 
them not to profane a religious ceremony which ought to be 
reserved solely to the Temple at Mecca. The Ravendiens 
did not regard the prohibition, and continued to act as before. 

Almanzor, seeing their obstinacy, resolved to conquer it, 
and began by arresting a hundred of these fanatics. This 
astonished them ; but they soon recovered their courage, took 
arms, marched to the prison, forced the doors, delivered their 
friends, and then returned to make their procession round the 
palace in reverence of the Caliph. 

Enraged at this insolence, the Caliph put himself at the 
head of his guards, and advanced against the Ravendiens, 
expecting that his appearance would immediatrdy disperse 
them. Instead of this, they resisted, and repulsed him so 
vigorously, that he had nearly fallen a victim. But timely 
succors arrived, and after a great slaughter, these fanatics 
were expelled the town. This singular rebellion, arising 
fiom excess of loyalty, so disgusted Almanzor, that he deter- 
mined to forsake the town which had witnessed it, and accord- 
ingly laid the foundation of Bagdad. — Marigiuj. 



Met in her arched Bazars. — 7, p. 2GG. 

The houses in Persia are not in the same place with their 
shops, which stand for the most part in long and large arched 
streets, forty or fifty feet high, which streets are called Basar, 
or the Market, and make the heart of the city, the houses 
being in the out-parts, and having almost all gardens belong- 
ing to them. — Chardin. 

At Tauris, he says, " there are the fairest Basars that are 
in any place of Asia ; and it is a lovely sight to see their vast 
extent, their largeness, their beautiful Duomos, and the 
arches over them." 

At Bagdad the Bazars are all vaulted, otherwise the mer- 
chants could not remain in them on account of the heat. 
They are also watered two or three times a day, and a number 
of the poor are paid for rendering this service to the public. — 
Tavernicr. 



And Tigris bore upon his tameless stream. — 7, p. 266. 

On the other side of the river, towards Arabia, over against 
the city, there is a faire place or towne, and in it a fair Ba- 
zarr for merchants, with very many lodgings, where the 
greatest part of the merchants strangers which come to Baby- 
lon do lie with their merchandize. The passing over Tygris 
from Babylon to this Borough is by a long bridge, made of 
boates, chained together with great chaines, provided, that 
when the river waxeth great with the abundance of raine that 
falleth, then they open the bridge in the middle, where the 
one-halfe of the bridge falleth to the walles of Babylon, and 
the other to the brinks of this Borough, on the other side of 
the river ; and as long as the bridge is open, they passe the 
river in small boats, with great danger, because of the small- 
ness of the boats, and the overlading of them, that with the 
fiercenesse of the stream they be overthrowen, or els the 
Btreame doth carry them away ; so that by this meanes many 
people are lost and drowned. — Caesar Frederick in Hakluyt. 

Here are great store of vict\ials, which come from Armenia 
down the river of Tygris. They are brought upon raftes 
made of goate's skinncs blown full of wind, and hordes layde 



upon them ; which being discharged, they open their skinnes, 
and carry them backe by Camels Ralph Fitch in Halduyt. 



The many-colored domes. — 9, p. 266. 
In Tavernier's time, there were five Mosques at Bagdad, 
two of them fine, their large domes covered with varnished 
tiles of different colors. 



Kept their night-clatter still. — 9, p. 266. 

At Bagdad are many cranes, who build their nests upon the 
tops of the minarets, and the loftiest houses. 

At Adanaqui, cranes are so abundant, that there is scarcely 
a house which has not several nests upon it. They are very 
tame, and the inhabitants never molest them. Wlien any 
thing disturbs these birds, they make a violent clatter with 
their long beaks, which is some time repeated by the others 
all over the town ; and this noise will sometimes continue for 
several minutes. It is as loud as a watchman's rattle, and not 
much unlike it in sound. — Jachson. 

The cranes were now arrived at their respective quarters, 
and a couple had made their nest, which is bigger in circum- 
ference than a bushel, on a dome close by our chamber. This 
pair stood, side by side, with great gravity, showing no con- 
cern at what was transacting beneath them, but at intervals 
twisting about their long necks, and clattering with their 
beaks, turned behind them upon their backs, as it were in 
concert. This was continued the whole night. An owl, a 
bird also unmolested, was perched hard by, and as frequently 
hooted. The crane is tall, like a heron, but much larger ; 
the body white, with black pinions, the neck and legs very 
long, the head small, and the bill thick. The Turks call it 
friend and brother, believing it has an affection for their na- 
tion, and will accompany them into the countries they shall 
conquer. In the course of our journey we saw one hopping 
on a wall with a single leg, the maimed stump wrapped iu 
linen. — Cluindlei-'s Travels in Asia Minor, 



The Bittern's boom camefar.—9, p. 266. 

I will rise up against them, saith the Lord of Hosts, and cut 
oiTfrom Babylon the name and remnant, and son and nephew, 
saith the Lord. I will also make it a possession for the bit- 
tern, and pools of water. — Isaiah, xiv. 22, 23. 



Once from her lofty walls the Charioteer. — 10, p. 206. 



•Walls within 



Whose large enclosure the rude hind, or guides 

His plough, or binds his sheaves, while shepherds guard 

Their flocks, secure of ill: on the broad top 

Six chariots rattle in extended front. 

Each side in length, in height, in solid bulk. 

Reflects its opposite a perfect square ; 

Scarce sixty thousand paces can mete out 

The vast circumference. An hundred gates 

Of polished brass lead to that central point. 

Where, through the midst, bridged o'er with wondrous art, 

Euphrates leads a navigable stream, 

Branch'd from the current of his roaring flood. 

Roberts's Judah Restored. 



Hath been the aerial Gardens, &c. — 10, p. 266. 

Within the walls 
Of Babylon was rais'd a lofty mound, 
Wliere flowers and aromatic shrubs adorn'd 
The pensile garden. For Nebassar's queen, 
Fatigued with Babylonia's level plains, 
Sigh'd for her Median home, where nature's hand 
Had scoop'd the vale, and clothed the mountain's side 
With many a verdant wood ; nor long she pined. 
Till that uxorious monarch call'd on art 
To rival nature's sweet variety. 



272 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK V. 



Forthwith two hundred thousand slaves uprear'd 
This hill, egregious work ; rich fruits o'erhang 
The sloping walks, and odorous shrubs entwine 
Their undulating branches. 

Robcrts^s Judah Restored. 



Of Belas 7 Sec. — 10, p. 266. 

Our early travellers have given us strange and circum- 
stantial accounts of what they conceive to have been the 
Temple of Belus. 

The Tower of Nimrod, or Babe], is situate on that side of 
Tygris that Arabia is, and in a very great plaine distant from 
Babylon seven or eight miles : which tower is ruinated on 
every side ; and with the falling of it there is made a great 
mountaine, so that it hath no forme at all ; yet there is a 
great part of it standing, which is compassed, and almost 
covered, with the aforesayd fallings. This Tower was builded 
and made of foure-square brickes ; which brickes were made 
of earth, and dried in the Sunne in maner and forme fol- 
lowing : First they layed a lay of brickes, then a mat made of 
canes, square as the brickes, and, instead of lime, they daubed 
it with earth. These mats of canes are at this time so strong, 
that it is a thing wonderful to beholde, being of such great 
antiquity. I have gone round about it, and have not found 
an}' place where there hath bene any door or entrance. It 
may be, in my judgment, in circuit about a mile, and rather 
lesse than more. 

This Tower, in effect, is contrary to all other things which 
are scene afar oiFj for they seeme small, and the more nere 
a man commetli to them, the bigger they be : but this tower, 
afar off, seemeth a very great thing, and the nerer you come 
to it the lesser. My judgement and reason of this is, that 
because the Tower is set in a very great plaine, and hath 
nothing more about to make any shew saving the mines of it, 
which it hath made round about ; and for this respect, de- 
scrying it afarre off, that piece of the Tower which yet stand- 
eth with tlie mountaine that is made of the substance that hath 
fallen from it, maketh a greater shew than you shall finde 
coming neere to it. — CcBsar Frederick. 

John Eldred notices the same deception : " Being upon 
a plaine grounde, it seemeth afarre off very great j but the 
nerer you come to it, the lesser and lesser it appeareth. 
Sundry times I have gone thither to see it, and found the 
remnants yet standing, about a quarter of a mile in compasse, 
and almost as high as the stone-worke of St. Paul's steeple 
in London, but it sheweth much bigger." — Haldiiyt. 

In the middle of a vast and level plain, about a quarter of a 
league from the Euphrates, which in that place runs westward, 
appears a heap of ruined buildings, like a huge mountain, the 
materials of which are so confounded together, that one knows 
not what to make of it. Its figure is square, and rises in 
form of a tower or pyramid, with four fronts, which answer 
to the four quarters of the compass ; but it seems longer from 
north to south than from east to west, and is, as far as I could 
judge by my pacing it, a large quarter of a league. Its situ- 
ation and form correspond with that pyramid which Strabo 
calls the tower of Beius ; and is, in all likelihood, the tower 
of Nimrod in Babylon, or Babel, as that place is still called. 
In that autlior's time it had nothing remaining of the stairs, 
and other ornaments mentioned by Herodotus, the greatest 
part of it having been ruined by Xerxes ; and Alexander, who 
designed to have restored it to its former lustre, was pre- 
vented by death. There appear no marks of ruins without 
the compass of that huge mass, to convince one that so great a 
city as Babylon had ever stood there ; all one discovers within 
fifty or sixty paces of it, being only the remains, here and 
there, of some foundations of buildings ; and the country 
round about it is so flat and level, that one can hardly believe 
it should be chosen for the situation of so great and noble a 
city as Babylon, or that there were ever any remarkable 
buildings on it. But, for my part, I am astonished there 
appears so much as there does, considering it is at least 
4000 years since that city was built j and that Diodorus 
Siculus tells us, it was reduced almost to nothing in his time. 
The height of this mountain of ruins is not in every part equal, 
but exceeds the highest palace in Naples. It is a misshapen 
mass, wherein there is no appearance of regularity j in some 



places it rises in points, is craggy and inaccessible ; in others 
it is smoother, and is of easier ascent j there are also tracks 
of torrents from the top to the bottom, caused by the rains ; 
and both withinside, and upon it, one sees parts some higher 
and some lower. It is not to be discovered whether ever 
there were any steps to ascend it, or any doors to enter into 
it J whence one may easily judge that the stairs ran winding 
about on the outside ; and that being the less solid parts, they 
were soonest demolished, so that not the least sign of any 
appears at present. 

Withinside one finds some grottos, but so ruined that one 
can make nothing of them, wiiether they were built at the 
same time with that work, or made since by the peasants for 
shelter; wiiicli last seems to be the most likely. The Ma- 
hommedans believe that these caverns were appointed by God 
as places of punishment for Harut and Marut, two angels, who 
they suppose were sent from Heaven to judge the crimes 
of men, but did not execute their commissions as they ought. 
It is evident from these ruins, that the tower of Nimrod was 
built with great and thick bricks, as I carefully observed, 
causing holes to be dug in several places for the purpose ; but 
they do not appear to have been burnt, but dried in the sun, 
which is extreme hot in those parts. In laying these bricks, 
neither lime nor sand was employed, but only earth tempered 
and petrified ; and in those parts which made the floors, there 
had been mingled with that earth, which served instead of 
lime, bruised reeds, or hard straw, such as large mats are 
made of, to strengthen tlie work. Afterwards one perceives 
at certain distances, in diverse places, especially where the 
strongest buttresses were to be, several other bricks of the 
same size, but more solid, and burnt in a kiln, and set in good 
lime, or bitumen 3 nevertheless, the greatest number consists 
of those which are only dried in the sun. 

I make no doubt but this ruin was the ancient Babel, and 
the tower of Nimrod; for, besides the evidence of its situa- 
tion, it is acknowledged to be such by the people of the 
country, being vulgarly called Babil by the Arabs. — Pietro 
delle Voile. Universal Hist. 

Eight towers arise, 
Each above each, immeasurable height, 
A monument, at once, of Eastern pride 
And slavish superstition. Round, a scale 
Of circling steps entwines the conic pile ; 
And at the bottom, on vast hinges grate 
Four brazen gates, toward the four winds of heaven, 
Placed in the solid square. 

Judah Restored. 



The wandering Arab never sets his tent 
Within her walls, &c. — 10, p. 266. 

And Babylon, the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of th« 
Chaldees' excellency, shall be as when God overthrev 
Sodom and Gomorrah. 

It shall never be inhabited, neither shall it be dwelt in fron 
generation to generation ; neither shall the Arabian pitch teni 
there, neither shall the shepherds make their fold there. 
Isaiah, xiii. 19, 20. 



" Disclose their secret wealth ? " — 17, p. 267. 

The stupid superstition of the Turks, with regard to hidden 
treasures, is well known ; it is difficult, or even dangerous, foi 
a traveller to copy an inscription in sight of those barbarians. 

On a rising ground, at a league's distance from the rival 
ShellilF, is Memoun-turroy, as they call an old square tower, 
formerly a sepulchral monument of the Romans. This, like 
many more ancient edifices, is supposed by the Arabs to have 
been built over a treasure ; agreeably to which account, they 
tell us, these mystical lines were inscribed upon it. Prince 
Maimoun Tizai wrote this upon his tower : — 

My Treasure is in my Shade, 

And my Shade is in my Treasure. 

Search for it ; despair not : 

Nay, despair; do not search. Shato. _ 

So of the ruins of the ancient Tubuna. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



273 



The Treasure of Tubnah lyeth under the shade of what is 
shaded. D'ls for it : alas ! it is not there. — Shaw. 



From AiVs bitumen-lake, &.c. — 22, p. 268. 

The springs of bitumen called Oijun Hit, the fountains of 
Hit, are much celebrated by the Arabs and Persians; the 
latter call it Chesmeh kir, the fountain of pitch. This liquid 
bitumen tliey call JVafta; and the Turks, to distinguish it 
fiom pitch, give it the name of hara sakiz, or black mastich. 
A Persian geographer says, that J^afta issues out of the 
springs of the earth, as ambergrise issues out of those of the 
sea. All the modern travellers, except Rauwolf, who went to 
Persia and the Indies by the way of the Euphrates, before the 
discovery of the Cape of Good Hope, mention this fountain of 
liquid bitumen as a strange tiling. Some of them take notice 
of the river mentioned by Herodotus, and assure us, that the 
people of the country have a tradition, that, when the tower 
of Babel was building, they brouglit the bitumen from hence ; 
which is confirmed by the Arab and Persian historians. 

Hit, Heit, Kit, Ail, or Idt, as it is variously written by trav- 
ellers, is a great Turkish town, situate upon tlie rigiit or west 
side of the Euphrates, and has a castle j to the south-west of 
which, and three miles from the town, in a valley, are many 
springs of this black substance ; each of which makes a noise 
like a smitli's forge, incessantly puffing and blowing out the 
matter so loud, that it may be heard a mile off; wherefore the 
Moors and Arabs call it Bab al Jehennam, that is, hell gate. 
It swallows up all heavy things ; and many camels, from time 
to time, fail into the pits, and are irrecoverably lost. It issues 
from a certain lake, sending forth a filthy smoke, and contin- 
ually boiling over with the pitch, which spreads itself over a 
great field, that is always full of it. It is free for every one 
to take : they use it to calk or pitch their boats, laying it on 
two or three inches thick, which keeps out the water: with 
it also they pitch their houses, made of palm-tree branches. 
If it was not that the inundations of the Euphrates carry away 
the pitch, which covers all the sands from the place where it 
rises to the river, there would have been mountains of it long 
since. The very ground and stones thereabouts afford bitu- 
men ; and tlie fields abundance of saltpetre. — Universal 
History. 



And dropping their beads fast, &c. — 23, p. 2G8. 

The Mussnlmauns use, like the Roman Catholics, a rosary 
of beads, called Tusbah, or implement of praise. It consists, 
if I recollect aright, of ninety-nine beads ; in dropping which 
through the fingers, they repeat the attributes of God, as, 
" O Creator, O Mercilul, O Forgiving, O Omnipotent, O Om- 
niscient," &c. &c. This act of devotion is called Taleel, from 
the repetition of the letter L, or Laum, which occurs in the 
word Allah, (God,) always joined to the epithet or attribute, 
as Ya Allah Khalick, O God, the Creator; Ya Allah Ker- 
reem, O God, the Merciful, &c. &c. The devotees may be 
seen muttering their beads as they walk the streets, and in the 
intervals of conversation in company. The rosaries of persons 
of fortune and rank have the beads of diamonds, pearls, rubies, 
and emeralds. Those of Ihe humble are strung with berries, 
coral, or glass-beads. — J^Tote to the Baliar-Danush. 

The ninety-nine beads of the Mahommedan rosary are 
divided into three equal lengths, by a little string, at the end 
of which hangs a long piece of coral, and a large bead of the 
same. Tiie more devout or hypocritical Turks, like the 
Catholics, have usually their bead-string in their hands. — 
Tavernier. 



*' Young Arab ! when she wrote upon thy brow,'''' &c. — 26, p. 268. 

" The Mahummedans believe, that the decreed events of 
every man's life are impressed in divine characters on his 
forehead, though not to be seen by mortal eye. Hence they 
use the word Nusseeb, angJice, stamped, for destiny. Most 
probably the idea was taken up by Mahummed from the seal- 
ing of the elect, mentioned in the Revelations." — JVoteto the 
Bahar-Danush. 

" The scribe of decree chose to ornament the edicts on my 
forehead with these flourishes of disgrace." — Bahar-Danush. 

35 



The Spanish physiognomical phrase, traerlo esciito en la 
frcntc, to have it written on the forehead, is perhaps of Ara- 
bian origin. 

Rajah Chunder, of Cashmeer, was blessed with a Vizier, 
endowed with wisdom and fidelity ; but the wicked, envying 
his virtues, propagated unfavorable reports regarding him. 
On these occasions, the great are generally staggered in their 
opinions, and make no use of their reason ; forgetting every 
thing which they have read in history on the direi'ul effects of 
envy. Thus Rajah Bargin gave ear to the stories fabricated 
against his Vizier, and dismissed him from his ofl[ice. The 
faithful Vizier bore his disgrace with the utmost submission ; 
but his enemies, not satisfied with what they comjjassed 
against him, represented to the Rajah that he was plotting to 
raise himself to the throne ; and the deluded prince ordered ' 
him to be crucified. A short time after the execution, the 
Vizier's peer (his spiritual guide) passed the corpse, and read 
it decreed in his forehead, as follows : " That he should be 
dismissed from his office, be sent to prison, and then crucified ; 
but that, after all, he should be restored to life, and ol)tain 
the kingdom." Astonished at what he beheld, he took down 
the body from the cross, and carried it to a secret place 
Here he was incessantly oft'ering up prayers to heaven for the 
restoration of his life, till one night the aerial spirits assem- 
bled together, and restored the body to life by repeating incan- 
tations. He shortly after mounted the throne, but, despising 
worldly pomp, soon abdicated it. dtjcen Akbery. 



Zohak keeps the cave,^' &c. — 27, p. 268. 



Zohak was the fifth king of the Pischdadian dynasty, line- 
ally descended from Shedad, who perished with the tribe of 
Ad. Zohak murdered his predecessor, and invented the 
punishments of the cross, and of flaying alive. The devil, 
who had long served him, requested, at last, as a recompense, 
permission to kiss his shoulders ; immediately two serpents 
grew there, who fed upon his flesh, and endeavored to get at 
his brain. The devil now suggested a remedy, which was to 
quiet them, by giving them every day the brains of two men, 
killed for that purpose : this tyranny lasted long ; till a black- 
smith of Ispahan, whose children had been nearly all slain to 
feed the king's serpents, raised his leathern apron as the 
standard of revolt, and deposed Zohak. Zohak, say the Per- 
sians, is still living in the cave of his punishment ; a sulphure- 
ous vapor issues from the place ; and, if a stone be flung in, 
there comes out a voice and cries. Why dost thou fling stones 
at me ? This cavern is in the mountain of Demawend, which 
reaches from that of Elwend, towards Teheran. — DUIcrbelot. 
Olcai-is. 



" Tlie salutary spell,'" &c. —27, p. 268. 

I shall transcribe, says Grose, a foreign piece of superstition, 
firmly believed in many parts of France, Germany, and Spain. 
The account of it, and the mode of preparation, appears to 
have been given by a judge : in the latter there is a striking 
resemblance to the charm in Macbeth : — 

Of the Hand of Olory, which is made use of by house-breakers, 
to enter into houses at night, without fear of opposition. 

I acknowledge that 1 never tried the secret of the Hand of 
Glory, but I have thrice assisted at the definitive judgment of 
certain criminals, who, under the torture, confessed having 
used it. Being asked what it was, how they procured it, and 
what were its uses and properties, they answered, first, 
that the use of the Hand of Glory was to stupefy those to 
whom it was presented, and to render them motionless, inso- 
much that they could not stir, any more than if they were 
dead ; secondly, that it was the hand of a hanged man ; and, 
thirdly, that it must be prepared in the manner following : — 

Take the hand, left or right, of a person hanged, and ex- 
posed on the highway; wrap it up in a piece of a shroud or 
winding-sheet, in which let it be well-squeezed, to get out 
any small quantity of blood that may have remained in it ; 
then put it into an earthen vessel with Zimat saltpetre, salt, 
and long pepper, the whole well powdered ; leave it fifteen 
days in that vessel ; afterwards take it out, and expose it to 
the noon-tide sun in the dog-days, till it is thoroughly dry j 



274 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK VI 



and if the sun is not sufficient, put it into an oven heated 
with fern and vervain. Then compose a kind of candle with 
the fat of a hanged man, virgin wax, and sisame of Lapland. 
The Hand of Glory is used as a candlestick to hold this candle 
when lighted. Its properties are, that wheresoever any one 
goes with this dreadful instrument, the persons to whom it is 
presented will be deprived of all power of motion. On being 
asked if there was no remedy or antidote, to counteract this 
charm, they said the Hand of Glory would cease to take 
efFect, and thieves could not make use of it, if the threshold 
of the door of the house, and other places by whicli they might 
enter, were anointed with an unguent composed of the gall of 
a black cat, the fat of a white hen, and the blood of a screech- 
owl ; which mixture must necessarily be prepared during the 
dog-days. — Grose, Provincial Olossary and Popular Super- 
stitions. 

Something similar is recorded by Torquemada of the Mexi- 
can thieves. They carried with them the left hand and arm 
of a woman wlio had died in her first childbed ; with this they 
twice struck the ground before tlie house which they designed 
to rob, and the door twice, and the threshold twice ; and the 
inhabitants, if asleep, were hindered from waking by this 
charm; and, if awake, stupefied and deprived of speech and 
motion while the fatal arm was in the house. — Lib. xiv. c. 22. 



^^ Some camel-kneed prayer-monger through the cave!^^ — 
36, p. 2G9. 

I knew not, when T used this epithet in derision, that the 
likeness had been seriously applied to St. James. His knees 
were, after the guise of a camel's knee, benunibed and bereft 
of the sense of feeling, by reason of his continual kneeling in 
supplication to God, and petition for the people. — Hegesippus, 
as quoted by Eusehius. 

William of Malmsbury says of one of the Conqueror's 
daughters, who was affianced to Alphonsus, king of Galicia, 
but obtained from. God a virgin death, that a hard substance, 
which proved the frequency of her prayers, was found upon 
her knees after her decease. 



" By some Sainfs grave beside the public way," Sec. — 
36, p, 269. 

The habitations of the Saints are always beside the sanc- 
tuary or tomb of their ancestors, which they take care to 
adorn. Some of them possess, close to their houses, gardens, 
trees, or cultivated grounds, and particularly some spring or 
well of water. I was once travelling in the south in the 
beginning of October, when the season happened to be exceed- 
ingly hot, and the wells and rivulets of the country were all 
dried up. We had neither water for ourselves nor for our 
horses ; and, after having taken much fruitless trouble to 
obtain some, we went and paid homage to a Saint, who at 
first pretended a variety of scruples before he would suffer 
infidels to approach ; but, on promising to give him ten or 
twelve shillings, he became exceedingly humane, and supplied 
us with as much water as we wanted ; still, however, vaunt- 
ing highly of his charity, and particularly of his disinterest- 
edness. — Chenier. 



" Retail thy Koran-scraps.'" —36, p. 269. 

No nation in the world is so much given to superstition as 
the Arabs, or even as the Mahometans in general. They 
hang about their children's necks the figure of an open hand, 
which the Turks and Moors paint upon their ships and houses, 
as an antidote and counter-charm to an evil eye ; for five is 
with them an unlucky number; and five (fingers perhaps) in 
your eyes, is their proverb of cursing and defiance. Those 
who are grown up, carry always about with them some para- 
graph or other of their Koran, which, like as the Jews did 
their phylacteries, they place upon their breast, or sew under 
their caps, to prevent fascination and witchcraft, and to secure 
themselves from sickness and misfortunes. The virtue of 
these charms and scrolls is supposed likewise to be so far 
universal, that they suspend them upon the necks of their 
cattle, horses, and other beasts of burden. — Shaw. 



The hand-spi'll is still common in Portugal ; it is called th( 
Jiga; and thus probably our vulgar phrase — " a fig for him,'' 
is derived from si Moorish amulet. 



Their robe of glory, purified of stain, &c. — 42, p. 270. 

In the Vision of Thurcillus, Adam is described as beholding 
the events of the world with mingled grief and joy; his 
original garment of glory gradually recovering its lustre, as 
the number of the elect increases, till it be fulfilled. — Matthew 
Paris. 

This is more beautifully conceived than what the Arch- 
bishop of Toledo describes in his account of Mahommed's 
journey to Heaven : " Also in tlie first heaven I found a ven- 
erable man sitting upon a seat, and to him were shown the 
souls of the dead; and when he beheld souls that did not 
please him, he turned away his eyes, saying. Ah ! sinful soui, 
thou hast departed from an unhappy body ; and when a soul 
appeared which pleased him, then he said with applause, 
O happy Spirit, thou art come from a good body. I asked 
the Angel concerning a man so excellent, and of such reve- 
rence, who be should be; and he said it was Adam, who 
rejoiced in the good of his generation, but turned away his 
face from the evil." — Roder. Ximenes. 



THE SIXTH BOOK. 



Then did 1 see a pleasant Paradise, 
Full of sweet flowers and daintiest delights, 

Such as on earth man could not more devise 

With pleasures choice to feed his cheerful sprights j 
Not that which Merlin by his magic shghts 

Made for the gentle squire to entertain 

His fair Belphoebe, could this garden stain. 

Spenseu. Ruins of Time. 



So from the inmost cave 

Did Thalaba retrace 

The windings of the rock. 

Still on the ground the giant limbs 

Of Zohak lay dispread ; 

The spell of sleep had ceased, 

And his broad eyes were glaring on the youth 

Yet raised he not his arm to bar the way, 

Fearful to rouse the snakes 

Now lingering o'er their meal. 



Oh, then, emerging from that dreadful cave, 

How grateful did the gale of night 

Salute his freshen'd sense ! 

How full of lightsome joy, 

Thankful to Heaven, he hastens by the verge 

Of that bitumen-lake. 

Whose black and heavy fumes, 

Surge-heaving after surge, 

Roll'd like the billowy and tumultuous sea. 



The song of many a bird at morn 

Aroused him from his rest. 

Lo ! at his side a courser stood ', 

More animate of eye. 



BOOK VI. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



275 



or form more faultless never had he seen, 

More light of limbs and beautiful in strength, 

Among the race whose blood, 

Pure and unmingled, from the royal steeds 

Of Solomon came down. 



The chosen Arab's eye 

Glanced o'er his graceful shape, 

His rich caparisons, 

His crimson trappings gay. 

But when he saw the mouth 

Uncurb'd, the unbridled neck. 

Then his heart leap'd, and then his cheek was 

flush'd; 

For sure he deem'd that Heaven had sent 

A courser, whom no erring hand might guide. 

And lo ! the eager Steed 

Throws his head and paws the ground. 

Impatient of delay ! 

Then up leap'd Thalaba, 

And away went the self-govern'd courser. 



Over the plain 

Away went the steed ; 

With the dew of the morning his fetlocks were wet; 

The foam froth'd his limbs in the journey of noon; 

Nor stay'd he till over the westerly heaven 

The shadows of evening had spread. 

Then on a sheltcr'd bank 

The appointed Youth reposed, 

And by him laid the docile courser down. 

Again in the gray of the morning 

Thalaba bounded up ; 

Over hill, over dale. 

Away goes the steed. 

Again at eve he stops, 

Again the Youth alights ; 

His load discharged, his errand done. 

The courser then bounded away. 

6. 

Heavy and dark the eve ; 

The Moon was hid on high ; 

A dim light tinged the mist 

That cross'd her in the path of Heaven. 

All living sounds had ceased; 

Only the flow of waters near was heard, 

A low and lulling melody. 

7. 

Fasting, yet not of want 

Percipient, he on that mysterious steed 

Had reach' d his resting-place. 

For expectation kept his nature up. 

Now, as the flow of waters near 

Awoke a feverish thirst, 

Led by the sound he moved 

To seek the grateful wave. 



A meteor in the hazy air 
Play'd before his path : 
Before him now it roll'd 



A globe of living fire ; 

And now contracted to a steady light, 

As when the solitary hermit prunes 

His lamp's long undulating flame ; 

And now its wavy point 

, Up-blazing rose, like a young cypress-tree 

Sway'd by the heavy wind ; 

Anon to Thalaba it moved. 

And wrapt him in its pale, innocuous fire ; 

Now, in the darkness drown'd. 

Left him with eyes bedimm'd. 

And now, emerging, spread the scene to sight. 



Led by the sound and meteor-flame, 

The Arabian youth advanced. 

Now to the nearest of the many rills 

He stoops ; ascending steam 

Timely repels his hand. 

For from its source it sprung, a boiling tide. 

A second course with better hap he tries : 

The wave, intensely cold. 

Tempts to a copious draught. 

There was a virtue in the wave : 

His limbs, that, stiff" with toil, 

Dragg'd heavy, from the copious draught received 

Lightness and supple strength. 

O'erjoyed, and weening the benignant Power, 

Who sent the reinless steed. 

Had blest these healing waters to his use, 

PJe laid him down to sleep, 

Lull'd by the soothing and incessant sound, 

The flow of many waters, ])lending oft 

With shriller tones, and deep, low murmurings, 

Which, from the fountain caves. 

In mingled melody. 

Like faery music, heard at midnight, came. 

10. 
The sounds which last he heard at night 

Awoke his recollection first at morn. 

A scene of wonders lay before his eyes. 

In mazy windings o'er the vale 

A thousand streamlets stray 'd. 

And in their endless course 

Had intersected deep the stony soil. 

With labyrinthine channels islanding 

A thousand rocks, which seem'd. 

Amid the multitudinous waters there. 

Like clouds that freckle o'er the summer sky, 

The blue ethereal ocean circling each 

And insulating all. 

11. 

Those islets of the living rock 

Were of a thousand shapes, 

And Nature with her various tints 

Diversified anew their thousand forms ; 

For some were green with moss ; 

Some ruddier tinged, or gray, or silver white ; 

And some with yellow lichens glow'd like gold; 

Some sparkled sparry radiance to the sun. 

Here gush'd the fountains up. 
Alternate light and blackness, like the play 
Of sunbeams on a warrior's burnish'd arms. 



276 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK VI. 



Yonder the river roll'd, whose ample bed, 

Their sportive lingerings o'er, 
Received and bore away the confluent rills. 

12. 

This was a wild and wondrous scene, ^ 

Strange and beautiful, as where 

By Oton-tala, like a sea of stars, 

The hundred sources of Hoangho burst. 

High mountains closed the vale. 

Bare rocky mountains, to all living things 

Inhospitable ; on whose sides no herb 

Rooted, no insect fed, no bird awoke 

Their echoes, save the Eagle, strong of wing, 

A lonely plunderer, that afar 

Sought in the vales his prey. 

13. 

Thither toward those mountains Thalaba 

Following, as he believed, the path prescribed 

By Destiny, advanced. 

Up a wide vale that led into their depths, 

A stony vale between receding heights 

Of stone, he wound his way. 

A cheerless place ! the solitary Bee, 

Whose buzzing was the only sound of life, 

Flew there on restless wing. 
Seeking in vain one flower, whereon to fix. 

14. 

Still Thalaba holds on ; 

The winding vale now narrows on his view, 

And steeper of ascent, 

Rightward and leftward rise the rocks ; 

And now they meet across the vale. 

Was it the toil of human hands 

Had hewn a passage in the rock. 

Through whose rude portal-way 

The light of heaven was seen ? 

Rude and low the portal- way ; 

Beyond, the same ascending straits 

Went winding up the wilds. 

15. 

Still a bare, silent, solitary glen, 

A fearful silence, and a solitude 

That made itself be felt ; 

And steeper now the ascent, 

A rugged path, that tired 

The straining muscles, toiling slowly up. 

At length, again a rock 

Stretch'd o'er the narrow vale ; 

There also had a portal- way been hewn. 

But gates of massy iron barr'd the pass, 

Huge, solid, heavy-hinged. 

16. 

There hung a horn beside the gate, 

Ivory-tipp'd and brazen-mouth' d. 

He took the ivory tip. 

And through the brazen mouth he breathed ; 

Like a long thunder-peal. 

From rock to rock rebounding rung the blast ; 

The gates of iron, by no human arm 

Unfolded, turning on their hinges slow, 



Disclosed the passage of the rock. 

He enter'd, and the iron gates fell to. 

Aid with a clap like thunder closed him in. 

17. 

It was a narrow, winding way ; 

Dim lamps, suspended from the vault, 

Lent to the gloom an agitated light. 

Winding it pierced the rock, 

A long, descending path. 

By gates of iron closed ; 

There also hung a horn beside, 

Of ivory tip and brazen mouth j 

Again he took the ivory tip. 

And gave the brazen mouth its voice again. 

Not now in thunder spake the horn. 

But breathed a sweet and thrilling melody : 

The gates flew open, and a flood of light 

Rush'd on his dazzled eyes. 

18. 

Was it to earthly Eden, lost so long. 

The fated Youth had found his wondrous way ? 

But earthly Eden boasts 

No terraced palaces, 

No rich pavilions bright with woven gold, 

Like these, that, in the vale, 

Rise amid odorous groves. 

The astonish' d Thalaba, 

Doubting as though an unsubstantial dream 

Beguiled him, closed his eyes, 

And open'd them again; 

And yet uncertified. 

He press'd them close, and, as he look'd around, 

Question'd the strange reality again. 

He did not dream ; 

They still were there — 

The glittering tents, 

The odorous groves, 

The gorgeous palaces. 

19. 

And lo ! a man, reverend in comely age. 

Advancing greets the youth. 

"Favor'd of Fortune," thus he said, " go taste 

The joys of Paradise ! 

The reinless steed, that ranges o'er the world, 

Brings hither those alone for lofty deeds 

Mark'd by their horoscope; permitted thus 

A foretaste of the full beatitude, 

That in heroic acts they may go on 

More ardent, eager to return and reap 

Endless enjoyment here, their destined meed. 

Favor'd of Fortune thou, go taste 

The joys of Paradise ! " 

20. 

This said, he turn'd away, and left 

The Youth in wonder mute ; 

For Thalaba stood mute. 

And passively received 

The mingled joy which flow'd on every sense. 

Where'er his eye could reach. 

Fair structures, rainbow-hued, arose ; 

And rich pavilions, through the opening woods, 



BOOK VI. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



277 



Gleain'd from their waving- curtains sunny gold; 

And, winding- through the verdant vale, 

Went streams of liquid light; 

And fluted cypresses rear'd up 

Their living obelisks; 

And broad-leav'd planertrees, in long colonnades, 

O'er-arch'd delightful walks. 
Where round their trunks the thousand tendrill'd 

vine 

Wound up and hung the boughs with greener 

wreaths, 

And clusters not their own. 

Wearied with endless beauty, did his eyes 

Return for rest? beside him teems the earth 

With tulips, like the ruddy evening streak'd; 

And here the lily hangs her head of snow ; 

And here, amid her sable cup, 

Shines the red eye-spot, like one brightest 

star. 

The solitary twinkler of the night ; 

And here the rose expands 

Her paradise of leaves. 

21. 

Then on his ear what sounds 

Of harmony arose ! 

Far music and the distance-mellow'd song 

From bowers of merriment ; 

The waterfall remote ; 

The murmuring of the leafy groves ; 

The single nightingale 

Perch'd in the rosier by, so richly toned, 

That never from that most melodious bird. 

Singing a love-song to his brooding mate, 

Did Thracian shepherd by the grave 

Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody, 

Though there the Spirit of the Sepulchre 

All his own power infuse, to swell 

The incense that he loves. 

22. 

And oh ! what odors the voluptuous vale 

Scatters from jasmine bowers, 

From yon rose wilderness, 

From cluster' d henna and from orange groves, 

That with such perfumes fill the breeze. 

As Peris to their Sister bear. 

When from the summit of some lofty tree 

She hangs encaged, the captive of the Dives. 

They from their pinions shake 

The sweetness of celestial flowers, 

And, as her enemies impure 

From that impervious poison far away 

Fly groaning with the torment, she the while 

Inhales her fragrant food. 

23. 

Such odors flow'd upon the world, 

When at Mohammed's nuptials, \^ord 

Went forth in Heaven, to roll 

The everlasting gates of Paradise 

Back on their living hinges, that its gales 

Might visit all below ; the general bliss 

Thrill' d every bosom, and the family 

Of man, for once, partook one common joy. 



24. 

Full of the bliss, yet still awake 

To wonder, on went Thalaba ; 

On every side the song of mirth, 

The music of festivity, 

Invite the passing youth. 

Wearied at length with hunger and with heat, 

He enters in a banquet room. 

Where, round a fountain brink. 

On silken carpets sate the festive train. 

Instant through all his frame 

Delightful coolness spread ; 

The playing fount refresh'd 

The agitated air ; 

The very light came cool'd through silvering panes 

Of pearly shell, like the pale moon-beam tinged; 

Or where the wine- vase fill'd the aperture, 

Rosy as rising morn, or softer gleam 

Of saffron, like the sunny evening mist: 

Through every hue, and streak'd by all, 

The flowing fountain play'd. 

Around the water-edge 

Vessels of wine, alternate placed. 

Ruby and amber, tinged its little waves. 

From golden goblets there 

The guests sate quaffing the delicious juice 

Of Shiraz' golden grape. 

25. 

But Thalaba took not the draught; 

For rightly, he knew, had the Prophet forbidden 

That beverage, the mother of sins ; 

Nor did the urgent guests 

Proffer a second time the liquid fire. 

When in the youth's strong eye they saw 

No movable resolve. 

Yet not uncourteous, Thalaba 

Drank the cool draught of innocence, 

That fragrant from its dewy vase 

Came purer than it left its native bed ; 

And he partook the odorous fruits, 

For all rich fruits were there ; 

Water-melons rough of rind, 

Whose pulp the thirsty lip 

Dissolved into a draught ; 

Pistachios from the heavy-cluster'd trees 

Of Mala vert, or Haleb's fertile soil ; 

And Casbin's luscious grapes of amber hue, 

That many a week endure 

The summer sun intense, 

Till, by its powerful heat. 

All watery particles exhaled, alone 

The strong essential sweetness ripens there. 

Here, cased in ice, the apricot 

A topaz, crystal-set; 

Here on a plate of snow. 

The sunny orange rests ; 

And still the aloes and the sandal-wood, 

From golden censers, o'er the banquet-room 

Diffuse their dying sweets. 

26. 

Anon a troop of females form'd the dance, 

Their ankles bound with bracelet-bells, 

That made the modulating harmony. 



278 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK VI, 



Transparent garments to the greedy eye 

Exposed their harlot limbs, 

Which movedj in every wanton gesture skill'd. 

27. 

With earnest eyes the banqueters 

Fed on the sight impure • 

And Thalaba, he gazed, 

But in his heart he bore a talisman, 

Whose blessed alchemy 

To virtuous thoughts refined 

The loose suggestions of the scene impure. 

Oneiza's image swam before his sight, 

His own Arabian Maid. 

He rose, and from the banquet-room he rush'd ; 

Tears coursed his burning cheek ; 

And nature for a moment woke the thought. 

And murmur'd, that, from all domestic joys 

Estranged, he wander'd o'er the world, 

A lonely being, far from all he loved. 

Son of Hodeirah, not among thy crimes 

That momentary murmur shall be written ! 

28. 

From tents of revelry. 

From festal bowers, to solitude he ran; 

And now he came where all the rills 

Of that weli-water'd garden in one tide 

Roll'd their collected waves. 

A straight and stately bridge 

Stretch'd its long arches o'er the ample stream. 

Strong in the evening and distinct its shade 

Lay on the watery mirror, and his eye 

Saw it united with its parent pile. 

One huge, fantastic fabric. Drawing near, 

Loud from the chambers of the bridge below, 

Sounds of carousal came and song. 

And unveil'd women bade the advancing youth 

Come merry-make with them ! 

Unhearing, or unheeding, he 

Past o'er with hurried pace. 

And sought the shade and silence of the grove. 

29. 

Deserts of Araby ! 

His soul return'd to you. 

He cast himself upon the earth, 

And closed his eyes, and call'd 

The voluntary vision up. 

A cry, as of distress. 

Aroused him ; loud it came, and near ! 

He started up, he strung his bow. 

He pluck 'd an arrow forth. 

Again a shriek — a woman's shriek ! 

And lo ! she rushes through the trees; 

Her veil is rent, her garments torn ! 

The ravisher follows close. 

" Prophet, save me ! save me, God ! 

Help ! help me, man ! " to Thalaba she cried : 

Thalaba drew the bow. 

The unerring arrow did its work of death. 

Then, turning to the woman, he beheld 

His own Oneiza, his Arabian Maid, 



NOTES TO BOOK VI. 

Of Solomon came down. — 3^ p. 275. 

The Arabian horses are divided into two great branches ; 
the Kadlschi, whose descent is unknown, and the Kochlaiii, of 
whom a written genealogy has been kept for 2000 years. 
These last are reserved for riding solely ; they are highly 
esteemed, and consequently very dear ; they are said to derive 
their origin from King Solomon's studs ; however this may 
be, they are fit to bear the greatest fatigues, and can pass 
whole days without food ; they are also said to show uncommon 
courage against an enemy ; it is even asserted, that when a 
horse of this race finds himself wounded, and unable to 
bear his rider much longer, he retires from the fray, and con- 
veys him to a place of security. If the rider falls upon the 
ground, his horse remains beside him, and neighs till assistance 
is brought. The Kochlani are neither large nor handsome, 
but amazingly swift ; the whole race is divided into several 
families, each of which has its proper name. Some of these 
have a higher reputation than others, on account of their 
more ancient and uncontaminated nobility. — JViebuhr. 



And now, emergivff, &c. — 8, p. 275. 

In travelling by night through the valleys of Mount 
Ephraim, we were attended, for above the space of an hour, 
with an Ignis Fatuus, that displayed itself in a variety of 
extraordinary appearances. For it was sometimes globular, 
or like the flame of a candle ; immediately after it would 
spread itself, and involve our whole company in its pale, in- 
offensive light ; then at once contract itself and disappear. 
But, in less than a minute, it would again exert itself as at 
other times ; or else, running along from one place to another 
with a swift progressive motion, would expand itself, at certain 
intervals, over more than two or three acres of the adjacent 
mountains. The atmosphere, from the beginning of the 
evening, had been remarkably thick and hazy ; and the dew, 
as we felt it upon our bridles, was unusually clammy and 
unctuous. In the like disposition of the weather, I have ob- 
served those luminous bodies, which at sea skip about the 
masts and yards of ships, and are called Corpusanse* by the 
mariners. — Shaw. 

And in their endless course, &c. — 10, p. 275. 

The Hamrnam Meskouteen, the Silent or Inchanted Baths, 
are situated on a low ground, surrounded with mountains. 
There are several fountains that furnish the water, which is of 
an intense heat, and falls afterwards into the Zenati. At a 
small distance from these hot fountains, we have others, which, 
upon comparison, are of as intense a coldness ; and a little 
below them, somewhat nearer the banks of the Zenati, there 
are the ruins of a few houses, built perhaps for the conveniency 
of persons who came hither for the benefit of the waters. 

Besides the strong, sulphureous streams of the Hammam f 
]\Teskouteen, we are to observe further of them, that their 
water is of so intense a heat, that the rocky ground it runs 
over, to the distance sometimes of a hundred feet, is dissolved, 
or rather calcined by it. When the substance of these rocks 
is soft and uniform, then the water, by making every way 
equal impressions, leaveth them in the shape of cones or 
hemi.?pheres ; which being six feet high, and a little more or 
less of the same diameter, the Arabs maintain to be so many 
tents of their predecessors turned into stone. But when these 
rocks, besides their usual soft, chalky substance, contain like- 
wise some layers of harder matter, not so easy to be dissolved, 
then, in proportion to the resistance the water is thereby to 
meet with, we are entertained with a confusion of traces and 
channels, distinguished by the Arabs into sheep, camels, 
horses, nay, into men, women, and children, whom they sup- 
pose to have undergone the like fate with their habitations. 

* A corruption of Cuerpo Santo, as this meteor is called by th« 
Spaniards, 

t They cal) the ThermcB of this country Haramama, from whence oui 
Hummuras, 



BOOK VI. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



279 



I observed tliat tlio fountains wliich afforded this water, had 
been fre(|uently stopped up ; or rather ceasing to run at one 
place, broke out immediately in another ; which circumstance 
seems not only to account for the number of cones, but for 
that variety likewise of traces, that are continued from one 
or other of these cones or fountains, quite down to the river 
Zenati. 

This place, in riding over it, giveth back such a hollow 
sound, that we were afraid every moment of sinking through 
it. It is probable, therefore, tiiat the ground below us was 
hollow ; and may not the air, then, which is pent up within 
these caverns, afford, as we may suppose, in escaping con- 
tinually through these fountains, that mixture of shrill, mur- 
muring, and deep sounds, which, according to the direction of 
the winds and the motion of the external air, issue out along 
with the water ? The Arabs, to quote their strength of imagi- 
nation once more, affirm these sounds to be the music of the 
Jeiioune^ Fairies, who are supi)osed, in a particular manner, 
to make their abodes at this place, and to be the grand agents 
in all these extraordinary appearances. 

There are other natural curiosities likewise at this place. 
For the chalky stone being dissolved into a fine impalpable 
powder, and carried down afterwards with the stream, lodgeth 
itself upon the sides of the channel, nay, sometimes upon the 
lips of the fountains themselves ; or else embracing twigs, 
straws, and other bodies in its way, immediately hardeneth, 
and shoots into a bright fibrous substance, like the Asbestos, 
forming itself at the same time into a variety of glittering 
figures and beautiful crystallizations. — Shaw. 



By Oton-tala, like a sea of stars. — 12, p. 276. 

In the place where the Whang-ho rises, there are more than 
an hundred springs which sparkle like stars, whence it is 
called Hotun Nor, the Sea of Stars. These sources form two 
great lakes, called ITala Nor, the black sea or lake. After- 
wards there appear three or four little rivers, which joined, 
form the Whang-ho, wliich has eight or nine branches. These 
sources of the river are called also Oton-tala. It is in Thibet. 
— Oauhil. ^stleifs Collect, of Voy. and Travels. 

The Whang-ho, or, as the Portuguese call it, Iloamho, 
i. e. the Yellow River, rises not far from the source of the 
Ganges, in the Tartarian mountains west of China, and hav- 
ing run through it with a course of more than six hundred 
leagues, discharges itself into the eastern sea. It hath its 
name froni a yellow mud which always stains its water, and 
which, aft^er rains, composes a third part of its quantity. The 
watermen clear it for use by throwing in alum. The Chinese 
say its waters cannot become clear in a thousand years ; 
whence it is a common proverb among them for any thing 
which is never likely to happen, " When the Yellow River 
shall run clear." — JVo<e to the Chinese Tale, IIou Kiou Choan. 



Beyond, the same ascending straits. Sec. — 14, p. 276. 

Among the mountains of the Betii Mhess, four leagues to 
the S. E. of the Welled Mansoitre, we jiass through a narrow, 
winding defile, which, for the space of near half a mile, lieth 
on each side under an exceeding high precipice. At every 
winding, the rock or stratum that originally went across it, 
and thereby separated one valley from another, is cut into the 
fashion of a door-case six or seven feet wide, giving tliereby 
the Arabs an occasion to call them Beehan, the Gates ; whilst 
the Turks, in consideration of their strength and ruggedness, 
know them by the additional appellation of Dammcr Cappy, 
the Gates of Iron. Few persons pass them without horror, a 
handful of men being able to dispute the passage with a whole 
army. The rivulet of salt water which glides through this 
valley, might possibly first point out the way which art and 
necessity would afterwards improve. — Shaw. 



JVo rich pavilions bright with woven gold 18, p. 276. 

In 1568, the Persian Sultan gave the Grand Seigneur two 
most stately pavilions made of one piece, the curtains being 
interlaced with gold, and the supporters embroidered with the 



same ; also nine fair canopies to hang over the ports of their 
pavilions, things not used among the Christians. — Kiwlles. 



And broad-lcav^d plane-trees, in long colonnades. — 20, p. 277. 

The expenses the Persians are at in their gardens is that 
wherein they make greatest ostentation of their wealth. Kot 
that they much mind furnishing of them with delightful 
flowers, as we do in Europe ; but these tliey slight as an ex- 
cessive liberality of nature, by whom their common fields are 
strewed with an infinite number of tulips and other flowers ; 
but they are rather desirous to have their gardens full of all 
sorts of fruit-trees, and especially to dispose them into pleasant 
walks of a kind of jdane or poplar, a tree not known in Eu- 
rope, which the Persians call Tzinnar. These trees grow up to 
the height of the pine, and have very broad leaves, not much 
unlike those of the vine. Their fruit has some reseniblance 
to the chestnut, while the outer coat is about it, but there is no 
kernel within it, so that it is not to be eaten. The woo I 
thereof is very brown, and full of veins ; and the Persians use 
it in doors and shutters for windows, which, being rubbed 
with oil, look incomparably better than any thing made of 
walnut-tree, nay, indeed, than the root of it, which is now* 
so very much esteemed ^mb. Travels. 



With tulips, like the ruddy evening streak'' d. — 20, p. 277. 

IMajor Scott informs «s, tliat scars and wounds, by Persian 
writers, are compared to the streaky tints of the tulip. The 
simile here employed is equally obvious, and more suited to 
its place. 



And here amid her sable cup. — 20, p. 277. 

" We pitched our tents among some little hills where there 
was a prodigious number of lilies of many colors, with which 
the ground was quite covered. None were white ; they were 
mostly either of a rich violet, with a red spot in the midst of 
each leaf, or of a fine black, and these were the most es- 
teemed. In form, they were like our lilies j but much larger," 
— Tavernier. 



Her paradise vf leaves. — 20, p. 277. 

This expression is borrowed from one of Ariosto's smaller 
poems, 

Tal e propria a veder quclP amorosa 
» Fiamma, che nel bel visa 

Si sparge, ond^ ella con soave riso 
Si va di sne bellezze innamorando > 
QiiaP e a vedere, quaP hor vermiglia rasa 
Scuopra il bel Paradiso 
De le sue foglie alhor che H sol diviso 
De V Oriente gorge U giomo alzando. 



Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody. — 21, p. 277. 
The Thracians say, that the nightingales which build their 
nests about the sepulchre of Orpheus, sing sweeter and louder 
than other nightingales, — Pnusnnias. 

Gongora has addressed this liird with somewhat more thar} 
his usual extravagance of absurdity : — 

Con diferencia tal, con gracia tanta 
Aqucl Ruisenor llora, que sospecho, 
Que tiene otros cien mil dentro del pccho, 
Que alternan su dolor por su garganta. 

With such a grace that nightingale bewails, 

That I suspect, so exquisite his note, 
An hundred thousand other nightingales, 

Within him, warble sorrow through his throat. 
Marini has the same conceit, but has expressed it less ex- 
travagantly : — 

Sovra Vorlo d^jin rio liicido e neftn, 
II canto soavissijno sciogliea 



'280 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK VI. 



Musico rossignuol, cli' aver par ea 
E mille voci e mille augelli in petto. 



Inhales her fragrant food. — 22, p. 277. 
In the Caherman JVameh, the Dives, having taken in war 
some of the Peris, imprisoned them in iron cages, which they 
hung from the highest trees they could find. There, from 
time to time, their companions visited them with the most 
precious odors. These odors were the usual food of the 
Peris, and procured them also another advantage, for they 
prevented the Dives from approaching or molesting them. 
The Dives could not bear the perfumes, which rendered them 
gloomy and melancholy whenever they drew near the cage in 
which a Peri was suspended. — D'Herbelot. 



Of man, for once, partook one common joy. — 23, p. 277. 

Dum autem ad nuptias celebrandas solemnissimum convivium 
pararetur, concussus est, jlngelis admirantibus, thronus Dei; 
atque ipse Deus majestate plenus prcecepit Custodi Paradisi, ut 
puellas, et pueros ejus cum festivis ornamentis educeret, et calices 
ad bibendum ordinatbn disponeret : grandiores item puellas, et 
jam sororiantibus mammis prceditas, etjnvenes illis cocevos, pre- 
tiosis vestibus indueret. Jussit prceterea Oabrielem vexillum 
laudis supra Meccanum Templum explicare. Tunc vero valles 
omnes et montes pne lcBtitia7n gestire cceperunt, et tola Mecca 
node ilia velut olla super ignem imposita efferbuit. Eodem 
tempore prmcipit Deus Gabrieli, ut super omnes mortales un- 
guenta pretiosissima dispergeret, admirantibus omnibus subitum 
ilium atque insolitum odorem, quern in gratiam novorum conju- 
gum divinitus exhalasse universi cognovere. — Maracci. 



On silken carpets sate the festive train. — 24, p. 277. 

Solymus II. received the ambassadors sitting upon a pallet 
which the Turks call Mastahe, used by them in their chambers 
to sleep and to feed upon, covered with carpets of silk, as was 
the whole floor of the chamber also. — Knolles. 

Among the presents that were exchanged between the Per- 
sian and Ottoman sovereigns in 1568, were carpets of silk, of 
camel's hair, lesser ones of silk and gold, and some called 
Teftlck, made of the finest lawn, and so large that seven men 
could scarcely carry one of them. — Knolles. 

In the beautiful story of Ali Beg, it is said, Cha Sefi, when 
he examined the house of his father's favorite, v/as much 
surprised at seeing it so badly furnished with ]ilain skins and 
coarse carpets, whereas the other nobles in their houses trod 
only upon carpets of silk and gold. — Tavernier. 



Of pearly shell, &c. — 24, p. 277. 

On the way from Macao to Canton, in the rivers and 
channels, there is taken a vast quantity of oysters, of whose 
shells they make glass for the windows. — Gemelli Careri. 

In the Chinese Novel Hau Kiou Choann, we read, that 
Shuey-ping-sin ordered her servants to hang up a curtain of 
mother-of-pearl across the hall. She commanded the first 
table to be set for her guest without the curtain, and two 
lighted tapers to be placed upon it. Afterwards she ordered 
a second table, but without any light, to be set for herself 
within the curtain, so that she could see every thing through 
it, unseen herself. 

Master George Tubervile, in his letters from Muscovy, 
1568, describes the Russian windows : — 

They have no English glasse ; of slices of a rocke 

Hight Sluda they their windows make, that English glasse 

doth mocke. 
They cut it very thinne, and sow it with a thred 
In pretie order like to panes, to serve their present need. 
No other glasse, good faith, doth give a better light. 
And sure the rock is nothing rich, the cost is very slight. 

Hakluyt. 
The Indians of Malabai' use mother-of-pearl for window 

■ Fra Paolino da San Bartolomeo. 



Or where the wine-vase, &c. — 24, p. 277. 
The King and the great Lords have a sort of cellar for 
magnificence, where they sometimes drink with persons whom 
they wish to regale. These cellars are square rooms, to 
which you descend by only two or three steps. In the 
middle is a small cistern of water, and a rich carpet covers the 
ground from the walls to the cistern. At the four corners of 
the cistern are four large glass bottles, each containing about 
twenty quarts of wine, one white, another red. From one to 
the other of these, smaller bottles are ranged of the same 
material and form, that is, round, with a long neck, holding 
about four or five quarts, white and red alternately. Round 
the cellar are several rows of niches in the wall, and in each 
niche is a bottle, also of red and white alternately. Some 
niches are made to hold two. Some windows give fight to the 
apartment, and all these bottles, so well ranged with their 
various colors, have a very fine efiFect to the eye. They are 
always kept full, the wine preserving better, and therefore are 
replenished as fast as they are emptied. — Tavernier. 



From golden goblets there, &c. — 24, p. 277. 

The Cuptzi, or king of Persia's merchant, treated us with a 
collation, which was served in, in plate, vermilion gilt. 

The Persians having left us, the ambassadors sent to the 
Chief Weywode a present, which was a large drinking-cup, 
vermilion gilt. — Ambassador'' s Travels. 

At Ispahan, the king's horses were watered with silver 
pails, thus colored. 

The Turks and Persians seem wonderfully fond of gilding ; 
we read of their gilt stirrups, gilt bridles, gilt maces, gilt cim- 
eters, &c. &;c. 



TJiat beverage, the mother of sins. — 25, p. 277. 

Mohammedes vinum appellabat Matrem peccatorum ; cui sen- 
tentiw Hafez, Anacreon ille Persarum, minime ascribit suam; 
dicit autem. 

" Acre illud (vinum) quod vir religiosus matrem peccatorum 
vocitat, 

Optahilius nobis ac dalcius videtur, quam virginis suavium.^^ 
— Poeseos Asiat. Com. 

Wide ignem ilium nobis liquidum. 

Hoc est, ignem ilium aqua similem affer. — Hafez. 



That fragrant fi-om its dewy vase, &c. — 25, p. 277. 

They export from Com earthen ware both white and var- 
nished ; and this is peculiar to the white ware which is thence 
transported, that in the summer it cools the water wonderfully 
and very suddenly, by reason of continual transpiration. So 
that they who desire to drink cool anddeliciously, never drink 
in the same pot above five or six days at most. They wash it 
with rose-water the first time, to take away the ill smell of the 
earth, and they hang it in the air, full of water, wrapped up in 
a moist linen cloth. A fourth part of the water transpires in 
six hours the first time ; after that, still less from day to day, 
till at last the pores are closed up by the thick matter con- 
tained in the water which stops in the pores. But so soon aa 
the pores are stopped, the water stinks in the pots, and you 
must take new ones. — Chardin. 

In Egypt people of fortune burn Scio mastic in their cups ; 
the penetrating odor of which pervades the porous substance, 
which remains impregnated with it a long time, and imparts to 
the water a perfume which requires the aid of habit to render 
it pleasing. — Sonnini. 



And Casbin's luscious grapes of amber hue. — 25, p. 277. 

Casbin produces the fairest grape in Persia, which they call 
Shdhoni, or the royal grape, being of a gold color, transparent, 
and as big as a small olive. These grapes are dried and trans- 
ported all over the kingdom. They also make the strongest 
wine in the world, and the most luscious, but very thick, as all 



BOOK VII. 



TIIALABA THE DESTROYER. 



281 



strong ami sweet wines usually arc. This incomparable grape 
grows only upon the young branches, which they never water. 
So that, for five months together, they grow in the heat of 
summer, and under a scorcliing sun, without receiving a drop 
of water, either from the sky or otherwise. When the vintage 
is over, they let in their cattle to browse in the vineyards ; af- 
terwards they cut off all the great wood, and leave only the 
young stocks about three feet high, which need no propping 
up with poles as in other places, and therefore they never make 
use of any such supporters. — Ckardin. 



Here, cased in ice, the apricot, &c. — 25, p. 277. 

Dr. Fryer received a present from the Caun of Bunder- 
AbassiE, of apples candied in snow. 

When Tavernier made his first visit to the Kan at Erivan, 
he found him with several of his officers regaling in the Cham- 
bers of the Bridge. They had wine which tiiey cooled with ice, 
and all kinds of fruit and melons in large plates, under each of 
which was a plate of ice. 

A great number of camels were laden with snow to cool the 
liquors and fruits of the Caliph Mahadi, when he made the pil- 
grimage to Mecca. 



Tlieir ankles bound with bracelet-bells, &c. — 26, p. 277. 

Of the Indian dancing women who danced before the Am- 
bassadors at Ispahan, " some were shod after a very strange 
manner. They had above the instep of the foot a string tied, 
with little bells fastened tliereto, whereby they discovered the 
exactness of their cadence, and sometimes corrected the music 
itself 5 as they did also by the Tzarpanes or Castagnets, which 
they had in their hands, in the managing whereof they were 
very expert." 

At Koojar, Mungo Park saw a dance " in which many per- 
formers assisted, all of whom were provided with little bells, 
which were fastened to their legs and arms." 



Transparent garments to the greedy eye, &c. — 26, p. 278. 

At Seronge, a sort of cloth is made so fine, that the skin 
may be seen through it, as though it were naked. Merchants 
are not permitted to export this, the governor sending all that 
is made to the Seraglio of the Great Mogul, and the chief lords 
of his court. C^est de quoy les Sultanes et les femmcs des 
Orands Seigneurs, sefont des chemises, et des robes pour la cha- 
leur, et le Roy et les Orands se plaiscnt a les voir au travers de 
ces chemises Jines, et d les faire danser. — Tavernier. 



Loud from the chambers of the bridge below. — 28, p. 278. 

I came to a village called Cupri-Kent, or the Village of the 
Bridge, because there is a very fair bridge that stands not far 
from it, built upon a river called Tabadi. This bridge is 
placed between two mountains, separated only by the river, 
and supported by four arches, unequal both in their height 
and breadth. They are built after an irregular form, in regard 
of two great heaps of a rock that stand in the river, upon which 
they laid so many arches. Those at the two ends are hollowed 
on both sides, and serve to lodge passengers, wherein they have 
made to that purpose little chambers and porticoes, w-ith every 
one a chimney. The arch in the middle of the river is hol- 
lowed quite through, from one part to the other, with two 
chambers at the ends, and two large balconies covered, where 
they take the cool air in the summer with great delight, and 
to which there is a descent of two pair of stairs hewn out 
of the rock. There is not a fairer bridge in all Georgia. — 
Char din. 

Over the river Isperuth "there is a very fair bridge, built 
on six arches, each whereof hath a spacious room, a kitchen, 
and several other conveniences, lying even with the water. 
The going down into it is by a stone pair of stairs, so that this 
bridge is able to find entertainment for a whole caravanne." — 
.dmb. Tr. 

The most magnificent of these bridges is the bridge of Zul- 
pha at Ispahan. 

36 



THE SEVENTH BOOK. 



JVow all is done ; bring home the Bride again. 
Bring home the triumph of our victory! 

Bring home with you the glory of her gain, 
Withjoyance bring her, and with jollity. 

JVcver had man jnore joyful day than this. 

Whom Heaven would heap with bliss. 

Spenser's Epithalamimn. 



From fear, and from amazement, and from joy, 

At length tlie Arabian Maid, recovering speech, 

Threw around Thalaba her arms, and cried, 

" My father ! O my father ! " — Thalaba, 

In wonder lost, yet fearing to inquire. 

Bent down his cheek on hers, 

And their tears met, and mingled as they fell. 

2. 

ONEIZA. 

At night they seized me, Thalaba ! in my sleep ; — 

Thou wert not near, — and yet, when in their grasp 

1 woke, my shriek of terror called on thee. 

My father could not save me, — an old man! 

And they were strong and many ; — O my God, 

The hearts they must have had to liear his prayers. 

And yet to leave him childless ! 

THALABA. 

We will seek him ; 
We will return to Araby. 



Alas! 

We should not find him, Thalaba ! Our tent 

Is desolate ! the wind hath heap'd the sands 

Within its door ; the lizard's track is left 

Fresh on the untrodden dust ; prowling by night, 

The tiger, as he passes, hears no breath 

Of man, and turns to search the vacancy. 

Alas ! he strays a wretched wanderer, 

Seeking his child I old man, he will not rest, — 

He cannot rest, — his sleep is misery, — 

His dreams are of my wretchedness, my wrongs. 

O Thalaba ! this is a wicked place ! 

Let us be gone ! 

THALABA. 

But how to pass again 

The iron doors, that, opening at a breath. 

Gave easy entrance .'' Armies in their might 

Would fail to move those hinges for return. 

ONEIZA. 

But we can climb the mountains that shut in 
This dreadful garden. 

THALABA. 

Are Oneiza's limbs 
Equal to that long toil ? 



282 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK VII. 



Oh, I am strong, 

Dear Thalaba ! for this — fear gives me strength, 

And you are with me ! 

3. 

So she took his hand, 

And gently drew him forward, and they went 

Toward the mountain chain. 



It was broad moonlight, and obscure or lost 

The garden beauties lay. 

But the great boundary rose, distinctly mark'd. 

These were no little hills. 

No sloping uplands lifting to the sun 

Their vineyards, with fresh verdure, and the 

shade 

Of ancient woods, courting the loiterer 

To win the easy ascent : stone mountains these, 

Desolate rock on rock. 

The burdens of the earth. 

Whose snowy summits met the morning beam 

When night was in the vale, whose feet were fix'd 

In the world's foundations. Thalaba beheld 

The heights precipitous, 

Impending crags, rocks unascendible. 

And summits that had tired the eagle's wing; 

"There is no way ! " he said ; 

Paler Oneiza grew. 

And hung upon his arm a feebler weight. 



But soon again to hope 

Revives the Arabian maid. 

As Thalaba imparts the sudden thought. 

" I past a river," cried the youth, 

" A full and copious stream. 

The flowing waters cannot be restrain'd. 

And where they find or force their way. 

There we perchance may follow ; thitherward 

The current roll'd along." 

So saying, yet again in hope 

Quickening their eager steps, 

They turn'd them thitherward. 



Silent and calm the river roll'd along. 

And at the verge arrived 
Of that fair garden, o'er a rocky bed. 

Toward the mountain-base. 

Still full and silent, held its even way. 

But farther as they went, its deepening sound 

Louder and louder in the distance rose, 

As if it forced its stream 

Struggling through crags along a narrow pass. 

And lo ! where raving o'er a hollow course 

The ever-flowing flood 

Foams in a thousand whirlpools ! There, adown 

The perforated rock, 

Plunge the whole waters ; so precipitous. 

So fathomless a fall. 

That their earth-shaking roar came deaden'd up 

Like subterranean thunders. 



7. 

"Allah save us ! " 

Oneiza cried ; " there is no path for man 

From this accursed place ! " 

And as she spake, her joints 

Were loosen'd, and her knees sunk under her. 

" Cheer up, Oneiza ! " Thalaba replied; 

" Be of good heart. We cannot fly 

The dangers of the place. 

But we can conquer them ! " 

8. 

And the young Arab's soul 

Arose within him. " What is he," he cried, 

" Who hath prepared this garden of delight. 

And wherefore are its snares ? " 



The Arabian Maid replied, 
" The Women, when I enter'd, welcomed me 

To Paradise, by Aloadin's will 

Chosen, like themselves, a Houri of the Earth. 

They told me, credulous of his blasphemies. 

That Aloadin placed them to reward 

His faithful servants with the joys of Heaven. 

O Thalaba, and all are ready here 

To wreak his wicked will, and work all crimes ! 

How then shall we escape ? " 

10. 

"Woe to him!" cried the Appointed, a stern 

smile 

Darkening with stronger shades his countenance : 

" Woe to him ! he hath laid his toils 

To take the Antelope ; 

The Lion is come in! " 

11. 

She shook her head — "A Sorcerer he, 

And guarded by so many ! Thalaba, — 

And thou but one ! " 

12. 

He raised his hand to Heaven — 

"Is there not God, Oneiza.? 

I have a Talisman, that, whoso bears. 

Him, nor the Earthly, nor the Infernal Powers 

Of Evil, can cast down. 

Remember, Destiny 

Hath mark'd me from mankind ! 

Now rest in faith, and I will guard thy sleep ! 

13. 

So on a violet bank 

The Arabian Maid laid down. 

Her soft cheek pillow'd upon moss and flowers. 

She lay in silent prayer, 

Till prayer had tranquillized her fears, 

And sleep fell on her. By her side 

Silent sate Thalaba, 

And gazed upon the Maid, 

And, as he gazed, drew in 

New courage and intenser faith. 

And waited calmly for the eventful day. 



BOOK VII. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



283 



14. 

Loud sung the Lark ; the awaken'd Maid 

Beheld hiin twinkhng in the morning light, 

And wish'd for wings and liberty like his. 

The flush of fear inflamed her cheek ; 

But Thalaba was calm of soul, 

Collected for the work. 

He ponder'd in his mind 

How from Lobaba's breast 

His blunted arrow fell. 

Aloadin, too, might wear 

Spell perchance of equal power 

To blunt the weapon's edge. 

15. 

Beside the river-brink 

Grew a young poplar, whose unsteady leaves 

Varying their verdure to the gale. 

With silver glitter caught 

His meditating eye. 

Then to Oneiza turn'd the youth, 

And gave his father's bow. 

And o'er her shoulders slung 

The quiver arrow-stored. 

"Me other weapon suits," said he; 

" Bear thou the Bow : dear Maid, 

The days return upon me, when these shafts. 

True to thy guidance from the lofty palm 

Brought down its cluster, and thy gladden'd eye. 

Exulting, turn'd to seek the voice of praise. 

Oh ! yet again, Oneiza, we shall share 

Our desert-joys! " So saying, to the bank 

He moved, and, stooping low. 

With double grasp, hand below hand, he clinch'd. 

And from its watery soil 

Uptore the poplar trunk, 

IG. 

Then off" he shook the clotted earth, 

And broke away the head. 

And boughs, and lesser roots j 

And lifting it aloft, 

Wielded with able sway the massy club. 

" Nov/ for this child of Hell ! " quoth Thalaba; 

" Belike he shall exchange to-day 

His dainty Paradise 

For other dwelling, and its cups of joy 

For the unallayable ])itterness 

Of Zaccoum's fruit accurs'd." 

17 

With that the Arabian youth and maid 

Toward the centre of the garden went. 

It chanced that Aloadin had convoked 

The garden-habitants. 

And with the assembled throng 

Oneiza mingled, and the Appointed Youth. 

Unmark'd they mingled ; or if one 

With busier finger to his neighbor notes 

The quiver'd Maid, " Haply," he says, 

" Some daughter of the Homerites, 

Or one who yet remembers with delight 

Her native tents of Himiar." " INay ! " rejoins 

His comrade, " a love-pageant ! for the man 

Mimics with that fierce eye and knotty club 



Some savage lion-tamer ; she forsooth 
Must play the heroine of the years of old ! " 

18. 

Radiant with gems upon his throne of gold 

Sat Aloadin; o'er the Sorcerer's head 

Hover'd a Bird, and in the fragrant air 

Waved his wide, winnowing wings, 

A living canopy. 

Large as the hairy Cassowar 

Was that o'ershadowing Bird ; 

So huge his talons, in their grasp 

The Eagle would have hung a helpless prey. 

His beak was iron, and his plumes 

Glitter'd like burnish'd gold. 

And his eyes glow'd, as though an inward fire 

Shone though a diamond orb. 

19. 

The blinded multitude 

Adored the Sorcerer, 

And bent the knee before him, 

And shouted forth his praise ; 

"Mighty art thou, the bestower of joy, 

The Lord of Paradise ! " 

Then Aloadin rose, and waved his hand, 

And they stood mute and moveless. 

In idolizing awe. 

20. 

"Children of Earth," he said, 

" Whom I have guided here 

By easier passage then the gate of Death, 

The infidel Sultan, to whose lands 

My mountains stretch their roots. 

Blasphemes and threatens me. 

Strong are his armies ; many are his guards ; 

Yet may a dagger find him. 

Children of Earth, I tempt ye not 

With the vain promise of a bliss unseen, 

With tales of a hereafter Heaven, 

Whence never Traveller hath return'd ! 

Have ye not tasted of the cup of joy 

That in these groves of happiness 

Forever over-mantling tempts 

The ever-thirsty lip ? 

Who is there here that by a deed 

Of danger will deserve 

The eternal joys of actual Paradise ? " 

21. 

" 1 ! " Thalaba exclaim'd ; 

And springing forward, on the Sorcerer's head 

He dash'd his knotty club. 

22. 

Aloadin fell not, though his skull 

Was shattered by the blow. 

For by some talisman 

His miserable life imprison'd still 

Dwelt in the body. The astonish'd crowd 

Stand motionless with fear. 

Expecting to behold 

Immediate vengeance from the wrath of Heaven. 

And lo ! the Bird — the monster Bird, — 



284 



THALABA THE DESTROYER, 



BOOK VII. 



Soars up — then pounces down 

To seize on Thalaba ! 

Now, Oneiza, bend the bow, 

Now draw the arrow home ! — 

True fled the arrow from Oneiza's hand ; 

It pierced the monster Bird, 

It broke the Tahsman, — 

Then darkness cover'd all, — 

Earth shook. Heaven thunder'd, and amid the yells 

Of evil Spirits perished 

The Paradise of Sin. 

23. 

At last the earth was still ; 

The yelling of the Demons ceased ; 

Opening the wreck and ruin to their sight, 

The darkness roll'd away. Alone in life, 

Amid the desolation and the dead. 

Stood the Destroyer and the Arabian Maid. 

They look'd around ; the rocks were rent. 

The path was open, late by magic closed : 

Awe-struck and silent, down the stony glen 

They wound their thoughtful way. 

24. 

Amid the vale below 

Tents rose, and streamers play'd, 

And javelins sparkled to the sun ; 

And multitudes encamp'd 

Swarm'd, far as eye could travel o'er the plain. 

There in his war-pavilion sat 

In council with his Chiefs 

The Sultan of the Land. 

Before his presence there a Captain led 

Oneiza and the Appointed Youth. 

25. 

"Obedient to our Lord's command," said he, 

" We past toward the mountains, and began 

The ascending strait ; when suddenly Earth shook, 

And darkness, like the midnight, fell around, 

And fire and thunder came from Heaven, 

As though the Retribution-day were come. 

After the terror ceased, and when, with hearts 

Somewhat assured, again we ventured on. 

This youth and woman met us on the way. 

They told us, that from Aloadin's hold 

They came, on whom the judgment stroke hath 

fallen, 

He, and his sinful Paradise, at once 

Destroy 'd by them, the agents they of Heaven. 

Therefore I brought them hither, to repeat 

The tale before thy presence ; that as search 

Shall prove it false or faithful, to their merit 

Thou mayst reward them." 

"Be it done to us," 

Thalaba answer'd, " as the truth shall prove ! " 

26. 

The Sultan, while he spake, 

Fix'd on him the proud eye of sovereignty } 

" If thou hast play'd with us. 

By Allah and by Ali, Death shall seal 

The lying lips forever ! But if the thing 

Be as thou say'st, Arabian, thou shalt stand 



Next to ourself ! " — ., 

Hark ! while he speaks, the cry, I 

The lengthening cry, the increasing shout «' 

Of joyful multitudes ! 
Breathless and panting to the tent 
The bearer of good tidings comes, — 
" O Sultan, live forever ! be thy foes 
Like Aloadin all ! 
The wrath of God hath smitten him ! " 

27. 

Joy at the welcome tale 

Shone in the Sultan's cheek ; 

" Array the Arabian in the robe 

Of honor," he exclaim'd, 

" And place a chain of gold around his neck. 

And bind around his brow the diadem. 

And mount him on my steed of state, 

And lead him through the camp, 

And let the Heralds go before and cry. 

Thus shall the Sultan reward 

The man who serves him well ! " 

28. 

Then in the purple robe 

They vested Thalaba, 

And hung around his neck the golden chain, 

And bound his forehead with the diadem, 

And on the royal steed 

They led him through the camp, 

And Heralds went before and cried, 

" Thus shall the Sultan reward 

The man who serves him well ! " 

29. 

When, from the pomp of triumph, 

And presence of the King, 

Thalaba sought the tent allotted him. 

Thoughtful the Arabian Maid beheld 

His animated eye, I 

His cheek inflamed with pride. \ 

" Oneiza ! " cried the youth, I 

" The King hath done according to his word. 
And made me in the land 
Next to himself be named ! — 
But why that serious, melancholy smile ? — 
Oneiza, when I heard the voice that gave me 
Honor, and wealth, and fame, the instant thought 
Arose to fill my joy, that thou wouldst hear 
The tidings, and be happy." 

ONEIZA. 

Thalaba, 

Thou wouldst not have me mirthful ! Am I not 

An orphan, — among strangers ? 

THALABA. 

But with me I 

ONEIZA. 

My Father ! — 

THALABA. 

Nay, be comforted ! Last niglit 
To what wert thou exposed ! in what a peril 



1 BOOK VII. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



285 



Tlie morning found us ! — safety, honor, wealth, 

These now are ours. This instant who thou wert 

The Sultan ask'd. 1 told him from our childhood 

We had been plighted; — was I wrong, Oneiza? 

And when he said with bounties he would heap 

Our nuptials, — wilt thou blame me if I blest 

His will, that bade me fix the marriage day ! — 

In tears, my love ? — 

ONEIZA. 

Remember, Destiny 
Hath mark'd thee from mankind ! 



THALABA. 

Perhajjs when Aloadin was destroy' d 

The mission ceased ; and therefore Providence 

With its rewards and blessings strews my path 

Thus for the accomplish'd service. 

ONEIZA. 

Thalaba ! 

THALABA. 

Or if haply not, yet whither should I go ? 

Is it not prudent to abide in peace 

Till I am summon'd ? 

ONEIZA. 

Take me to the Deserts ! 

THALABA. 

But Moath is not there ; and wouldst thou dwell 

In a stranger's tent ? thy father then might seek 

In long and fruitless wandering for his child. 

ONEIZA. 

Take me then to Mecca ! 

There let me dwell a servant of the Temple. 

Bind thou thyself my veil, — to human eye 

It never shall be lifted. There, whilst thou 

Shalt go upon thine enterprise, my prayers, 

Dear Thalaba ! shall rise to succor thee. 

And I shall live, — if not in happiness. 

Surely in hope. 

THALABA. 

Oh, think of better things ! 
The will of Heaven is plain : by wondrous ways 

It led us here, and soon the common voice 

Will tell what we have done, and how we dwell 

Under the shadow of the Sultan's wing ; 

So shall thy father hear the fame, and find us 

What he hath wish'd us ever. — Still in tears ! 

Still that unwilling eye ! nay — nay — Oneiza — 

I dare not leave thee other than my own, — 

My wedded wife. Honor and gratitude 

As yet preserve the Sultan from all thoughts 

That sin against thee ; but so sure as Heaven 

Hath gifted thee above all other maids 

With loveliness, so surely would those thoughts 

Of wrong arise within the heart of Power. 

If thou art mine, Oneiza, we are safe ; 
But else, there is no sanctuary could save. 



ONEIZA. 

Thalaba ! Thalaba ! 

30. 

With song, with music, and with dance, 

The bridal pomp proceeds. 

Following the deep-veil 'd Bride 

Fifty female slaves attend 

In costly robes that gleam 

With interwoven gold. 

And sparkle far with gems. 

A hundred slaves behind them bear 

Vessels of silver and vessels of gold, 

And many a gorgeous garment gay. 

The presents that the Sultan gave. 

On either hand the pages go 

With torches flaring through the gloom, 

And trump and timbrel merriment 

Accompanies their way ; 

And multitudes with loud acclaim 

Shout blessings on the Bride. 

And now they reach the palace pile, 

The palace home of Thalaba, 

And now the marriage feast is spread, 

And from the finish' d banquet now 

The wedding guests are gone. 

31. 

Who comes from the bridal chamber ? — 
It is Azrael, the Angel of Death. 



NOTES TO BOOK VII. 

Within its door ; the lizard^s track is left, Sec. — 2, p. 281. 

The dust which overspreads these beds of sand is so fine, 
tliat the lightest animal, tiie smallest insect, leaves there, as 
on snow, the vestiges of its track. The varieties of those 
impressions produce a pleasing effect, in spots where the sad- 
dened soul expects to meet with nothing but symptoms of the 
proscriptions of nature. — It is impossible to see any thing more 
beautiful than the traces of the passage of a species of very 
small lizards, extremely common in these deserts. The ex- 
tremity of their tail forms regular sinuosities, in the middle 
of two rows of delineations, also regularly imprinted by their 
four feet, with their five slender toes. These traces are mul- 
tiplied and interwoven near the subterranean retreats of these 
little animals, and present a singular assemblage, which is not 
void of beauty. — Sonnini. 



In the tcorld's foundations, &cc. — 4, p. 282. 

These lines are feebly adapted from a passage in Burnet's 
Theory of the Earth. 

IIcDc autem dicta vcllcm de genuinis et majoribus terra: mon- 
tibus ; non gratos Bacchi colleshic intelligimus, ant amttnos illos 
monticulos, qui viridi herba et vicino fonte et arboribus,vim estl- 
vi solis repellunt .- hiice non decst sua qualiscunquc elegantia et 
jucunditas. Scd longe aliud hie rcspicimus, ncmpe longmva ilia 
tristia et squalentia corpora, telluris pondera, qua duro capite ri- 
gent inter nubes, infixisque in terram saxeis pedibus, ab innume- 
ris seculis steterunt immobilia, atqnc nudo pcctore pertulerunt tot 
annnrum ardentes soles, falmina et procellas. Hi sunt primaivi 
et immortales illi monies, qui non aliunde, quam cxfracta mundi 
compage ortmn suum ducere potaerunt, nee nisi cum eadem peri- 
turi sunt. 

The whole chapter demontihus is written with the eloquence 
of a poet. Indeed, Gibbon bestowed no exaggerated praise on 



286 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



Burnet in saying, that he had " blended Scripture, history, and 
tradition, into one magnificent system, with a sublimity of 
imagination scarcely inferior to Milton himself." This work 
should be read in Latin ; the author's own translation is mis- 
erably inferior. He lived in the worst uge of English prose. 



Zaccoum^s fruit acciirJd. — 16, p. 283. 

The Zaccoum is a tree which issueth from the bottom of 
Hell ; the fruit thereof resembleth the heads of devils ; and 
the damned shall cat of the same, and shall fill their bellies 
therewith; and tliere shall be given them thereon a mixture 
of boiling water to drink ; afterwards shall they return to 
Hell. — Koran, chap. 37. 

This hellish Zaccoum has its name from a thorny tree in 
Tehama, which bears fruit like an almond, but extremely 
bitter ; therefore the same name is given to the infernal tree. 
— Sale. 



Some daughter of the Homeritcs. — 17, p. 283. 

When the sister of the famous Derar was made prisoner be- 
fore Damascus with many other Arabian women, she excited 
them to mutiny, they seized the poles of the tents, and attacked 
their captors. This bold resolution, says Marigny, was not in- 
spired by impotent anger. Most of these women had military 
inclinations already ; particularly those who were of the tribe 
of Himiar, or of the Homerites, where they are early exer- 
cised in riding the horse, and in using the bow, the lance, and 
the javelin. The revolt was successful, for, during the en- 
gagement, Derar came up to their assistance. — Marigny. 



The Paradise of Sin. — 22, p. 284. 

In the N. E. parts of Persia there was an old man named 
Aloadin, a Mahumetan, which had inclosed a goodly valley, 
situate between two hilles, and furnished it with all variety 
which nature and art could yield ; as fruits, pictures, rillsof milk, 
wine, honey, water, pallaces and beautiful damosells, richly 
attired, and called it Paradise. To this was no passage but by 
an impregnable castle ; and daily preaching the pleasures of 
this Paradise to the youth which he kept in liis court, some- 
times he would minister a sleepy drinke to some of them, and 
then conveigh them thither, where, being entertained with 
these pleasures four or five days, they supposed themselves 
rapt into Paradise, and then being again cast into a trance by 
the said drink, he caused them to be carried forth, and then 
would examine them of what they had scene, and by this de- 
lusion would make them resolute for any enterprise which he 
should appoint them ; as to murther any prince his enemy, for 
they feared not death in hope of their Mahumetical Paradise. 
But Haslor or Ulan, after three years' siege, destroyed him, 
and this his fool's Paradise, — Purchas. 

In another place, Purchas tells the same tale, but calls the 
impostor Aladenles, and says that Selim the Ottoman Emperor 
destroyed his Paradise. 

The story is told by many writers, but with such diflTerence 
of time and place, as wholly to invalidate its truth, even were 
the circumstances more probable. 

Travelling on further towards the south, I arrived at a cer- 
taine countroy called Melistorte, which is a very pleasant and 
fertile place. And in this countrey there was a certaine aged 
man called Senex de Monte, who, round about two mountaines, 
had built a wall to enclose the sayd mountaines. Within this 
wall there were the fairest and most chrystall fountaines in the 
whole world ; and about the sayd fountaines there were 
most beaiitiful virgins in great number, and goodly horses also ; 
and, in a word, every thing that could be devised for bodily 
solace and delight, and therefore the inhabitants of the coun- 
trey call the same place by the name of Paradise. 

The sayd olde Senex, when he saw any proper and valiant 
young man, he would admit him into his paradise. Moreover 
by certaine conducts, he makes wine and milk to flow abun- 
dantly. This Senex, when he hath a minde to revenge him- 
selfe, or to slay any king or baron, commandeth him that is 
governor of the sayd Paradise to bring thereunto some of the 
acquaintance of the sayd king or baron, permitting him a I 



while to take his pleasure therein, and then to give him a 
certeine potion, being of force to cast him into such a slumber 
as should make him quite void of all sense, and so being in a 
profounde sleepe, to convey him out of his paradise ; who 
being awaked, and seeing himselfe thrust out of the paradise, 
would become so sorrowfull, that he could not in the world 
devise what to do, or whither to turne him. Then would he 
go unto the forsaide old man, beseeching him that he might 
be admitted againe into his paradise ; who saith unto him, 
you cannot be admitted thither, unlesse you will slay such or 
such a man for my sake, and if you will give the attempt 
onely, whether you kill him or no, I will place you againe in 
paradise, that there you may remaine alwayes. Then would 
the party, without faile, put the same in execution, indeav- 
oring to murther all those against whom the sayd olde man 
had conceived any hatred. And therefore all the kings of the 
East stood in awe of the sayd olde man, and gave unto him 
great tribute. 

And when the Tartars had subdued a great part of the 
world, they came unto the sayd olde man, andtooke from him 
the custody of his paradise; who, being incensed thereat, sent 
abroad divers desperate and resolute persons out of his fore- 
named paradise, and caused many of the Tartarian nobles to 
be slain. The Tartars, seeing this, went and besieged the 
city wherein the sayd olde man was, tooke him, and put him 
to a most cruell and ignominious death. — Odoricus. 

The most particular account is given by that undaunted 
liar. Sir John Maundeville. 

" Beside the Yle of Pentexoire, that is, the Lond of Prestre 
John, is a gret Yle, long and brode, that men clepen Milste- 
rak ; and it is in the Lordschipe of Prestre John. In that Yle 
is gret plentee of godes. There was dwellinge sometyme a 
ryche man ; and it is not long sithen, and men clept him Ga- 
tholonabes ; and he was full of cauteles, and of sotylle dis- 
ceytes ; and had a fulle fair castelle, and a strong, in a moun- 
tayne, so strong and so noble, that no man cowde devise a 
fairere, ne a strengere. And he had let muren all the moun- 
tayne abonte with a stronge walle and a fair. And withinne 
the walles he had the fairest gardyn that ony man might be- 
hold ; and therein were trees berynge all manner of frutes 
that ony man cowde devyse, and therein were also alle maner 
vertuous herbes of gode smelle, and all other herbes also that 
beren fair floures, and he had also in that gardyn many fairo 
Welles, and beside the welles he had lete make faire halles 
and faire chambres, depeynted alle with gold and azure. And 
there weren in that place many dyverse thinges, and many d)'- 
verse stories ; and of bestes and of bryddes that songen fulle de- 
lectabely, and moveden be craft that it semede that thei weren 
quyke. And he had also in his gardyn all maner of fowles and 
of bestes, that ony man might thinke on, for to have pley or de- 
sport to beholde hem. And he had also in that place, the faireste 
damyseles that mighte ben founde under the age of 15 zere, 
and the fixirest zonge striplynges that men myghtegeteof that 
same age ; and all thei weren clothed in clothes of gold fully 
rychely, and he seyde that tho weren angeles. And he had 
also let make three welles faire and noble and all envyround 
with ston of jaspre, of cristalle, dyapred with gold, and sett 
with precious stones, and grete orient perles. And he had 
made a conduyt under erthe, so that the three welles, at his 
list, on scholde renne milk, another wyn, and another hony, 
and that place he clept paradys. And whan that ony gode 
knyght, that was hardy and noble, came to see this Rialtee, 
he would lede him into his paradys, and schewen him theise 
wondirfulle thinges to his desport, and the marveyllous and 
delicious song of dyverse bryddes, and the faire damyseles and 
the faire welles of mylk, wyn, and honey plenteyous rennynge. 
And he woulde let make dyverse instruments of musick to 
sownen in an high tour, so merily, that it was joye for to here, 
and no man scholde see the craft thereof; and tho, he sayde, 
weren Aungeles of God, and that place was paradys, that 
God had behyghte to his friendes, saying, Dabo vobis tcrram 
flucntem lacte et melle. And thanne wolde he maken hem to 
drynken of certeyn drynk, whereof anon thei sholden be 
dronken, and thanne wolde hem thinken gretter delyt than 
thei hadden before. And then wolde he seye to hem, 
that zif thei wolde dyen for him and for his love, that 
after hire dethe thei scholde come to his paradys, and 
thei scholde ben of the age of the damyseles, and thei 
scholde pleyen with, hem and zit ben maydenes. And after 



BOOK viir. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



287 



that zit 3cholilc he patten hum in a fayrere paradys, where tliat 
tl»ei scholdo see God of nature visihuly in Ills mafjestee and in 
liis biisse. And than woldo he schowe hem his entent and 
Si-ye hem, that zif thci wolde go sle such a lord, or such a man, 
that was his eneinyo, or coiitrarious to iiis list, that thei scholde 
nut drede to don it, and for to he skyn therefore lieniselfe ; for 
aftir iiire dethe ho wohle puttcn horn into another paradys, 
that was an hundred fold faircre than ony of liie totliere ; and 
there scholde thei dwcllen with the most fairest damyselcs 
that inyghte be, and ploy with hem ever more. And thus 
wenteu many dyverse lusty bacheleres for to sle grete lords, in 
dyverse couiitrees, that wcren his encmyes, and niaden himself 
to hen slayn in hope to have that parad\s. And thus often 
tyme he was revenged of his cneniyus by his sotylle disceytes 
Knd false cautelcs. And whan tlie worthe men of the contree 
liadden perceyved this sotylle falshod of this Gatholonabes, 
thei assembled hem with force, and assayleden his castelle 
and slowen him, and destroyden all the faire places, and alle 
tlie noblctees of that paradys. The place of the vvelles, and 
of the walles, and of many other thingcs, bene zit apertly scne ; 
but the richesse is voyded clene. And it is not longgon sithen 
that place was destroyed." — Sir Juhn MauudccUic. 



" The man who serves him well ! " — 27, p. 284. 

Let the royal apparel be brought which the king useth to 
wear, and the horse that the king rideth upon, and the crown- 
royal which is set upon his head. 

And let this apparel and horse be delivered to the hand of 
one of the king's most noble princes, that they may array the 
man withal whom the king delighteth to honor, and bring 
him on horseback through the street of the city, and proclaim 
before him. Thus shall it be done to the man whom the king 
delighteth to honor. — Esther, vi. 8, 9. 



Take me then to Mecca .' — 29, p. 285. 

The Sheik Kotbeddin discusses the question, whether it be, 
upon the whole, an advantage or disadvantage to live at 
Mecca ; for all doctors agree, that good works performed there 
have double the merit which they would have any where else. 
He therefore inquires, whether the guilt of sins must not be 
augmented in a like proportion. — JVoticcs des MSS. de la 
Bibl. J\rat. t. 4. 541. 



THE EIGHTH BOOK. 



Qmos potlus decuit nostra te infcrre sepiilchro 

Petronilla, tibi spargimxis has lacrlmas. 
Spargimus has lacrimas matsti monumenta parentis, — 

Et tibi pro thalamo sternimus hmic tumulum. 
Sperabam genitor ttedas prwfcrrejiigales, 

Et titido patris jtingere nomcn avi ; 
Heu ! gencr est Orcus ; quique, dulcissima ! per te 

Se sperabat avum, desinit esse pater. 

JoACH. Bellaics. 



1. 

"WOMAN. 

Go not among the Tombs, Old Man 
There is a madman there. 



OLD MAN. 

Will he harm me if 1 



goi 



WOMAN. 

Not he, poor miserable man ! 
But 'tis a wretched sight to see 



His utter wretchedness. 

For all day long he lies on a grave, 

And never is he seen to weep, 

And never is he heard to groan, 

Nor even at the hour of prayer 

Bends his knee nor moves his lips. 

I have taken him food for charity, 

And never a word he spake ; 

But yet so ghastly he look'd. 

That I have awaken' d at night 

With the dream of his ghastly eyes. 

Now, go not among the Tombs, Old Man ! 

OLD MAN. 

Wherefore has the wrath of God 
So sorely stricken him.^ 

WOMAN. 

He came a stranger to the land, 

And did good service to the Sultan, 

And well his service was rewarded. 

The Sultan named him next himself, 

And gave a palace for his dwelling. 

And dower'd his bride with rich domains. 

But on his wedding night 

There came the Angel of Death. 

Since that hour, a man distracted 

Among the sepulchres he wanders. 

The Sultan, when he heard the tale, 

Said that for some untold crime. 

Judgment thus had stricken him, 

And asking Heaven forgiveness 

That he had shown him favor. 

Abandoned him to want. 

OLD MAN. 

A Stranger did you say ! 

WOMAN. 

An Arab born, like you. 

But go not among the Tombs, 

For the sight of his wretchedness 

Might make a hard heart ache ! 

OLD MAN. 

Nay, nay, I never yet have shunn'd 

A countryman in distress ; 

And the sound of his dear native tongue 

May be like the voice of a friend. 



Then to the Sepulchre 

Whereto she pointed him, 

Old Moath bent his way. 

By the tomb lay Thalaba, 

In the light of the setting eve ; 

The sun, and the wind, and the rain. 

Had rusted his raven locks ; 

His cheeks were fallen in, 

His face-bones prominent; 

Reclined against the tomb he lay, 

And his lean fingers play'd. 

Unwitting, with the grass that grew beside. 



288 



THALABA THE DESTROYER 



BOOK VIII. 



3. 

The Old Man knew him not, 

But drawing near him, said, 

" Countryman, peace be with thee ! " 

The sound of his dear native tongue 

Awaken'd Thalaba; 

He raised his countenance, 

And saw the good Old Man, 

And he arose and fell upon his neck, 

And groan'd in bitterness. 

Then Moath knew the youth. 

And fear'd that he was childless; and he turn'd 

His asking eyes, and pointed to the tomb. 

" Old Man ! " cried Thalaba, 

" Thy search is ended here ! " 

4. 

The father's cheek grew white. 

And his lip quiver'd with the misery ; 

Howbeit, collectedly, with painful voice 

He answer 'd, '' God is good ! His will be done ! ' 

5. 

The woe in which he spake. 

The resignation that inspired his speech, 

They soften'd Thalaba. 

"Thou hast a solace in thy grief," he cried, 

" A comforter within ! 

Moath ! thou seest me here, 

Deliver'd to the Evil Powers, 

A God-abandon'd wretch." 



The Old Man look'd at him incredulous. 
" Nightly," the youth pursued, 
" Thy daughter comes to drive me to despair. 
Moath, thou thinkest me mad ; 
But when the Crier from the Minaret 
Proclaims the midnight hour. 
Hast thou a heart to see her ? " 



In the Meidan now 

The clang of clarions and of drums 

Accompanied the Sun's descent. 

" Dost thou not pray, my son ? " 

Said Moath, as he saw 

The white flag waving on the neighboring Mosque 

Then Thalaba's eye grew wild 

" Pray ! " echoed he, " I must not pray ! " 

And the hollow groan he gave 

Went to the Old Man's heart. 

And bowing down his face to earth, 

In fervent agony he call'd on God. 



A night of darkness and of storms ! 

Into the Chamber of the Tomb, 

Thalaba led the Old Man, 

To roof him from the rain. 

A night of storms ! the wind 

Swept through the moonless sky, 

And moan'd among the pillar'd sepulchres ; 

And in the pauses of its sweep 

They heard the heavy rain 



Beat on the monument above. 

In silence on Oneiza's grave 

Her Father and her husband sat. 

9. 

The Crier from the Minaret 

Proclaim' d the midnight hour. 

" Now, now ! " cried Thalaba; 

And o'er the chamber of the tomb 

There spread a lurid gleam. 

Like the reflection of a sulphur fire ; 

And in that hideous light 

Oneiza stood before them. It was She, — 

Her very lineaments, — and such as death 

Had changed them, livid cheeks, and lips of blue; 

But in her eyes there dwelt 

Brightness more terrible 

Than all the loathsomeness of death. 

" Still art thou living, wretch ? " 
In hollow tones she cried to Thalaba ; J 

" And must I nightly leave my grave 1 

To tell thee, still in vain, 
God hath abandon'd thee ? " 

10. 

" This is not she ! " the Old Man exclaim'd ; j 

" A Fiend ; a manifest Fiend ! " i 

And to the youth he held his lance ; 

" Strike and deliver thyself! " 

" Strike her ! " cried Thalaba, 

And, palsied of all power. 

Gazed fixedly upon the dreadful form. 

" Yea, strike her ! " cried a voice, whose tones 

Flow'd with such sudden healing through his 

soul, 

As when the desert shower 

From death deliver'd him ; 

But, unobedient to that well-known voice, 

His eye was seeking it, 

When Moath, firm of heart. 

Perform' d the bidding : through the vampire corpse 

He thrust his lance ; it fell. 

And, howling with the wound, 

Its fiendish tenant fled. 

A sapphire light fell on them. 

And garmented with glory, in their sight 

Oneiza's Spirit stood. 

11- 

" O Thalaba ! " she cried, 

" Abandon not thyself! 

Wouldst thou forever lose me ? — O my husband, 

Go and fulfil thy quest. 

That in the Bowers of Paradise 

I may not look for thee 

In vain, nor wait thee long." 

12. 

To Moath then the Spirit 

Turn'd the dark lustre of her heavenly eyes : 

" Short is thy destined path, 

O my dear Father ! to the abode of bliss. 

Return to Araby ; 

There with the thought of death 

Comfort thy lonely age, 



BOOK VIII. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



And Azrael, the Deliverer, soon 
Will visit thee in peace." 

13. 

They stood with earnest eyes, 
And arms outreaching, when again 
The darkness closed around them. 

The soul of Thalaba revived ; 

He from the floor his quiver took, 

And as he bent the bow, exclaim'd, 

" Was it the overruling Providence 

That in the hour of frenzy led my hands 

Instinctively to this ? 

To-morrow, and the sun shall brace anew 

The slacken'd cord, that now sounds loose and 

damp ; 

To-morrow, and its livelier tone will sing 

In tort vibration to the arrow's flight. 

I — but I also, with recovered health 

Of heart, shall do my duty. 

My Father! here I leave thee then ! " he cried, 

" And not to meet again. 

Till, at the gate of Paradise, 

The eternal union of our joys commence. 

We parted last in darkness ! " — and the youth 

Thought with what other hopes; 

But now his heart was calm. 

For on his soul a heavenly hope had dawn'd. 

14. 

The Old Man answered nothing, but he held 

His garment, and to the door 

Of the Tomb Chamber followed him. 

The rain had ceased ; the sky w^as wild. 

Its black clouds broken by the storm. 
And, lo ! it chanced, that in the chasm 

Of Heaven between, a star, 

Leaving along its path continuous light, 

Shot eastward. " See my guide ! " quoth Thalaba ; 

And turning, he received 

Old Moath's last embrace. 

And the last blessing of the good Old Man. 

15. 

Evening was drawing nigh, 

When an old Dervise, sitting in the sun 

At the cell door, invited for the night 

The traveller ; in the sun 

He spread the plain repast. 

Rice and fresh grapes ; and at their feet there flow'd 

The brook of which they drank. 

16. 

So as they sat at meal. 

With song, with music, and with dance, 

A wedding train went by ; 

The deep-veil'd bride, the female slaves, 

The torches of festivity. 

And trump and timbrel merriment 

Accompanied their way. 

The good old Dervise gave 

A blessing as they past ; 

But Thalaba look'd on. 

And breathed a low, deep groan, and hid his face. 

The Dervise had known sorrow, and he felt 

37 



Compassion ; and his words 

Of pity and of piety 

Open'd the young man's heart, 

And he told all his tale. 

17. 

" Repine not, O my Son ! " the Old Man replied, 

" That Heaven hath chasten'd thee. Behold this 

vine: 

I found it a wild tree, whose wanton strength 

Had swollen into irregular twigs 

And bold excrescences. 

And spent itself in leaves and little rings, 

So, in the flourish of its outwardness, 

Wasting the sap and strength 

That should have given forth fruit. 

But w^hen I pruned the plant. 

Then it grew temperate in its vain expense 

Of useless leaves, and knotted, as thou seest, 

Into these full, clear clusters, to repay 

The hand that wisely wounded it. 

Repine not, O my Son ! 

In wisdom and in mercy Heaven inflicts 

Its painful remedies." 



18. 



Then pausing, - 



he 



Whither goest thou now .'* ' 

ask'd. 

" I know not," answered Thalaba; 

" My purpose is to hold 

Straight on, secure of this, 

That, travel wliere I will, I cannot stray, 

For Destiny will lead my course aright." 



19. 

"Far be from me," the Old Man replied, 

" To shake that pious confidence ; 

And yet, if knowledge may be gain'd, methinks 

Thy course should be to seek it painfully. 

In Kaf the Simorg hath his dwelling-place. 

The all-knowing Bird of Ages, who hath seen 

The World, with all its children, thrice destroy 'd. 

Long is the path. 

And difficult the way, of danger full ; 

But that unerring Bird 

Could to a certain end 

Direct thy weary search." 

20.. 

Easy assent the youth 

Gave to the words of wisdom ; and behold, 

At dawn, the adventurer on his way to Kaf. 

And he hath travelled many a day 

And many a river swum over, 

And many a mountain ridge hath cross'd, 

And many a measureless plain ; 

And now, amid the wilds advanced, 

Long is it since his eyes 

Have seen the trace of man. 

21. 

Cold ! cold ! 'tis a chilly clime 

That the youth in his journey hath reach'd, 

And he is aweary now. 

And faint for lack of food. 



290 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK VIII 



Cold ! cold ! there is no Sun in heaven ; 

A heavy and uniform cloud 

Overspreads the face of the sky, 

And the snows are beginning to fall. 

Dost thou wish for thy deserts, O Son of Hodeirah ? 

Dost thou long for the gales of Arabia ? 

Cold ! cold ! his blood flows languidly, 

His hands are red, his lips are blue. 

His feet are sore with the frost. 

Cheer thee ! cheer thee ! Thalaba ! 

A little yet bear up ! 

22. 

All waste ! no sign of life 
But the track of the wolf and the bear ! 

No sound but the wild, wild Avind, 

And the snow crunching under his feet ! 

Night is come ; neither moon, nor stars, 

Only the light of the snow ! 

But behold a fire in a cave of the hill, 

A heart-reviving fire ; 

And thither, with strength renew'd, 

Thalaba presses on. 

23. 

He found a Woman in the cave, 

A solitary Woman, 

Who by the fire was spinning, 

And singing as she spun. 

The pine boughs were cheerfully blazing, 

And her face was bright with the flame j 

Her face was as a Damsel's face. 

And yet her hair was gray. 

She bade him welcome with a smile, 

And still continued spinning, 

And singing as she spun. 

The thread the woman drew 

Was finer than the silkworm's. 

Was finer than the gossamer ; 

The song she sung was low and sweet, 

But Thalaba knew not the words. 

24. 
He laid his bow before the hearth, 

For the string was frozen stiff"; 

He took the quiver from his neck. 

For the arrow-plumes were iced. 

Then, as the cheerful fire 

Revived his languid limbs. 

The adventurer ask'd for food. 

The Woman answer'd him. 

And still her speech was song : 

" The She Bear she dwells near to me. 

And she hath cubs, one, two, and three ; 

She hunts the deer, and brings him here, 

And then with her I make good cheer ; 

And now to the chase the She Bear is gone. 

And she with her prey will be here anon." 

25. 

She ceased her spinning while she spake ; 

And when she had answer'd him. 

Again her fingers twirl'd the thread, 

And again the Woman began. 



In low, sweet tones to sing, 
The unintelligible song. 

26. 

The thread she spun it gleam'd like gold 

In the light of the odorous fire ; 

Yet was it so wondrously thin. 

That, save when it shone in the light, 

You might look for it closely in vain. 

The youth sat watching it. 

And she observed his wonder, 

And then again she spake. 

And still her speech was song : 

" Now twine it round thy hands, I say, 

Now twine it round thy hands, I pray ; 

My thread is small, my thread is fine, 

But he must be 

A stronger than thee, 

Who can break this thread of mine ! " 

27. 

And up she raised her bright blue eyes, 

And sweetly she smiled on him. 

And he conceived no ill ; 

And round and round his right hand, 

And round and round his left, 

He wound the thread so fine. 

And then again the Woman spake, 

And still her speech was song : 

" Now thy strength, O Stranger, strain ! 

Now then break the slender chain." 

28. 

Thalaba strove ; but the thread 

By magic hands was spun. 

And in his cheek the flush of shame 

Arose, commix'd with fear. 

She beheld, and laugh'd at him, 

And then again she sung : 

" My thread is small, my thread is fine, 

But he must be 

A stronger than thee. 

Who can break this thread of mine ! " 

29. 

And up she raised her bright blue eyes. 

And fiercely she smiled on him : 

" I thank thee, I thank thee, Hodeirah's son ! 

I thank thee for doing what can't be undone. 

For binding thyself in the chain I have spun! "- 

Then from his head she wrench'd 

A lock of his raven hair. 

And cast it in the fire. 

And cried aloud as it burnt, 

" Sister ! Sister ! hear my voice ! 

Sister ! Sister ! come and rejoice ! 

The thread is spun. 

The prize is won. 

The work is done. 

For I have made captive Hodeirah's Son." 

30. 

Borne in her magic car 

The Sister Sorceress came, 



BOOK viii. NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER 



29] 



Khawla, the fiercest of the Sorcerer brood. 

She gazed upon the youth ; 

She bade him break the slender thread ; 

She laugh'd aloud for scorn ; 

She clapp'd her hands for joy. 

31. 

The She Bear from the chase came in ; 
She bore the prey in her bloody mouth ; 

She laid it at Maimuna's feet; 
And then look'd up with wistful eyes, 

As if to ask her share. 

" There ! There ! " quoth Maimuna, 

And pointing to the prisoner-youth, 

She spurn'd him with her foot, 

And bade her make her meal. 

But then their mockery fail'd them, 

And anger and shame arose ; 

For the She Bear fawn'd on Thalaba, 

And quietly lick'd his hand. 

32. 

The gray-hair'd Sorceress stamp'd the ground, 

And call'd a Spirit up ; 

" Shall we bear the Enemy 

To the dungeon dens below .' ' ' 



Woe ! woe ! to our Empire woe ! 
If ever he tread the caverns below. 

MAIMUNA. 

Shall we leave him fetter'd here 
With hunger and cold to die ? 

SPIRIT. 

Away from thy lonely dwelling fly ! 

Here I see a danger nigh, 

That he should live, and thou shouldst die. 

MAIMUNA. 

Whither then must we bear the foe ? 

SPIRIT. 

To Mohareb's island go ; 
There shalt thou secure the foe, 
There prevent thy future woe. 

33. 

Then in the Car they threw 

The fetter'd Thalaba, 

And took their seats, and set 

Their feet upon his neck ; 

Maimuna held the reins. 

And Khawla shook the scourge, 

And away ! away ! away ! 

34. 

They were no steeds of mortal race 

That drew the magic car 

With the swiftness of feet and of wings. 

The snow-dust rises behind them ; 

The ice-rock's splinters fly; 

And hark, in the valley below 

The sound of their chariot wheels, — 

And they are far over the mountains ! 



Away ! away ! away ! 

The Demons of the air 

Shout their joy as the Sisters pass ; 

The Ghosts of the Wicked that wander by night 

Flit over the magic car. 

35. 

Away ! away ! away ! 

Over the hills and the plains, 

Over the rivers and rocks, 

Over the sands of the shore 

The waves of ocean heave 

Under the magic steeds ; 

With unwet hoofs they trample the deep, 

And now they reach the Island coast. 

And away to the city the Monarch's abode. 

Open fly the city gates. 

Open fly the iron doors. 

The doors of the palace-court. 

Then stopp'd the charmed car. 

36. 

The Monarch heard the chariot wheels, 

And forth he came to greet 

The mistress whom he served. 

He knew the captive youth, 

And Thalaba beheld 

Mohareb in the robes of royalty, 

Whom erst his arm had thrust 

Down the bitumen pit. 



NOTES TO BOOK VIII. 

" But when the Crier from the J\riiiaret," &c. — G, p. 288. 

As the celestial Apostle, at his retreat from Medina, did not 
perform always the five canonical prayers at the precise time, 
his disciples, who often neglected to join Avith him in the J^a- 
maz, assembled one day to fix upon some method of announ- 
cing to the public those moments of the day and night when 
their master discharged tliis first of religious duties. Flags, 
bells, trumpets, and fire, were successively proposed as sig- 
nals. None of these, however, were admitted. The flags 
were rejected as unsuited to the sanctity of the object ; the 
bells, on account of their being used by Ciiristians ; the trum- 
pets, as appropriated to the Hebrew worship ; the fires, as 
having too near an analogy to tlie religion of the pyrolators. 
From this contrariety of opinions, the disciples separated 
without any determination. But one of them, Abdullah ihn 
Zeid JibderyS, saw, the night following, in a dream, a celestial 
being, clothed in green : he immediately requested his advice, 
with the most zealous earnestness, respecting tlie object in 
dispute. 1 am come to inform you, replied the heavenly vis- 
itor, how to discharge this important duty of your religion. 
He then ascended to the roof of the house, and declared the 
Eiann with a loud voice, and in the same words which have 
been ever since used to declare the canonical periods. When 
he awoke, Mdullah ran to declare his vision to the prophet, 
■who loaded him with blessings, and authorized that moment 
Bilal Habeschy, another of his disciples, to discharge, on the 
top of his house, that august oftice, by the title of Muezzinn. 

These are the words of the Ezann : Most hi£rh Ood! most 
high Ood! most high Ood! I acknowledge that there is no other 
except Ood; I acknowledge that there is no other except Ood! 
J acknowledge that JMoliammed is the Prophet of Ood! come to 
prayer ! come to prayer ! come to the temple of salvation. Great 
Ood! Or eat Ood! there is no Ood except Ood. 

This declaration must be the same for each of the five 
canonical periods, except that of the morning, when the 



292 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK VITI 



Muezzinn ought to add, after the words, come to the temple of 
salvation, the following : prayer is to be preferred to sleep, 
prayer is to be preferred to sleep. 

This addition was produced by the zeal and piety of Bilal 
Habeschy .- as he announced, one day, the Eiann of the dawn 
in the prophet's antecliamher, Aische, in a whisper, informed 
him, that the celestial envoy was still asleep ; this first of 
Muezzinns then added these woxAs, prayer is to be preferred to 
sleep ; when he awoke, the prophet applauded him, and com- 
manded Bilal to insert them in all the morning Eianns. 

The words must be chanted, but with deliberation and 
gravity, those particularly which constitute the profession of 
the faith. The Muezzinn must pronounce them distinctly ; 
he must pay more attention to the articulation of the words 
than to the melody of his voice ; he must make proper inter- 
vals and pauses, and not precipitate his words, but let them be 
clearly understood by the people. He must be interrupted 
by no other object whatever. During the whole Ezann, he 
must stand with a finger in each ear, and his face turned, as 
in prayer, towards the Keabe of Mecca. As he utters these 
words, come to prayer, come to the temple of salvation, he must 
turn his face to the right and left, because he is supposed to 
address all the nations of the world, the whole expanded uni- 
verse. At this time, the auditors must recite, with a low 
voice, the Tehhlil, — There is no strength, there is no power, 
but what is in God, in that Supreme Being, in that powerful 
Bein;?. — Z)' Ohsson. 



In the Meidan now, &c. — 7, p. 288. 
In the Meidan, or great place of the city of Tauris, there 
are people appointed every evening when the sun sets, and 
every morning when he rises, to make during half an hour a 
terrible concert of trumpets and drums. They are placed on 
one side of the square, in a gallery somewhat elevated ; and 
the same practice is established in every city in Persia. — 
Tavernier. 



Into the Chamber of the Tomb, &c. — 8, p. 288. 

If we except a few persons, who are buried within the pre- 
cincts of some sanctuary, the rest are carried out at a distance 
from their cities and villages, where a great extent of ground 
is allotted for that purpose. Each family hath a particular 
portion of it, walled in like a garden, where the bones of their 
ancestors have remained undisturbed for many generations. 
For in these enclosures * the graves are all distinct and sep- 
arate ; having each of them a stone, placed upright, both at 
the head and feet, inscribed with the name of the person who 
lieth there interred ; whilst the intermediate space is either 
planted with flowers, bordered round with stone, or paved all 
over with tiles. The graves of the principal citizens are 
further distinguished by some square chambers or cupolas f 
that are built over them. 

Now, as all these different sorts of tombs and sepulchres, 
with the very walls likewise of the enclosures, are constantly 
kept clean, whitewashed, and beautified, they continue, to 
this day, to be an excellent comment upon that expression of 
our Savior's, where he mentions the garnishing of the sepul- 
chres, and again, where he compares the scribes, pharisees, 
and hypocrites, to whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beau- 
tfiil outtoard, but are within full of dead men's bones and all 
uncleanness. For the space of two or three months after any 
person is interred, the female relations go once a week to 
weep over the grave, and perform their parentalia upon it. — 
Shaw. 

About a quarter of a mile from the town of Mylasa is a 
sepulchre of the species called, by the ancients, Distega, or 
Double-roofed. It consisted of two square rooms. In the 
lower, which has a door-way, were deposited the urns, with 
the ashes of the deceased. In the upper, the relations and 
friends solemnized the anniversary of the funeral, and per- 

• They seem to be the same with the UepiSoXoi of the Ancients. 
Thus Euripides, Troad. 1131 ; 

AAV avTi KcSpov rrepiSo'Xov re \aivo)v 
El/ rriSe ^axpai naiSa. 
t Siieh places probably as these are to be understood, when the Demo- 
Diack is eaid to have his dwelling among the tombs. 



formed stated rites. A hole made through the floor was de- 
signed for pouring libations of honey, milk, or wine, with 
which it was usual to gratify the manes or spirits. — Chan 
dler's Travels in Asia Minor. 

St. Anthony the Great once retired to the sepulchres ; a 
brother shut him in, in one of the tombs, and regularly 
brought him food. One day he found the doors of the tomb 
broken, and Anthony lying upon the ground as dead, the 
devil had so mauled him. Once a whole army of devils at- 
tacked him ; the place was shaken from its foundation, the 
walls were thrown down, and the crowd of multiform fiends 
rushed in. They filled the place with the shapes of lions, 
and bulls, and wolves, asps, serpents, scorpions, pards, and 
bears, yelling and howling, and threatening, and flogging and 
wounding him. The brave saint defied them, and upbraided 
them for their cowardice in not attacking him one to one, and 
defended himself with the sign of the cross. And lo, a light 
fell from above, which at once put the hellish rabble to flight, 
and healed his wounds, and strengthened him ; and the walls 
of the sepulchre rose from their ruins. Then knew An- 
thony the presence of the Lord, and the voice of Christ pro- 
ceeded from the light to comfort and applaud him. 

Acta SanctoriLm, torn. 2. Jan. 17. P. 123. 
Vita S. Ant. auctore S. Athanasio. 

The Egyptian saints frequently inhabited sepulchres. St. 
James the hermit found an old sepulchre, made in the form of 
a cave, wherein many bones of the dead had been deposited, 
which, by length of time, were now become as dust. Enter- 
ing there, he collected the bones into a heap, and laid them in 
a corner of the monument, and closed upon himself the old 
door of the cave. 

Acta Sanct. torn. 2. Jan. 28. P. 872. 
Vita S. Jacobi Eremitce, apud Metaphrasten. 



■ the vampire corpse, &c. — 10, p. I 



In the Lettres Juives is the following extract from the Met' 
cure Historique et Politique. Octob. 1736. 

We have had in this country a new scene of Vampirism, 
which is duly attested by two officers of the Tribunal of 
Belgrade, who took cognizance of the affair on the spot, and 
by an officer in his Imperial Majesty's troops at Oradisch, {in 
Sclavonia,) who was an eye-witness of the proceedings. 

In the beginning of September, there died at the village of 
Kisilova, three leagues from Oradisch, an old man of above 
threescore and two : three days after he was buried, he appeared 
in the night to his son, and desired he would give him some- 
what to eat, and then disappeared. The next day the son told 
his neighbors these particulars. That night the father did 
not come, but the next evening he made him another visit, and 
desired something to eat. It is not known whether his son 
gave him any thing or not, but the next mornmg the young 
man was found dead in his bed. The magistrate or bailiff of 
the place had notice of this ; as also that the same day five or 
six persons fell sick in the village, and died one after the other. 
He sent an exact account of this to the tribunal of Belgrade, 
and thereupon two commissioners were despatched to the 
village, attended by an executioner, with instructions to ex- 
amine closely into the aflTair. An oflScer in the Imperial ser- 
vice, from whom we have this relation, went also from Oi-a- 
disch, in order to examine personally an aflTair of which he had 
heard so much. They opened, in the first place, the graves of 
all who had been buried in six weeks. When they came to 
that of the old man, they found his eyes open, his color 
fresh, his respiration quick and strong; yet he appeared to be 
stiff and insensible. From these signs, they concluded him 
to be a notorious Vampire. The executioner thereupon, by 
the command of the commissioners, struck a stake through 
his heart ; and when he had so done, they made a bonfire, and 
therein consumed the carcass to ashes. There were no marks 
of Vampirism found on his son, or on the bodies of the other 
persons who died so suddenly. 

Thanks be to God, we are as far as any people can be from 
giving into credulity ; we acknowledge that all the lights of 
physic do not enable us to give any account of this fact, nor 
do we pretend to enter into its causes. However, we cannot 
avoid giving credit to a matter of fact juridically attested by 
competent and unsuspected witnesses, especially since it is far 



BOOK viii. NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



293 



from being the only one of the kind. Wo shall here annex 
an instance of tiie same sort in 1732, already inserted in the 
Gleaner, No. 18. 

In a certain town of //ttHn'arj/, which is called, in Latin, Op- 
fida Heiduuum, on the other side Tibi.icus, vul^'arly called tne 
Tcijsse, that is to say, the river which washes the celebrated 
territory of Tulcay, as also a part of Transylvania, the people 
known by the name of Hcydukes believe that certain dead 
persons, whom they call Vampires, suck the blood of the living, 
insomuch that these people appear like skeletons, while the 
dead bodies of the suckers are so full of blood, that it runs 
out at all the passages of their bodies, and even at their very 
pores. This old opinion of theirs they support by a multitude 
of facts, attested in such a manner, that they leave no room 
for doubt. We shall here mention some of the most con- 
siderable. 

It is now about five years ago, that a certain Hcyduke, an 
inhabitant of the village of Medreiga, whose, name was Arnold 
Paul, was bruised to death by a hay-cart, which ran over him. 
Thirty days after his death, no less than four persons died 
suddenly in that manner, wherein, according to the tradition 
of the country, those people generally die who are sucked by 
Vampires. \J[)on this, a story was called to mind that this 
Arnold Paul had told in his lifetime, viz. that at Cossuva, on 
the frontiers of the Turkish Servia, he had been tormented by 
a Vampire ; (now the established opinion is, that a person 
sucked by a Vampire becomes a Vampire himself, and sucks 
in his turn ;) but that he had found a way to rid himself of this 
evil by eating some of the earth out of the Vampire's grave, 
and rubbing himself with his blood. This precaution, how- 
ever, did not hinder his becoming a Vampire ; insomuch, that 
his body being taken up forty days after his death, all the 
marks of a notorious Vampire were found thereon. His com- 
plexion was fresh, his hair, nails, and beard were grown ; he 
was full of fluid blood, which ran from all parts of his body 
upon his shroud. The Hadnagy or Bailiff of the place, who 
was a person well acquainted with Vampirism, caused a sharp 
Stake to be thrust, as the custom is, through the heart of 
Arnold Paul, and also quite through his body; whereupon he 
cried out dreadfully, as if he had been alive. This done, they 
cut off his head, burnt his body, and threw the ashes thereof 
into the Saave. They took the same measures with the bodies 
of those persons who had died of Vampirism, for fear that they 
should fall to sucking in their turns. 

All these prudent steps did not hinder the same mischief 
from breaking out again about five years afterwards, when 
several people in the same village died in a very odd manner. 
In the space of three months, seventeen persons of all ages 
and sexes died of Vampirism, some suddenly, and some after 
two or three days' suffering. Amongst others, there was one 
Stanoska, the daughter of a Hcyduke, whose name w&sJwitio, 
who, going to bed in perfect health, waked in the middle of 
the night, and making a terrible outcry affirmed, that the son 
of a certain Heyduke, whose name was Millo, and who had 
been dead about three weeks, had attempted to strangle her in 
her sleep. She continued from that time in a languishing 
condition, and in the space of three days died. What this 
girl had said, discovered the son of Millo to be a Vampire. 
They took up the body, and found him so in effect. The 
principal persons of the place, particularly the physician and 
surgeons, began to examine very narrowly, how, in spite of all 
their precautions, Vampirism had again broke out in so terri- 
ble a manner. After a strict inquisition, they found that the 
deceased Arnold Paul had not only sucked the four persons 
before mentioned, but likewise several beasts, of whom the 
new Vampires had eaten, particularly the son of Millo. In- 
duced by these circumstances, they took a resolution of dig- 
ging up the bodies of all persons who bad died within a certain 
time. They did so, and amongst forty bodies, there were 
found seventeen evidently Vampires. Through the hearts of 
these they drove stakes, cut off their heads, burnt their bodies, 
and threw the ashes into the river. All the informations we 
have been speaking of were taken in a legal way, and all the 
executions were so performed, as appears by certificates drawn 
up in full form, attested by several oflicers in the neighboring 
garrisons, by the surgeons of several regiments, and the prin- 
cipal inhabitants of the place. The verbal process was sent 
towards the latter end of last January, to the council of war 
at Vienna, who thereupon established a special commission to 



examine into these facts. Those just now mentioned were 
attested by the Iladnagi Barriarer, the principal Heyduke of 
the village, as ako by Buttuer, first lieutenant of prince Mex- 
under of Wirtemberg, Flickstenger, surgeon-major of the regi- 
ment of Furstembcrg, three other surgeons of the same re- 
giment, and several other persons. 

This superstition extends to Greece. 

The man, whose story we are going to relate, was a peasant 
of Mycone, naturally ill-natured and quarrelsome ; this is a 
circumstance to be taken notice of in such cases. He was 
murdered in the fields, nobody knew how, or by whom. Two 
days after his being buried in a chapel in the town, it was 
noised about that he was seen to walk in the night with great 
haste, that he tumbled about people's goods, put out their 
lamps, griped them behind, and a thousand other monkey 
tricks. At first the story was received with laughter ; but the 
thing was looked upon to be serious when the better sort of 
people began to complain of it ; the Papas themselves gave 
credit to the fact, and no doubt had their reasons for so doing ; 
masses must be said, to be sure : but for all this, the peasant 
drove his old trade, and heeded nothing they could do. After 
divers meetings of the chief people of the city, of priests, and 
monks, it was gravely concluded, that it was necessary, in 
consequence of some musty ceremonial, to wait till nine days 
after the interment should be expired. 

On the tenth day, they said one mass in the chapel wliere 
the body was laid, in order to drive out the Demon which 
they imagined was got into it. After mass, they took up the 
body, and got every thing ready for pulling out its heart. 
The butcher of the town, an old clumsy fellow, first opens the 
belly instead of the breast ; he groped a long while among the 
entrails, but could not find what he looked for; at last, some- 
body told him he should cut up the diaphragm. The heart 
was then pulled out, to the admiration of all the spectators. 
In the mean time, the corpse stunk so abominably, that they 
were obliged to burn frankincense ; but the smoke mixing 
with the exhalations from the carcass, increased the stink, 
and began to muddle the poor people's ])eri(;ranies. Their 
imagination, struck with the spectacle before them, grew full 
of visions. It came into their noddles that a thick smoke came 
out of the body ; we durst not say it was the smoke of the 
incense. They were incessantly bawling out Vroucolacas, in 
the chapel, and place before it ; this is the name they give to 
these pretended Redivivi. The noise bellowed through the 
streets, and it seemed to be a name invented on purpose to 
rend the roof of the chapel. Several there present averred, 
that the wretch's blood was extremely red ; the butcher swore 
the body was still warm; whence they concluded that the 
deceased was a very ill man for not being thoroughly dead, 
or, in plain terms, for suffering himself to be reanimated by 
Old IVick ; which is the notion they have of Vroucolacas. 
They then roared out that name in a stupendous manner. 
Just at this time came in a flock of people, loudly protesting, 
they plainly perceived the body was not grown stiff, when it 
was carried from the fields to church to be buried, and that 
consequently it was a true Vroucolacas ; which word was 
still the burden of the song. 

I don't doubt they would have sworn it did not stink, had 
not we been there ; so mazed were the poor p(!ople with this 
disaster, and so infatuated with their notion of the dead being 
reanimated. As for us, who were got as close to the corpse 
as we could, that we might be more exact in our observations, 
we were almost poisoned with the intolerable stink that issued 
from it. When they asked us what we thought of this body, 
we told them we believed it to be very thoroughly dead. But 
as we were willing to cure, or at least not to exasperate their 
prejudiced imaginations, we represented to them, that it was 
no wonder the butcher should feel a little warmth when he 
groped among entrails that were then rotting, that it was no 
extraordinary thing for it to emit fumes, since dung turned up 
will do the same ; that as for the pretended redness of the 
blood, it still appeared by the butcher's hands to be nothing 
but a very stinking, nasty smear. 

After all our reasons, they were of opinion it would be their 
wisest course to burn the dead man's heart on the sea shore , 
but this execution did not make him a bit more tractable ; he 
went on with his racket more furiously than ever ; he was 
accused of beating folks in the night, breaking down doors, 
and even roofs of houses, clattering windows, tearing clothes, 



294 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER 



BOOK VIII 



emptying bottles and vessels. It was the most thirsty devil ! 
I believe he did not spare any body but the Consul, in whose 
house we lodged. Nothing could be more miserable than 
the condition of this island j all the inhabitants seemed 
frighted out of their senses ; the wisest among them were 
stricken like the rest ; it was an epidemical disease of the 
brain, as dangerous and infectious as the madness of dogs. 
Whole families quitted their houses, and brought their tent 
beds from the farthest parts of the town into the public place, 
there to spend the night. They were every instant com- 
plaining of some new insult ; nothing was to be heard but 
sighs and groans at the approach of night j the better sort of 
people retired into the country. 

When the prepossession was so general, we thought it our 
best way to hold our tongues. Had we opposed it, we had 
not only been accounted ridiculous blockheads, but Atheists 
and Infidels ; how was it possible to stand against the madness 
of a whole people ? Those that believed we doubted the truth 
of the fact, came and upbraided us with our incredulity, and 
strove to prove that there were such things as Vroucolacasses, 
by citations out of the Buckler of Faith, written by F. Richard, 
a Jesuit Missionary. He was a Latin, say they, and conse- 
quently you ought to give him credit. We should have got 
nothing by denying the justness of the consequence : it was as 
good as a comedy to us every morning to hear the new follies 
committed by this night bird ; they charged him with being 
guilty of the most abominable sins. 

Some citizens, that were most zealous for the good of the 
public, fancied they had been deficient in the most material 
part of the ceremony. They were of opinion that they had 
been wrong in saying mass before they had pulled out the 
wretch's heart: had we taken this precaution, quoth they, we 
had bit the devil as sure as a gun : he would have been hanged 
before he would ever have come there again ; whereas, saying 
mass first, the cunning dog fled for it awhile, and came back 
again when the danger was over. 

Notwithstanding these wise reflections, they remained in as 
much perplexity as they were the first day : they meet night 
and morning, they debate, they make processions three days 
and three nights ; they oblige the Papas to fast ; you might 
see them running from house to house, holy-water-brush in 
hand, sprinkling it all about, and washing the doors with it ; 
nay, they poured it into the mouth of the poor Vroucolacas. 

We so often repeated it to the magistrates of the town, that 
in Christendom we should keep the strictest watch a-nights 
upon such an occasion, to observe what was done, that at last 
they caught a few vagabonds, who undoubtedly had a hand in 
these disorders ; but either they were not the chief ringleaders, 
or else they were released too soon. For two days afterwards, 
to make themselves amends for the Lent they had kept in 
prison, they fell foul again upon the wine-tubs of those who 
were such fools as to leave their houses empty in the night: 
so that the people were forced to betake themselves again to 
their prayers. 

One day, as they were hard at this work, after having stuck 
I know not how many naked swords over the grave of this 
corpse, which they took up three or four times a-day, for any 
man's whim, an Albaneze that happened to be at Mycone 
took upon him to say, with a voice of authority, that it was in 
the last degree ridiculous to make use of the swords of Chris- 
tians in a case like this. Can you not conceive, blind as ye 
are, says he, that the handles of these swords, being made like 
a cross, hinders the devil from coming out of the body .'' Why 
do you not rather take the Turkish sabres ? The advice ofthis 
learned man had no efl^ect : the Vroucolacas was incorrigible, 
and all the inhabitants were in a strange consternation ; they 
knew not now what saint to call upon, when, of a sudden, with 
one voice, as if they had given each other the hint, they fell 
to bawling out all through the city, that it was intolerable to 
wait any longer j that the only way left was to burn the 
Vroucolacas entire ; but after so doing, let the devil lurk in it 
if he could ; that it was better to have recourse to this ex- 
tremity than to have the island totally deserted ; and, indeed, 
whole families began to pack up, in order to retire to Syre or 
Tinos. The magistrates therefore ordered the Vroucolacas 
to be carried to the point of the island St. George, where they 



prepared a great pile with pitch and tar, for fear the wood, ai 
dry as it was, should not burn fast enough of itself. What 
they had before left ofthis miserable carcass was thrown into 
this fire and consumed presently. — It was on the 1st of 
January, 1701. We saw the flame as we returned from Delos ; 
it might justly be called a bonfire of joy, since after this no 
more complaints were heard against the Vroucolacas ; they 
said that the devil had now met with his match, and some 
ballads were made to turn him into ridicule. — Toiimefort. 

In Dalmatia, the Morlachians, before a funeral, cut the 
hamstrings of the corpse, and mark certain characters upon 
the body with a hot iron ; they then drive nails or pins into 
different parts of it, and the sorcerers finish the ceremony by 
repeating certain mysterious words ; after which they rest 
confident that the deceased cannot return to the earth to shed 
the blood of the living. — Cassas. 

The Turks have an opinion, that men that are buried have 
a sort of life in their graves. If any man makes affidavit be- 
fore a judge, that he heard a noise in a man's grave, he is, by 
order, dug up, and chopped all to pieces. The merchants, at 
Constantinople, once airing on horseback, had, as usual, for 
protection, a Janizary with them. Passing by the burying 
place of the Jews, it happened that an old Jew sat by a sepul- 
chre. The Janizary rode up to him, and rated him for 
stinking the world a second time, and commanded him to get 
into his grave again. — Roger JVorth's Life of Sir Dudley 
JVorth. 



^^That Heaven has chastened thee. Beliold this vine." — 
17, p. 289. 

In these lines, I have versified a passage in Bishop Taylor's 
Sermons, altering as little as possible his unimprovable lan- 
guage. 

" For so have I known a luxuriant vine swell into irregular 
twigs and bold excrescences, and spend itself in leaves and 
little rings, and afford but trifling clusters to the wine-press, 
and a faint return to his heart which longed to be refreshed 
with a full vintage ; but when the Lord of the vine had caused 
the dressers to cut the wilder plant, and made it bleed, it grew 
temperate in its vain expense of useless leaves, and knotted 
into fair and juicy branches, and made accounts of that loss 
of blood, by the return of fruit." 



" Jind difficult the way, of danger falV — 19, p. 269. 

It appears from Hafiz, that the way is not easily found out. 
He says, " Do not expect faith from any one ; if you do, de- 
ceive yourself in searching for the Simorgandthe philosopher's 
stone." 



.Snd away ! away ! away ! — 33, p. 291. 

My readers will recollect the Lenora. The unwilling re- 
semblance has been forced upon me by the subject. I could 
not turn aside from the road, because Burger had travelled it 
before. The " Old Woman of Berkeley " has been foolishly 
called an imitation of that inimitable ballad : the likeness is 
of the same kind as between Macedon and Monmouth. Both 
are ballads, and there is a horse in both. 



Mohareb in the roles of royalty, &c. — 36, p. 291. 

How came Mohareb to be Sultan of this island ? Every one 
who has read Don Ouixote, knows that there are always 
islands to be had by adventurers. He killed the former 
Sultan, and reigned in his stead. What could not a Dom- 
danielite perform ? The narration would have interrupted the 
flow of the main story. 



r.ooK IX. 



TIIALABA THE DESTROYER. 



295 



THE NINTH BOOK. 



Conscience ! — 
Poor plodding priests, and preaching friars, may make 
Their hollow pulpits and the empty aisles 
Of churches ring with that round word ; but we, 
That draw the subtile and more piercing air 
In that sublimed region of a court, 
Know all is good we make so, and go on 
Secured by the prosperity of our crimes. 

B. JoNsoN. Mortimer's Fall. 



' Go up, my Sister Maimuna, 
Go up, and read the stars ! " 



Lo ! on the terrace of the topmost tower 

She stands ; her darkening eyes, 

Her fine face raised to Heaven ; 

Her white hair flowing hke the silver streams 

That streak the northern night. 



They hear her coming tread, 

They lift their asking eyes ; 

Her face is serious, her unwilling lips 

Slow to the tale of ill. 

" What hast thou read r what hast thou read ? " 

Quoth Khawla in alarm. 

" Danger — death — judgment 1 " Maimunarepiied. 



" Is that the language of the lights of Heaven ? 

Exclaim'd the sterner Witch ; 

"Creatures of Allah, they perform his will, 

And with their lying menaces would daunt 

Our credulous folly. Maimuna, 

I never liked this uncongenial lore ! 

Better befits to make the Sacrifice 

Of Divination ; so shall I 

Be mine own Oracle. 

Command the victims thou, O King ! 

Male and female they must be ; 

Thou knowest the needful rites. 

Meanwhile I purify the place." 



The Sultan went ; the Sorceress rose, 

And North, and South, and East, and West, 

She faced the points of Heaven ; 

And ever where she turn'd 

She laid her hand upon the wall ; 

And up she look'd, and smote the air ; 

And down she stoop'd, and smote the floor. 

"To Eblis and his servants 

I consecrate the place ; 

Let enter none but they ! 

Whatever hath the breath of life, 

Whatever hath the sap of life, 

Let it be blasted and die ! " 



Now all is prepared ; 

Mohareb returns. 

The Circle is drawn. 

The Victims have bled. 

The Youth and the JVIaid. 

She in the circle holds in either hand, 

Clinch'd by the hair, a head. 

The heads of the Youth and the Maid. 

" Go out, ye lights ! " quoth Khawla j 

And in darkness began the spell. 



With spreading arms she whirls around 

Rapidly, rapidly. 

Ever around and around ; 

And loudly she calls the while, 

"Eblis! Eblis! " 

Loudly, incessantly. 

Still she calls, "Eblis ! Eblis ! " 

Giddily, giddily, still she whirls. 

Loudly, incessantly, still she calls ; 

The motion is ever the same, 

Ever around and around; 

The calling is still the same, 

Still it is, "Eblis ! Eblis!" 

Till her voice is a shapeless yell, 

And dizzily rolls her brain ; 

And now she is full of the Fiend. 

She stops, she rocks, she reels ! 

Look ! look ! she appears in the darkness ! 

Her flamy hairs curl up. 

All living, like the Meteor's locks of light 1 

Her eyes are like the sickly Moon ! 



It is her lips that move. 

Her tongue that shapes the sound ; 

But whose is the Voice that proceeds .'' 

'• Ye may hope, and ye may fear ; 

The danger of his stars is near. 

Sultan ! if he perish, woe ! 

Fate hath written one death-blow 

For Mohareb and the Foe ! 

Triumph ! triumph ! only she 

That knit his bonds can set him free." 



She spake the Oracle, 

And senselessly she fell. 

Tliey knelt in care beside her, — 

Her Sister and the King ; 

They sprinkled her palms with water; 

They wetted her nostrils with blood. 

10. 

She wakes as from a dream, 

She asks the utter'd voice ; 

But when she heard, an anger and a grief 

Darken'd her wrinkling brow. 

" Then let him live in long captivity ! " 

She answer'd : but Mohareb's quicken'd eye 

Perused her sullen countenance, 

That lied not with the lips. 

A miserable man I 



296 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK IX 



What boots it that, in central caves, 

The Powers of Evil at his Baptism pledged 

The Sacrament of Hell ! 

His death secures them now. 

What boots it that they gave 

Abdaldar's guardian ring. 
When, through another's life, 
The blow may reach his own ? 

11. 

He sought the dungeon cell 

Where Thalaba Avas laid. 

'Twas the gray morning twilight, and the voice 

Of Thalaba, in prayer, 

With words of hallo w'd import, smote his ear. 

The grating of the heavy hinge 

Roused not the Arabian youth ; 

Nor lifted he his earthward face, 

At sound of coming feet. 

Nor did Mohareb with unholy speech 

Disturb the duty : silent, spirit-awed, 

Envious, heart-humbled, he beheld 

The peace which piety alone can give. 

12. 

When Thalaba, the perfect rite perform'd. 

Raised his calm eye, then spake the Island-Chief: 

" Arab 1 my guidance through the dangerous Cave 

Thy service overpaid, 

An unintended friend in enmity. 

Tlie Hand that caught thy ring 

Received and bore me to the scene I sought. 

Now know me grateful. I return 

That amulet, thy only safety here." 

13. 

Artful he spake, with show of gratitude 

Veiling the selfish deed. 

Lock'd in his magic chain, 

Thalaba on his passive powerless hand 

Received again the Spell. 

Remembering then with what an ominous faith 

First he drew on the ring. 

The youth repeats his words of augury ; 

"In God's name and the Prophet's ! be its power 

Good, let it serve the righteous ! if for evil, 

God and my trust in Him shall hallow it. 

Blindly the wicked work 

The righteous will of Heaven! " 

So Thalaba received again 

The written ring of gold. 

14. 

Thoughtful awhile Mohareb stood, 

And eyed the captive youth. 

Then, building skilfully sophistic speech, 

Thus he began : " Brave art thou, Thalaba; 

And wherefore are we foes ? — for I would buy 

Thy friendship at a princely price, and make thee 

To thine own welfare wise. 

Hear me ! in Nature are two hostile Gods, 

Makers and Masters of existing things, 

Equal in power : — nay, hear me patiently ! — 

Equal — for look around thee ! The same Earth 

Bears fruit and poison ; where the Camel finds 



His fragant food, the horned Viper there 

Sucks in the juice of death : the Elements 

Now serve the use of man, and now assert 

Dominion o'er his weakness : dost thou hear 

The sound of merriment and nuptial song ? 

From the next house proceeds the mourner's cry, 

Lamenting o'er the dead. Say'st thou that Sin 

Enter'd the world of Allah.' that the Fiend, 

Permitted for a season, prowls for prey ? 

When to thy tent the venomous serpent creeps, 

Dost thou not crush the reptile .'' Even so, 

Be sure, had Allah crush'd his Enemy, 

But that the power was wanting. From the first, 

Eternal as themselves their warfare is ; 

To the end it must endure. Evil and Good, 

What are they, Thalaba, but words ? in the strife 

Of Angels, as of Men, the weak are guilty ; 

Power must decide. The Spirits of the Dead, 

Quitting their mortal mansion, enter not, 

As falsely ye are preach' d, their final seat 

Of bliss, or bale ; nor in the sepulchre 

Sleep they the long, long sleep : each joins the host 

Of his great leader, aiding in the war 

Whose fate involves his own. 

Woe to the vanquish'd then ! 

Woe to the sons of man who follow'd him ! 

They, with their Leader, through eternity, 

Must howl in central fires. 

Thou, Thalaba, hast chosen ill thy part, 

If choice it may be call'd, where will was not. 

Nor searching doubt, nor judgment wise to weigh. 

Hard is the service of the Power beneath 

Whose banners thou wert born; his discipline 

Severe, yea, cruel; and his wages, rich 

Only in promise ; who hath seen the pay .'' 

For us, the pleasures of the world are ours, 

Riches and rule, the kingdoms of the Earth. 

We met in Babylon adventurers both. 

Each zealous for the hostile Power he serv'd ; 

We meet again ; thou feelest what thou art, 

Thou seest what I am, the Sultan here, 

The Lord of Life and Death. 

Abandon him who has abandon'd thee. 

And be, as I am, great among mankind ! " 

15. 

The Captive did not, hasty to confute, 

Break off that subtle speech ; 

But when the expectant silence of the King 

Look'd for his answer, then spake Thalaba. 

" And this then is thy faith ! this monstrous creed ! 

This lie against the Sun, and Moon, and Stars, 
And Earth, and Heaven ! Blind man, who canst 

not see 

How all things work the best ! who wilt not know 

That in the Manhood of the World, whate'er 

Of folly mark'd its Infancy, of vice 

Sullied its Youth, ripe Wisdom shall cast off, 

Stablished in good, and, knowing evil, safe. 

Sultan Mohareb, yes, ye have me here 

In chains ; but not forsaken, though oppress'd ; 

Cast down, but not destroy 'd. Shall danger daunt, 

Shall death dismay his soul, whose life is given 

For God, and for his brethren of mankind ? 

Alike rewarded, in that holy cause. 



BOOK IX. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



297 



The Conqueror's and the Martyr's pahn above 

Beam with one glory. Hope ye that my blood 

Can quench the dreaded flame ? and know ye not, 

That leagued against ye are the Just and Wise, 

And all Good Actions of all ages past. 

Yea, your own crimes, and Truth, and God in 

Heaven ? ' ' 

16. 

" Slave ! " quoth Mohareb, and his lip 

Quiver'd with eager wrath, 

" I have thee ! thou shalt feel my power. 

And in thy dungeon loathsomeness 

Rot piecemeal, limb from limb ! " 

And out the Tyrant rushes. 

And ail-impatient of the thoughts 

'That canker'd in his heart, 

Seeks, in the giddiness of boisterous sport, 

Short respite from the avenging power within. 

17. 

What Woman is she 

So wrinkled and old, 

That goes to the wood ? 

She leans on her staff 

With a tottering step, 

She tells her bead-string slow 

Through fingers dull'd by age. 

The wanton boys bemock her ; 

The babe in arms that meets her 

Turns round with quick affright, 

And clings to his nurse's neck. 

18. 

Hark ! hark ! the hunter's cry ; 

Mohareb has gone to the chase. 

The dogs, with eager yelp, 

Are struggling to be free ; 

The hawks, in frequent stoop. 

Token their haste for flight; 

And couchant on the saddle-bow, 

With tranquil eyes and talons sheathed. 

The ounce expects his liberty. 

19. 

Propp'd on the staff that shakes 

Beneath her trembling weight. 

The Old Woman sees them pass. 

Halloa ! halloa ! 

The game is up ! 

The dogs are loosed, 

The deer bounds over the plain : 

The dogs pursue 

Far, far behind. 

Though at full stretch, 

With eager speed, 

Far, far behind. 

But lo ! the Falcon o'er his head 

Hovers with hostile wings, 

And buffets him with blinding strokes ! 

Dizzy with the deafening strokes, 

In blind and interrupted course, 

Poor beast, he struggles on ; 

And now the dogs are nigh ! 

How his heart pants ! you see 

38 



The panting of his heart ; 

And tears like human tears 

Roll down, along the big veins fever-swollen ; 

And now the death-sweat darkens his dun hide ; 

His fear, his groans, his agony, his death. 

Are the sport, and the joy, and the triumph ! 

20. 

Halloa ! another prey, 

The nimble Antelope ! 

The ounce is freed ; one spring, 

And his talons are sheathed in her shoulders, 

And his teeth are red in her gore. 

There came a sound from the wood. 

Like the howl of the winter wind at night, 

Around a lonely dwelling ; 

The ounce, whose gums were warm in his prey. 

He hears the summoning sound. 

In vain his master's voice, 

No longer dreaded now. 

Calls and recalls with threatful tone ; 

Away to the forest he goes ; 

For that Old Woman had laid 

Her shrivell'd finger on her shrivell'd lips, 

And whistled with a long, long breath ; 

And that long breath was the sound 

Like the howl of the winter wind, at night, 

Around a lonely dwelling. 

21. 

Mohareb knew her not, 

As to the chase he went. 

The glance of his proud eye 

Passing in scorn o'er age and wretchedness. 

She stands in the depth of the wood, 

And panting to her feet. 

Fawning and fearful, creeps 

The ounce by charms constrain'd. 

Well mayst thou fear, and vainly dost thou fawn. 

Her form is changed, her visage new, 

Her power, her art the same ! 
It is Khawla that stands in the wood. 

22. 

She knew the place where the Mandrake grew, 

And round the neck of the ounce. 

And round the Mandrake's head. 

She tightens the ends of her cord. 

Her ears are closed with wax. 

And her press'd finger fastens them, 

Deaf as the Adder, when, with grounded head, 

And circled form, both avenues of sound 

Barr'd safely, one slant eye 

Watches the charmer's lips 

Waste on the wind his baffled witcherj'-. 

The spotted ounce, so beautiful, 

Springs forceful from the scourge : 

With that the dying plant, all agony, 

Feeling its life-strings crack. 

Utter' d the unimaginable groan 

That none can hear and live. 

23. 

Then from her victim servant Khawla loosed 

The precious poison. Next, with naked hand, 



298 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK IX 



She pluck'd the boughs of the manchineel ; 

And of the wormy wax she took, 

That, from the perforated tree forced out, 

Bewray'd its insect-parent's work within 

24. 

In a cavern of the wood she sits, 

And moulds the wax to human form ; 

And, as her fingers kneaded it. 

By magic accents, to the mystic slaape 

Imparted with the life of Thalaba, 

In all its passive powers. 

Mysterious sympathy. 

With the mandrake and the manchineel 

She builds her pile accursed. 

She lays her finger to the pile. 

And blue and green the flesh 

Glows with emitted fire, 

A fire to kindle that strange fuel meet. 

25. 

Before the fire she placed the imaged wax ; 

"There waste away ! " the Enchantress cried, 

" And with thee waste Hodeirah's Son ! " 

26. 

Fool ! fool ! go thaw the everlasting ice. 

Whose polar mountains bound the human reign. 

Blindly the wicked work 

The righteous will of Heaven ! 

The doom'd Destroyer wears Abdaldar's ring; 

Against the danger of his horoscope 

Yourselves have shielded him ; 

And on the sympathizing wax, 

The unadmitted flames play powerlessly 

As the cold moon-beam on a plain of snow. 

27. 

" Curse thee ! curse thee ! " cried the fiendly woman, 

" Hast thou yet a spell of safety ? " 

And in the raging flames 

She threw the imaged wax. 

It lay amid the flames, 

Like Polycarp of old. 

When, by the glories of the burning stake 

O'er-vaulted, his gray hairs 

Curl'd, life-like, to the fire 

That haloed round his saintly brow. 

28. 

"Wherefore is this!" cried Khawla, and she 

stamp'd 

Thrice on the cavern floor : 

"Maimuna! Maimuna!" 

Thrice on the floor she stamp'd. 

Then to the rocky gateway glanced 

Her eager eyes, and Maimima was there. 

*' Nay, Sister, nay ! " quoth she ; " Mohareb's life 

Is link'd with Thalaba's ! 

Nay, Sister, nay ! the plighted oath ! 

The common sacrament! " 

29. 

"Idiot ! " said Khawla, " one must die, or all ! 

Faith kept with him were treason to the rest. 

Why lies the wax like marble in the fire ? 



What powerful amulet 
Protects Hodeirah's Son ? " 

30. 

Cold, marble-cold, the wax 

Lay on the raging pile, 

Cold in that white intensity of fire. 

The Bat, that with her hook'd and leathery wings 

Clung to the cave-roof, loosed her hold, 

Death-sickening with the heat; 

The Toad, which to the darkest nook had crawl'd, 

Panted fast, with fever pain ; 

The Viper from her nest came forth, 

Leading her quicken'd brood. 

That, sportive with the warm delight, roll'd out 

Their thin curls, tender as the tendril rings, 

Ere the green beauty of their brittle youth 

Grows brown, and toughens in the summer sun. 

Cold, marble-cold, the wax 

Lay on the raging pile. 

The silver quivering of the element 

O'er its pale surface shedding a dim gloss. 

3L 

Amid the red and fiery srnoke, 

Watching the portent strange, 

The blue-eyed Sorceress and her Sister stood, 

Seeming a ruined Angel by the side 

Of Spirit born in hell. 

Maimuna raised at length her thoughtful eyes : 

" Whence, Sister, was the wax.'' 

The work of the worm, or the bee ? 

Nay, then, I marvel not ! 

h were as wise to bring from Ararat 

The fore-world's wood to build the magic pile. 

And feed it from the balm bower, through whose 

veins 

The Martyr's blood sends such a virtue out 

That the fond mother from beneath its shade 

Wreathes the horn'd viper round her playful child. 

This is the eternal, universal strife ! 

There is a Grave- wax, — I have seen the Gouls 

Fight for the dainty at their banqueting." — • 

32. 

" Excellent Witch ! " quoth Khawla ; and she went 

To the cave-arch of entrance, and scowl'd up, 

Mocking the blessed Sun : 

" Shine thou in Heaven, but I will shadow Earth ! 

Thou wilt not shorten day, 

But I will hasten darkness ! " Then the Witch 

Began a magic song, 

One long, low tone, through teeth half-closed. 

Through lips slow-moving, muttered slow ; 

One long-continued breath. 

Till to her eyes a darker yellowness 

Was driven, and, fuller swollen, the prominent veins 

On her loose throat grew black. 

Then, looking upward, thrice she breathed 

Into the face of Heaven. 

The baneful breath infected Heaven ; 

A mildewing fog it spread 

Darker and darker ; so the evening sun 

Pour'd his unentering glory on the mist, 

And it was night below 



BOOK IJC. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



299 



33. 

"Bring now the wax," quoth Kliawla, "for thou 

know'st 

The mine that yields it. Forth went Maimuna; 

In mist and darkness went the Sorceress forth; 

And she hath reach'd the Place of Tombs, 

And in their sepulchres the Dead 

Feel feet unholy trampling over them. 

34. 

Thou startest, Maimuna, 

Because the breeze is in thy lifted locks ! 

Is Khawla's spell so weak .'' 

Sudden came the breeze and strong ; 

The heavy mist, wherewith the lungs, oppress'd, 

Were laboring late, flies now before the gale, 

Thin as an infant's breath, 

Seen in the sunshine of an autumn frost. 

Sudden it came, and soon its work was done, 

And suddenly it ceased ; 

Cloudless and calm it left the firmament. 

And beautiful in the blue sky 

Arose the summer Moon. 

35. 

She heard the quicken'd action of her blood ; 

She felt the fever in her cheeks. 

Daunted, yet desperate, in a tomb 

Entering, with impious hand she traced 

Circles, and squares, and trines. 

And magic cliaracters. 

Till, riven by her charms, the tomb 

Yawn'd, and disclosed its dead; 

Maimuna's eyes were open'd, and she saw 

The secrets of the Grave. 

36. 

There sat a Spirit in the vault. 

In shape, in hue, in lineaments, like life ; 

And by him couch'd, as if intranced. 

The hundred-headed Worm that never dies. 

37. 

" Nay, Sorceress ! not to-night! " the Spirit cried ; 

" The flesh in which I sinn'd may rest to-night 

From suffering ; all things, even I, to-night, 

Even the Damn'd, repose !" 

38. 

The flesh of Maimuna 

Crept on her bones with terror, and her knees 

Trembled with their trembling weight. 

"Only this Sabbath ! and at dawn the Worm 

Will wake, and this poor flesh must grow to meet 

The gnawing of his hundred poison-mouths ! 

God I God ! is there no mercy after death ! ' ' 

39. 

Soul-struck, she rush'd away ; 

She fled the Place of Tombs; 

She cast herself upon the earth, 

All agony, and tumult, and despair. 

And in that wild and desperate agony 

Sure Maimuna had died the utter death, 

If aught of evil had been possible 

On this mysterious night ; 



For this was that most holy night 

When all Created Things adore 

The Power that made them ; Insects, Beasts, and 

Birds, 

The Water-Dwellers, Herbs, and Trees, and Stones, 

Yea, Earth and Ocean, and the infinite Heaven, 

With all its Worlds. Man only doth not know 

The universal Sabbath, doth not join 

With Nature in her homage. Yet the prayer 

Flows from the righteous with intenser love ; 

A holier calm succeeds, and sweeter dreams 

Visit the slumbers of the penitent. 

40. 

Therefore on Maimuna the Elements 

Shed healing ; every breath she drew was balm. 

For every flower sent then in incense up 

Its richest odors ; and the song of birds 

Now, like the music of the Seraphim, 

Enter'd her soul, and now 

Made silence awful by their sudden pause. 

It seem'd as if the quiet Moon 

Pour'd quietness ; its lovely light 

Was like the smile of reconciling Heaven. 

41. 

Is it the dew of night 

That on her glowing cheek 

Shines in the moon-beam? Oh! she weeps — she 

weeps ! 

And the Good Angel that abandon'd her 

At her hell-baptism, by her tears drawn down, 

Resumes his charge. Then Maimuna 

Recall'd to mind the double oracle ; 

Quick as the lightning flash 

Its import glanced upon her, and the hope 

Of pardon and salvation rose, 

As now she understood 

The lying prophecy of truth. 

She pauses not, she ponders not ; 

The driven air before her fann'd the face 

Of Thalaba, and he awoke and saw 

The Sorceress of the Silver Locks. 

42. 

One more permitted spell ! 

She takes the magic thread. 

With the wide eye of wonder, Thalaba 

Watches her snowy fingers, round and round, 

Unwind the loosening chain. 

Again he hears the low, sweet voice, 

The low, sweet voice, so musical, 

That sure it was not strange, 

If in those unintelligible tones 

Was more than human potency, 

That with such deep and undefined delight 

Fill'd the surrender'd soul. 

The work is done ; the song hath ceased ; 

He wakes as from a dream of Paradise, 

And feels his fetters gone, and with the burst 

Of wondering adoration, praises God. 

43. 

Her charm hath loosed the chain it bound , 

But massy walls and iron gates 



300 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK IX. 



Confine Hodeirah's Son. 

Heard ye not, Genii of the Air, her spell, 

That o'er her face there flits 

The sudden flush of fear ? 

Again her louder lips repeat the charm ; 

Her eye is anxious, her cheek pale, 

Her pulse plays fast and feeble. 

Nay, Maimuna ! thy power hath ceased. 

And the wind scatters now 

The voice which ruled it late. 

44. 

" Be comforted, my soul ! " she cried, her eye 

Brightening with sudden joy, "be comforted! 

We have burst through the bonds which bound us 

down 

To utter death ; our covenant with Hell 

Is blotted out ! The Lord hath given me strength ! 

Great is the Lord, and merciful ! 

Hear me, ye rebel Spirits ! in the name 

Of Allah and the Prophet, hear the spell ! " 

45. 

Groans then were heard, the prison walls were rent. 

The whirlwind wrapt them round, and forth they 

flew. 

Borne in the chariot of the Winds abroad. 



NOTES TO BOOK IX. 

" His fragrant food, the hoi-ned Viper there," &c. — 14, p. 296. 

In this valley we found plenty of provender for our cattle ; 
rosemary bushes, and other shrubs of uncommon fragrance, 
which, being natives of the desert, are still perhaps without a 
name. Though these scented plants are the usual food of the 
camel, it is remarkable that his breath is insufferably nau- 
seous. But, when he is pushed by hunger, he devours thistles 
and prickles indiscriminately, without the least damage to his 
mouth, which seems proof to the sharpest thorns. — Eyles 
Irwin. 

jiovers with hostile wings, &c. — 19, p. 297. 

The hawk is used at Aleppo in taking the hare. " As soon 
as the hare is putup, one, or a brace of the nearest greyhounds 
are slipped, and the falconer, galloping after them, throws off 
his hawk. The hare cannot run long, where the hawk be- 
haves properly ; but sometimes getting the start of the dogs, 
she gains the next hill, and escapes. It now and then hap- 
pens when the hawk is fierce and voracious in an unusual de- 
gree, that the hare is struck dead at the first stroke, but that 
is very uncommon 5 for the hawks preferred for hare-hunting 
are taught to pounce and buffet the game, not to seize it ; and 
they rise a little between each attack, to descend again with 
fresh force. In this manner the game is confused and retarded, 
till the greyhounds come in." — Russell. 

The Shaheen, or Falcon Gentle, flies at a more dangerous 
game. Were there not, says the elder Russell, several gentle- 
men now in England to bear witness to the truth of what I 
am going to relate, I should hardly venture to assert that, with 
this bird, which is about the size of a pigeon, they sometimes 
take large eagles. The hawk, in former times, was tauglit to 
seize the eagle under his pinion, and thus, depriving him of the 
use of one wing, both birds fell to the ground together. But 
1 am informed, the present mode is to teach the hawk to fix 
on the back between the wings, which has the same effect, 
only that, the bird tumbling down more slowly, the falconer 
has more time to oome in to his hawk's assistance : but, in 



either case, if he be not very expeditious, the falcon is inev- 
itably destroyed. 

Dr. Patrick Eussell says, this sport was disused in his time, 
probably from its ending more frequently in the death of the 
falcon than of the eagle. But he had often seen the shaheen 
take herons and storks. " The hawk, when thrown off, flies 
for some time in a horizontal line, not six feet from the ground, 
then mounting perpendicularly with astonishing swiftness, he 
seizes his prey under the wing, and both together come tum- 
bling to the ground. If the falconer is not expeditious, the 
game soon disengages itself." 

We saAv about twenty antelopes, which, however, were so 
very shy, that we could not get near enough to have a shot, 
nor do I think it possible to take them without hawks, the 
mode usually practised in those countries. The swiftest 
greyhounds would be of no use, for the antelopes are much 
swifter of foot than any animal I ever saw before. — Jackson's 
Journey over Land. 

The Persians train their hawks thus : — They take the whole 
skin of a stag, of the head, body, and legs, and stuff it with 
straw to the shape of the animal. After fixing it in the place 
where they usually train the bird, they place his food upon the 
head of the stuffed stag, and chiefly in the two cavities of the 
eyes, that the bird may strike there. Having accustomed him 
for several days to eat in this manner, they fasten the feet of 
the stag to a plank which runs upon wheels, which is drawn 
by cords from a distance ; and from day to day they draw it 
faster, insensibly to accustom the bird not to quit his prey ; 
and at last they draw the stag by a horse at full speed. They 
do the same with the wild boar, the ass, the fox, the hare, and 
other beasts of chase. They are even taught to stop a horse- 
man at full speed, nor will they quit him till the falconer re- 
calls them, and shows them their food. — Tavernier. 

As the Persians are very patient, and not deterred by difa- 
culty, they delight in training the crow in the same manner as 
the hawk. — Tavernier. 

I do not recollect in what history or romance there is a tale 
of two dogs trained in this manner to destroy a tyrant ; but I 
believe it is an historical fiction. The same stratagem is 
found in Chao-shi-cu-el, the Orphan of the House of Chao. 

The farmers in Norway believe that the eagle will some- 
times attack a deer. In this enterprise, he makes use of this 
stratagem ; he soaks his wings in water, and then covers them 
with sand and gravel, with which he flies against the deer's 
face, and blinds him for a time ; the pain of this sets him 
running about like a distracted creature, and frequently he 
tumbles down a rock or some steep place, and breaks his 
neck ; thus he becomes a prey to the eagle. — Pontoppidan. 

In the arms of Garibay, the historian, a stag, with an eagle 
or hawk on his back, is thus represented. This species of 
falconry has therefore probably been practised in Europe. 



And now the death-sweat darkens his dun hide ! — 19, p. 297. 

I saw this appearance of death at a bull-fight, the detestable 
amusement of the Spaniards and Portuguese. To the honor 
of our country, few Englishmen visit these spectacles a 
second time. 

Tlie ounce is freed ; one spring, &c. — 20, p. 297. 

They have a beast called an Ounce, spotted like a tiger, 
but very gentle and tame. A horseman carries it ; and on 
perceiving the gazelle, lets it loose ; and though the gazelle 
is incredibly swift, it is so nimble, that in three bounds it 
leaps upon the neck of its prey. The gazelle is a sort of small 
antelope, of which the country is full. The ounce immedi- 
ately strangles it with its sharp talons ; but if unluckily it 
misses its blow, and the gazelle escapes, it remains upon the 
spot ashamed and confused, and at that moment a child might 
take or kill it without its attempting to defend itself. — Ta- 
vernier. 

The kings of Persia are very fond of the chase, and it is 
principally in this that they display their magnificence. It 
happened one day that Sha-Sefi wished to entertain all the 
ambassadors who were at his court, and there were then min- 
isters there from Tartary, Muscovy, and India. He led them 
to the chase ; and having taken in their presence a great 
number of large animals, stags, does, hinds, and wild boars. 



BOOK IX. 



NOTES TO TIIALABATHE DESTROYER. 



301 



he had tliem all dressed and eaten tlie same daj' ; and while 
they were eating, an arciiitect was ordered to erect a tower in 
tlie middle of Ispahan, only with the heads of these animals : 
the remains of it are yet to he seen. When the tower was 
raised to its proper heij,'ht, the architect came exultingly to 
the king, who was then at the banquet with the ambassadors, 
and informed him that notliing was wanting to finish the work 
well, but the head of some large beast for the point. The 
Prince, in his drunkenness, and with a design of showing the 
ambassadors how absolute he was over his subjects, turned 
sternly to the architect — You are right, said he, and I do not 
know where to find a better head than your oicn. The unhappy 
man was obliged to lose his head, and the royal order was 
immediately executed. — Tavernier. 



Waste on the wind his baffled witchery. — 22, p. 297. 
A serpent wliich that aspidis 
Is cleped, of his kinde hath this, 
That he the stone, noblest of all. 
The whiche that men carbuncle call, 
Bereth in his head above on hight. 
For whiche, whan that a man by slight 
The stone to wynne, and him to dante, 
With his carecte him wokle enchante, 
Anone as he perceivcth that 
He leyth dovvne his one ear all plat 
Unto the ground, and halt it fast, 
And eke that otiier eare als faste 
He stoppeth with his taille so sore, 
That he the wordes, lasse or more 
Of his enchantement ne hercth. 
And in this wise himself he skiereth. 
So that he hath the wordes wayved. 
And thus his eare is nought deceived. — Oower. 

E H tir cW avea lo hicantatore scorto, 

Accio che le parole sue non oda, 

Jloeva Vuno orecchio in terra porta, 

E 'i altro s' ha turato con la coda. — Pulci. 

Does not " the deaf adder, that hearcth not the voice of the 
charmer, charm he never so wisely," allude to some snake that 
cannot be enticed by music, as they catch them in Egypt ? 



That, from the perforated tree forced out. — 23, p. 298. 

As for the wax, it is the finest and whitest that may be had, 
though of bees ; and there is such plenty as serves the whole 
empire. Several provinces produce it, but that of Huquam 
exceeds all the others, as well in quantity as whiteness. It is 
gathered in the province of Xantung, upon little trees ; but in 
that of Huciuamj upon large ones, as big as those of the Indian 
pflgods, or chestnut-trees in Europe. The way nature has 
found to produce it, to us appears strange enough. There is 
in this province a creature or insect, of the bigness of a flea, 
so sharp at stinging, that it not only pierces the skins of men 
and beasts, but the boughs and bodies of the trees. Those of 
the province of Xantung are much valued, where the inhab- 
itants gather their eggs from the trees, and carry them to sell 
in the province of Huquam. In the spring, there come from 
these eggs certain worms, which, about the beginning of the 
summer, they place at the foot of the tree, whence they creep 
up, spreading themselves wonderfully over all the branches. 
Having placed themselves there, they gnaw, pierce, and bore 
to the very pith, and their nourishment they convert into wax, 
as white as snow, which they drive out of the mouth of the 
hole they have made, where it remains congealed in drops by 
the wind and cold. Then the owners of the trees gather it, 
and make it into cakes as we do, which are sold about China. 

Gemelli Careri. 

Dvl Halde's account is somewhat different from this ; the 
worms, he says, fasten on the leaves of the tree and in a 
short time form combs of wax, much smaller than the honey- 
combs. 



Jlfire to kindle that strange fuel meet. — 24, p. 298. 
It being notorious that fire enters into the composition of i 



devil, because he breathes smoke and flames, there is an 
obvious propriety in supposing every witch her own tinder- 
box, as they apjiroximate to diabolic nature. I am sorry that 
I have not the liierarchie of the Blessed Angels to refer to ; 
otherwise, by the best authorities, I could sliow that it is the 
trick of Beelzebub to parody the costume of religion. The 
inflammability of saints may be abundantly exampled. 

It happened upon a tyme, before St. Elfled was chosen 
Abhesse, that being in the church at mattins, before day, Avith 
the rest of her sisters, and going into the middest, according 
to,the costume, to read a lesson, the candle wherewith she 
saw to read, chanced to be put out ; and thereupon wanting 
light, there came from the fingers of her right hand such an 
exceeding brightnesse upon the suddaine, that not only her- 
selfe, but all the rest of the quire also, might read by it. — 
English Martyrologe, 1608. 

Dead saints have frequently possessed this phosphoric 
quality, like rotten wood or dead fish. " St. Bridget was in- 
terred at the towne of Dunne, in the province of Ulster, in 
the tombe togeathcr with the venerable bodyes of St. Patricke 
and St. Columbe, which was afterwards miraculously reveyled 
to the bishop of that place, as he was praying one night late 
in the church, about the yeare of Christ 1176, over which 
there shined a great light." — English Martyrologe. 

So, when the nurse of Mohammed first entered the chamber 
of .\inena, his mother, she saw a coruscating splendor, which 
was the light of the infant prophet, so that Amena never 
kindled her lamp at night. — Maracci. 

Another Mohammedan miracle, of the same genus, is no 
ways improbable. When the head of Hosein was brought to 
Couff'ah, the governor's gates were closed, and Haula, the 
bearer, took it to his own house. He awoke his wife, and 
told her what had so speedily brought him home. I bring 
with me, said he, the most valuable present that could possibly 
be made to tlie Calipli. And the woman asking eagerly what 
it could be .' The head of Hosein, he answered ; here it is ; 1 
am sent with it to the governor. Immediately she sprung 
from the bed, not that she was shocked or terrified at the sight, 
for the Arabian women were accustomed to follow the army, 
and habituated to the sight of blood and massacre ; but Hosein, 
by Fatima, his mother, was grandson of the prophet, and this 
produced an astonishing elTect upon the mind of the woman. 
By the apostle of God ! she exclaimed, I will never again lie 
down with a man who has brought me the head of his 
grandson. The Moslem, who, according to the custom of his 
nation, had many wives, sent for another, who was not so 
conscientious. Yet the presence of the head, which was 
placed upon a table, prevented her from sleeping, becaxise, she 
said, she saw a great gloi-y playing around it all night. — Jila- 
rigiiy. 

After AflTonso de Castro had been martyred in one of th« 
Molucca islands, his body was thrown into the sea. But it 
was in a few days brought back by Providence to the spot 
where he had suftered, the wounds fresh as if just opened, and 
so strange and beautiful a splendor flowing from them, that 
it was evident the fountain of such a light must be that body 
whose spirit was in the enjoyment of eternal happiness. 

The Moors interpreted one of these phosphoric miracles, 
with equal ingenuity, to favor their own creed. A light was 
seen every night over th.e tomb of a Maronite whom they had 
martyred ; and they said the priest was not only tortured 
with fire in hell, but his very body burnt in the grave. — 
Vasconcellos. 



" Tliere, waste away! " the Enchantress cried. — 25, p. 298. 

A well-known ceremony of witchcraft, old as classical super- 
stition, and probably not yet wholly disbelieved. 



It lay amid the flames, &c. — 27, p. 298. 

Beautifully hath Milton painted this legend. " The fire, 
when it came to proof, would not do his work ; but starting 
off like a full sail from the mast, did but reflect a golden light 
upon his unviolated limbs, exhaling such a sweet odor, as if 
all the incense of Arabia had been burning." — Of Prelatical 
Episcopacy. 



302 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



I 

BOOK iXi 



•' Thefore-worWswoodto build the mao-fcpiVe." — 31, p. 298. 
On JMount Ararat, which is called Lubar, or the descending 
place, is an abbey of St. Gregorie's Monks. These Monks, if 
any list to believe them, say that tiiere remaineth yet some 
part of the arke, kept by angels ; which if any seeke to ascend, 
Carrie them backe as farre in the night, as tlicy have climbed 
in the day. — Purchas. 



" Wreathes the horii'd viper round her playful child.'^ — 31, 
p. 298. 

A thicket of balm-trees is said to have sprung up from the 
blood of the Moslem slain at Beder. 

^lianus avoucheth, that those vipers which breed in the 
provinces of Arabia, although they do bite, yet their biting is 
not venomous, because they doe feede on the baulme-tree, and 
sleepe under the shadow thereof. — Treasury of Ancient and 
Modern Times. 

The balsam-tree is nearly of the same size as a sprig of 
myrtle, and its leaves are like those of the herb sweet mar- 
joram. Vipers take up their residence about these plants, and 
are in some places more numerous than in others ; for the juice 
of the balsam-tree is their sweetest food, and they are delighted 
with the shade produced by its leaves. When the time 
therefore arrives forgathering the juice of this tree, the Ara- 
bians come into the sacred grove, each of them holding two 
twigs. By shaking these, they put to flight the vipers; for 
they are unwilling to kill them, because they consider them as 
the s:icred inhabitants of the balsam. And if it happens that 
any one is wounded by a viper, the wound resembles that 
which is made by iron, but is not attended with any dangerous 
consequences; for these animals being fed with the juice of 
the balsam-tree, which is the most odoriferous of all trees^ 
their poison becomes changed from a deadly quality into one 
which produces a milder effect. — Pausariias. 

The inhabitants of Helicon say, that none of the herbs or 
roots which are produced in this mountain, are destructive to 
mankind. They add, that the pastures here even debilitate 
the venom of serpents ; so that those who are frequently bit 
by serpents in this part, escape the danger with greater ease 
than if they were of the nation of the Psylli, or had discovered 
an antidote against poison. — Pausanias. 



** There is a Grave-wax, — I have seen the Oouls,^^ &,c. — 31, 
p. 298. 

The common people of England have long been acquainted 
with this change which muscular fibre undergoes. Before the 
circumstance was known to pliilosophers, I have heard them 
express a dislike and loathing to spermaceti, because it was 
dead men's fat. 



Feel feet unholy trampling over them. — 33, p. 299. 

The Persians are strangely superstitious about the burial of 
their kings. For, fearing lest, by some magical art, any en- 
chantments should be practised upon their bodies to the 
prejudice of tlieir children, they conceal, as much as in them 
lies, the real place of interment. 

To this end, they send to several places several coflins of 
lead, with otliers of wood, which they call Taboat, and bury 
all alike with the same magnificence. In this manner they 
delude the curiosity of the people, who cannot discern, by the 
outside, in which of the cofiins the real body should be. Not 
but it might be discovered by such as would put themselves to 
the expense and trouble of doing it. And thus it shall be 
related in the life of Habas the Great, that twelve of these 
coffins were conveyed to twelve of the principal Mosques, not 
for the sake of their riches, but of the person which they 
enclosed; and yet nobody knew in which of the twelve the 
king's body was laid, though the common belief is, that it was 
deposited at Ardevil. 

It IS also said in the life of Sefie I., that there were three 
coffins carried to three several places, as if there had been a 
triple production from one body, though it were a thing 
almost certainly known, tliat the coffin where the body was 



laid, was carried to the same city of Kom, and to the same 
])laco where the deceased king commanded the body of hia 
deceased father to be carried. — Chardin. 

They imagine the dead are capable of i)ain. A Portuguese! 
gentleman had one day ignorantly strayed among tiie tomhs, 
and a Moor, after much wrangling, obliged him to go boforo 
the Cadi. The gentleman complained of violence and asserted 
he had committed no crime ; but the judge inlormed him he 
was mistaken, for that the poor dead suftered when trodden on 
by Christian feet. Muley Ishmael once had occasion to bring 
one of his wives through a burial-ground, and tiie peoi)le re- 
moved the bones of their relations, and murmuiing, said, he 
would neither suffer the living nor the dead to rest in i)eace. 
— Ckenier. Additional Chap, by the Translator. 

Were the Moorish superstition true, there would have been 
some monkish merit in the last request of St. S with in — " when 
he was ready to dei)art out of this world, he commanded (for 
humilityes sake) his body to be buried in the church-yard, 
whereon every one might tread with their feet." — English 
Martijrologe. 

There is a story recorded, how that St. Frithstane was wont 
every day to say masse and office for the deiid ; and one 
evening, as he walked in the church-yard, reciting the said 
office, when he came to requiescant in pace, the voyces in the 
graves round about made answere aloud, and said, Amen. — 
English Martyrologe. 

I observed at Damascus, says Thevenot, that the Turks 
leave a hole, of three fingers' breadth in diameter, on the top of 
iheir tombs, (where there is a channel of earth over the dead 
body,) that serves to cool the dead ; for the women, going 
thither on Thursday to pray, which they never fail to do every 
week, they pour in water by that hole to refresh them, and 
quench their thirst ; and at the end of the grave, they stick in 
a large branch of box, and leave it there, to keep the dead 
cool. They have another no less pleasant custom, and that is, 
when a woman hath lost her husband, she still asks his counsel 
about her affairs. For instance, she will go to his grave, and 
tell him that such a person bath wronged her, or that such a 
man would marry her, and thereupon asks his counsel what 
she should do ; having done so, she returns home, expecting 
the answer, which her late husband fails not to come and 
give her the night following. 



" The gnawing of his hundred poison-mouths.'" &c. — 38, 
p. 299. 

The Mohammedan tradition is even more horrible than 
this. The corpse of the wicked is gnawed and stung till the 
resurrection by ninety-nine dragons, with seven heads each : 
or, as others say, their sins will become venomous beasts, the 
grievous ones stinging like dragons, the smaller like scorpions, 
and the others like serpents ; circumstances which some un- 
derstand in a figurative sense. — Salens Preliminary Discourse. 

This Mohammedan tale may be traced to the Scripture — 
" whose worm dieth not." 

They also believe, that after a man is buried, the soul re- 
turns to the body; and that two very terrible angels come 
into the grave, the one called Munkir, and the other Guaneqnir, 
who take him by the head, and make him kneel, and that, for 
that reason, they leave a tuft of hair on the crown of their 
head, that the angels who make them kneel may take hold 
of it. After that, the angels examine him in this manner: 
Who is thy Ood, thy religion, and prophet! and he answers 
thus : My Ood is the true God ; my religion is the true re- 
lio-ion ; and my prophet is Mahomet. But if that man find 
himself to be guilty, and, being afraid of their tortures, shall 
say. You are my God and my prophet, and it is in you that J 
believe, — at such an answer, these angels smite him with a 
mace of fire, and depart; and the earth squeezes the poor 
wretch so hard, that his mother's milk comes running out of 
his nose. After that come two other angels, bringing an ugly 
creature with them, that represents his sins and bad deeds, 
changed into that form ; then, opening a window, they depart 
into hell, and the man remains there with that ugly creature, 
being continually tormented with the sight of it, and tho 
common miseries of the damned, until the day of judgment, 
when both go to hell together. But if he hath lived well, and 
made the first "answer above mentioned, they bring him a 



BOOK IX. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



303 



lovely creature, which represents his good actions, changed 
into that form j then the angels, opening a window, go away 
to p iradise, and tiie lovely creature remains, which gives him 
a great dtjal of content, and slays wiJi iiiin until tjie day of 
juilgnient, when both are received into paradise. — Theoenot. 
Monkish ingenuity has invented something not unlike this 
Rlohaminedan article of fiitli. 

St. Elphege, saith William of M ilmeshury, in his tender 
years took the monastic habitat Dirhcrst, then a small monas- 
tery, and now only an empty monnmj^nt of anti(iuity. There, 
after he had continued awhile, aspiring to greater perfection, 
he went to Bath, where, enclosing himself in a secret cell, he 
I employed liis mind in contemjjlation of celestial things. To 
' him there, after a short time, were congrf'g ited a great number 
of TLdi^ijus persons, desiring his instructions and directions : 
and irnongthem, being many, there were some who gave them- 
! selves to licentious feasting and drinking in the night time, 
r their spiritual father, St. Elphege, not knowing of it. But Al- 
niiglity God did not a long time suffer this their license ; but, 
at midnight, struck with a sudden death one who was the ring- 
leader in this licantiousnjss, in the chamber wiiere they prac- 
tised such excesses. In the mean time, the holy man, being at 
his prayers, was interrupted by a great noise, proceeding out of 
the same chambei, and wondering at a thing so unaccustomed, 
lie went softly to the door, looking in tiuough certain clefts, he 
saw two davils of a vast stature, which, with frequent strokes 
as of hammers, tormented the liveless carkeys ; from whence, 
notwithstanding, proceeded loud clamors, as desiring help. 
But his tormentors answered, Thou didst not obey God, nei- 
ther will we tiiee. This, the next morning, the holy man re- 
lated to the rest; and no wonder if his companions became 
afterward more abstemious. — Cressy. 

'J'here is another ceremony to be undergone at the time of 
death, which is descril)ed in a most barl)arous mixture of Ara- 
bic and Spanish. The original is given lor its singularity. 

Scpa ludii Muslim que quaiido viene a la mucrte, que lenvia 
Allah cinco Almalaques. Kl piriniero viene quando lurruh (la 
alma) eJ■^/ en la gar^unla, y dize le, yefju de Adam que es de ta 
cwrpu elforgudo, que tan faluco cs uy 1 y que es de tu lengua la 
fablaiite, cumo ge enmudcrcido el dia de uy7 y que es de tu cun- 
paiiia y paricntes ? oij te desaran solo. Y viene lalmalac se- 
goiulo, quando le meteii la nwrtaja, y diie le, yefijo dejidam, que 
es de lo que tenias de la rcqueza para la povreia ? y que cs de lo 
que. a^gaste dii publadu para el yermo 7 y que es de lo que algasle 
del solago para la soledad 7 Y viene lalmalac tercero quando lo 
ponen en lanaas (las andas), y dize le, Yejijo de Adam, oy ram- 
inaras candno que nunca lo camines vias luente qu'el; el dia dc 
oy V eras je lite que nunca la veyerte nunca jamas; el dia de uy 
entararas en casa que nunca entaraste en mas esierecha qu' ella 
jamas ni mas escura. Y viene lalmalac quarto, quando lo vieten 
en lafuessa y quirida, y dize. Ye fjo de Adam, ayer ei-as sobre 
la carra de la tierra alegre y goyoso, oy scras en su vientre ; y 
buen dia te vino si tu ens en la gararia de Allah, y mal dia te 
vino si tu eres en la ira de Allah. Y viene hdlmai'dc. cinquenn 
quando esta soterrado y quirida, y dize, '^efjo de Adam oy que- 
daras solo y aunque qaedaremos con tu no aporovcjariamos nin- 
guna cosa ; a sj)elcgado elhilgo y desas lo para otri ; el dia de 
oy seras en laljenna (parayso) vicyuso, o en el fuego penoso. 
Aquestos cinco Almalaques vienen por mandamiento de Allah a 
todo peresona en el paso de la muerte. Rogemor, de Allah nos 
ponga por la rogarye y alfadhila {nirrpciiuiento) de nuestoro 
alna!)i (prnfete) Mohammad (salla allaho alaylii vasallam) nos 
ponga de los siervus obidientes, que merescamos ser seguros del 
espanto de la fuessa y dest.os cincos almalaques por su santo 
alrahma (iniserecordia) y peadad. Amen. 

Notices des Mannscrits de la Bibl. 
Naiionale, t. 4. 63G. 
Let every Moslem know, that when he comes to die, Allah 
sends five Almalaques to him.* The first comes when the 
soul is in the throat, and says to him. Now, son of Adam, 
what is become of thy body, the strong, which is to-day so 
feeble ? And what is become of thy tongue, the talker, that 
is thus made dumb to-day ? And where are thy companions 
and thy kin ? To-day they have left thee alone. And the 
second Almalac comes when they put on the winding-sheet, 
an4 says. Now, son of Adam, what is become of the riches 
whicn thou hadst, in this poverty .? And where are the 



I suppose this \ 



angels, from the Hebrew word for Icing 



peopled lands which were thine, in this desolation? And 
where are the pleasures which were thine, in this solitari- 
ness .' And the third Almalac comes when they place him 
upon the bier, and says, Now, son of Adam, to-day tliou shalt 
travel a journey, than which, thou hast never travelled 
longer; to-<iay thou shalt see a peo|)le, such as thou hast 
never seen before ; to-day thou shalt enter a house, than 
which, thou hast never entered a narrower nor a darker. 
And the fourth Almalac comes when they put him in the 
grave, and says. Now, son of Adam, yesterday thou wert 
upon the face of the earth, blithe and joyous, to-day thou art 
in its bowels ; a good day is to betide thee, if thou art in the 
grace of Allah, and an ill day will betide thee if thou art in the 
wrath of Allah. And the fifth Almalac comes when he is in- 
terred, and says. Now, son of Adam, to-day thou wilt be left 
alone, and though we were to remain with thee, we should 
profit thee nothing, as to the wealth which thou hast gathered 
together, and must now leave to another. To-day thou wilt 
he rejoicing in paradise., or tormented in the fire. Tliese five 
Almala(pjes come by the command of Allah, to every person 
in the pass of death. Let us jiray to Allah, that, through the 
mediation and merits of our prophet iMahommed, he may place 
us among his obedient servants, that we may be worthy to be 
safe from the terror of the grave, and of these five Almala- 
ques, through his holy compassion and mercy. Amen. 



For this was that most holy night, &.c. — 39, p. 299. 

The night, Leileth-ul-cadr, is considered as being particu- 
larly consecrated to ineffable mysteries. There is a prevailing 
opinion, that a thousand secret and invisible prodigies are per- 
formed on this night ; that all the inanimate beings then pay 
their adoration to God; that all the waters of tlie sea lose 
their saltness, and become fresh at those mysterious moments ; 
that such, in fine, is its sanctity, that prayers said during this 
night are equal in value to all those which can be said in a 
thousand successive months. It has not, however, pleased 
God, says the author of the celebrated theological work enti- 
tled Ferkann, to reveal it to the faithful : no prophet, no saint 
has been able to discover it ; hence, this night, fo august, so 
mysterious, so favored by Heaven, has hitherto remained un- 
discovered. — Z)' Ohsson. 

They all hold, that sometime on this night, the firmament 
opens for a moment or two, and the glory of God appears vis- 
ible to the eyes of those who are so happy as to behold it ; 
at which juncture, whatever is asked of ^od by the fortunate 
beholder of the mysteries of that critical minute, is infallibly 
granted. This sets many credulous and 8U{)erstitious people 
upon the watch all night long, till the morning begins to dawn. 
It is my opinion, that they go on full as wise as they come oft'; 
I mean, from standing sentinel for so many hours. Though 
many stories are told of people who have enjoyed the privilege 
of seeing that miraculous opening of the Heavens ; of all which 
few have had power to speak their mind, till it was too late, 
so great was their ecstasy. But one passage, jileasant enough, 
was once told me by a grave, elderly gentlewoman, at Coii- 
stantina, in Barbary. There was, not many years before my 
time, said she, in this town, a Mulatta wench, belonging to 
such a great family, (naming one of the best in the town,) who 
being quite out of love with her woolly locks, and imagining 
that she wanted nothing to make her thought a pretty girl, but 
a good head of hair, took her supper in her hand presently after 
sunset, and, without letting any body into her secret, stole 
away, and shut herself up in the uppermost apartment in tlie 
bouse, and went upon the watch. She had the good fortune 
to direct her"oj)tics towards the right quarter, the patience to 
look so long and so steadfastly, till she plainly beheld the 
beams of celestial glory darting through the amazing chasm in 
the divided firmament, and the resolution to cry out, wiih all 
her might, Ya Rahbi Kubbar Rassi ; i. e. Lord, make my head 
big! This expression is, figuratively, not improper to pray 
for a good head of hair. But, unl>appily for the poor girl, it 
seems God was pleased to take her words in the literal sense; 
for, early in the morning, the neighbors were disturbed by the 
terrible noise and bawling she made ; and they were forced to 
hasten to her assistance with tools proper to break down the 
walls about hei ears, in order to g-^t her liend in at the v.'indow, 
it being grown to a monstrous magnitude, bigger in circunv- 



304 



THALABA TliE DESTROYER, 



BOOK 



ference than several bushels ; T don't remember exactly how 
many ; nor am I certain wliether she survived her misfortune 
or not. — Morgan. Mote to Rahadan. 

According to Francklin, it is believed, that whatever Mos- 
lem die during the month of Kamadan, will most assuredly 
enter into paradise, because the gates of Heaven then stand 
open, by command of God. — Tour from Bengal to Persia, 
p. 136. 

During the Asciur, the ten days of festive ceremony for Ho- 
sein, the Persians believe that the gates of paradise are 
thrown open, and that all the Moslem who die find immediate 
admittance. — Pietro delle Valle, 



Andthe Good Angel that abandoned her, &c. — 41, p. 299. 

The Turks also acknowledge guardian angels, but in far 
greater number than we do ; for they say, that God hath ap- 
pointed threescore and ten angels, though they be invisible, for 
the guard of every Miissuhnan, and nothing befalls any body 
but what they attribute to them. They have all their several 
offices, one to guard one member, and another another ; one to 
serve him in such an affair, and another in another. There 
are, among all these angels, two who are the dictators over tlie 
rest ; they sit one on the riglit side, and the other on the left ; 
these they call Kerim Kiatib, that is to say, the merciful 
scribes. He on the right side writes down the good actions 
of the man whom he has in tuition, and the other on the left 
hand, the bad. They are so merciful that they spare him if 
he commit a sin before he goes to sleep, hoping he'll repent j 
and if he does not repent, they mark it down ; if he does re- 
pent, they write down, Estig fourillah, that is to say, God 
pardons. They wait upon him in all places, except when he 
does his needs, where they let him go alone, staying for him 
at the door till he come out, and then they take him into pos- 
session again ; wherefore, when the Turks goto the house-of- 
office, they put the left foot foremost, to the end the angel 
who registers their sins, may leave them first ; and when they 
come out, they set the right foot before, that the angel who 
writes down their good works, may have them first under his 
protection. — Thevenot. 



THE TENTH BOOK. 



And the Angel that was sent unto me said, Thinkest thou 
to comprehend the way of the Most High ? — Then said I, 
Yea, my Lord. And he answered me, and said, I am sent to 
shew thee three ways, and to set forth three similitudes be- 
fore thee ; whereof if thou canst declare me one, I Avill shew 
thee also the way that thou desirest to see, and I shall shew 
thee from whence the wicked heart cometh. And I said. Tell 
on, my Lord. Then said he unto me. Go thy way, weigh me 
the weight of the fire, or measure me the blast of the wind, 
or call me again the day that is past. 

EsDRAS, ii. 4. 



Ere there was time for wonder or for fear, 

The way was past ; and lo ! again, 

Amid surrounding snows. 

Within the cavern of the Witch they stand. 



Then came the weakness of her natural age 

At once on Maimuna ; 

The burden of her years 

Fell on her, and she knew 

That her repentance in the sight of God 

Had now found favor, and her hour was come. 

Her death was like the righteous : " Turn my face | 



To Mecca ! " in her languid eyes 

The joy of certain hope 

Lit a last lustre, and in death 

A smile was on her cheek. 

3. 

No faithful crowded round her bier ; 

No tongue reported her good deeds ; 

For her no mourners wail'd and wept; 

No Iman o'er her perfumed corpse 

For her soul's health intoned the prayer : 

Nor column, raised by the way-side, 

Implored the passing traveller 

To say a requiem for the dead. 

Thalaba laid her in the snow. 

And took his weapons from the hearth; 

And then once more the youth began 

His v/eary way of solitude. 



The breath of the East is in his face, 

And it drives the sleet and the snow ; 

The air is keen, the wind is keen; 

His limbs are aching with the Cold; 

His eyes are aching with the snow ; 

His very heart is cold. 

His spirit chill'd within him. He looks on 

If aught of life be near ; 

But all is sky, and the white wilderness, 

And here and there a solitary pine, 

Its branches broken by the weight of snow. 

His pains abate ; his senses, dull 

With suffering, cease to suffer. 

Languidly, languidly, 

Thalaba drags along ; 

A heavy weight is on his lids ; 

His limbs move slow for heaviness, 

And he full fain would sleep. 

Not yet, not yet, O Thalaba ! 

Thy hour of rest is come ! 

Not yet may the Destroyer sleep 

The comfortable sleep : 

His journey is not over yet, 

His course not yet fulfiird ! — 

Run thou thy race, O Thalaba ! 

The prize is at the goal. 



It was a cedar-tree 

Which woke him from that deadly drowsiness ; 

Its broad, round-spreading branches, when they felt 

The snow, rose upward in a point to heaven, 

And standing in their strength erect, 

Defied the baffled storm. 

He knew the lesson Nature gave, 

And he shook off his heaviness, 

And hope revived within him. 



Now sunk the evening sun, 

A broad and beamless orb, 

Adown the glowing sky ; 

Through the red light the snow-flakes fell like fire. 

Louder grows the biting wind, 

And it drifts the dust of the snow. 



,900K X. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



305 



The snow is clotted in his hair ; 

The brcatli of Thalaba 

Is iced upon his lips. 

He looks around ; the darkness, 

The dizzy floating of the feathery sky, 

Close in his narrow view. 

7. 

At length, through the thick atmosphere, a light 

Not distant far appears. 

He, doubting other wiles of sorcery, 

With mingled joy and fear, yet quicken'd step. 

Bends thitherward his way. 



It was a little, lowly dwelling-place 

Amid a garden whose delightful air 

Was mild and fragrant as the evening wind 

Passing in summer o'er the coflee-groves 

Of Yemen and its blessed bowers of balm. 

A fount of Fire, that in the centre play'd, 

Roll'd all around its wondrous rivulets. 

And fed the garden with the heat of life. 

Every where magic ! the Arabian's heart 

Yearn'd after human intercourse. 

A light ! — the door unclosed ! — 

All silent — he goes in. 



There lay a Damsel, sleeping on a couch : 

His step awoke her, and she gazed at him 

With pleased and wondering look, 

Fearlessly, like a happy child, 

Too innocent to fear. 

With words of courtesy 

The young intruder spake. 

At the sound of his voice, a joy 

Kindled her bright black eyes ; 

She rose and took his hand ; 

But at the touch the joy forsook her cheek : 

" Oh ! it is cold I " she cried ; 

"1 thought I should have felt it warm, like 

mine; 

But thou art like the rest ! " 

10. 

Thalaba stood mute awhile. 

And wondering at her words : 

*'Cold.? Lady!" then he saidj "Ihave travell'd 

long 

In this cold wilderness, 

Till life is well-nigh spent ! " 

11. 

LAILA. 

Art thou a Man, then ? 

THALABA. 

Nay — I did not think 

Sorrow and toil could so have alter'd me, 

As to seem otherwise. 

LAILA. 

And thou canst be warm 

Sometimes .'' life-warm as I am ? 

39 



THALABA. 

Surely, Lady, 

As others are, I am, to heat and cold 

Subject like all. You see a Traveller, 

Bound upon hard adventure, who requests 

Only to rest him here to-night, — to-morrow 

He will pursue his way. 



Oh — not to-morrow ! 

Not like a dream of joy, depart so soon ! 

And whither wouldst thou go ? for all around 

Is everlasting winter, ice and snow. 

Deserts unpassable of endless frost. 

THALABA. 

He who has led me here, will still sustain me 
Through cold and hunger. 

12. 

" Hunger ? " Laila cried : 

She clapp'd her lily hands, 

And whether from above, or from below, 

It came, sight could not see, 

So suddenly the floor was spread with food. 

13. 

LAILA. 

Why dost thou watch with hesitating eyes 
The banquet ? 'tis for thee ! I bade it come. 

THALABA. 

Whence came it.^ 

LAILA. 

Matters it from whence it came ? 

My Father sent it : when I call, he hears. 

Nay, — thou hast fabled with me ! and art like 

The forms that wait upon my solitude, 

Human to eye alone ; — thy hunger would not 

Question so idly else. 

THALABA. 

I will not eat ! 

It came by magic ! fool, to think that aught 

But fraud and danger could await me here. 

Let loose my cloak ! — 



Begone then, insolent ! 
Why dost thou stand and gaze upon me thus.' 
Ay ! eye the features well that threaten thee 

With fraud and danger ! in the wilderness 

They shall avenge me, — in the hour of want, 

Rise on thy view, and make thee feel 

How innocent I am : 

And this remember'd cowardice and insult. 

With a more painful shame, will burn thy cheek, 

Than now heats mine in anger ! 

THALABA. 

Mark me. Lady ! 

Many and restless are my enemies : 

My daily paths have been beset with snares 

Till I have learnt suspicion, bitter sufferings 



306 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK 



^ 



Teaching the needful vice. If I have wrong'd you, — 

For yours should be the face of innocence, — 

I pray you pardon me ! In the name of God 

And of his Prophet, I partake your food. 

LAILA. 

Lo, now ! thou wert afraid of sorcery, 
And yet hast said a charm ! 

THALABA. 

A charm ? 

LAILA. 

And wherefore ? — 

Is it not delicate food? — What mean thy words.' 

1 have heard many spells, and many names, 

That rule the Genii and the Elements, 

But never these. 

THALABA. 

How ! never heard the names 
Of God and of the Prophet.? 



Never — nay, now ! 

Again that troubled eye ? — thou art a strange man, 

And wondrous fearful — but I must not twice 

Be charged with fraud I If thou suspectest still, 

Depart and leave me ! 

THALABA. 

And you do not know 
The God that made you ? 



Made me, man ! — my Father 

Made me. He made this dwelling, and the grove. 

And yonder fountain-fire ; and every morn 

He visits me, and takes the snow, and moulds 

Women and men, like thee ; and breathes into them 

Motion, and life, and sense, — but to the touch 

They are chilling cold ; and ever when night closes 

They melt away again, and leave me here 

Alone and sad. Oh, then how I rejoice 

When it is day, and my dear Father comes, 

And cheers me with kind words and kinder looks ! 

My dear, dear Father ! — Were it not for him, 

I am so weary of this loneliness, 

That I should wish I also were of snow, 

That I might melt away, and cease to be. 

THALABA. 

And have you always had your dwelling here 
Amid this solitude of snow ? 

LAILA. 

I think so. 

I can remember, Avith unsteady feet 

Tottering from room to room, and finding pleasure 

In flowers, and toys, and sweetmeats, things which 

long 

Have lost their power to please ; which, when I 

see them, 

Raise only now a melancholy wish, 

I were the little triller once again, 

Who could be pleased so lightly ! 



THALABA. 

Then you know not 
Your Father's art ? 

LAILA. 

No. I besought him once 

To give me power like his, that where he went 

I might go with him ; but he shook his head, 

And said, it was a power too dearly bought, 

Andkiss'd me with the tenderness of tears. 

THALABA. 

And wherefore hath he hidden you thus far 
From all the ways of human-kind ? 



'Twas fear. 

Fatherly fear and love. He read the stars. 

And saw a danger in my destiny. 

And therefore placed me here amid the snows, 

And laid a spell that never human eye, 

If foot of man by chance should reach the depth 

Of this wide waste, shall see one trace of grove, 

Garden or dwelling-place, or yonder fire 

That thaws and mitigates the frozen sky. 

And, more than this, even if the Enemy 

Should come, I have a Guardian here. 

THALABA. 

A Guardian .'' 

LAILA. 

'Twas well that when my sight unclosed upon thee. 
There was no dark suspicion in thy face. 

Else I had called his succor ! Wilt thou see him ? 

But, if a woman can have terrified thee. 

How wilt thou bear his unrelaxing brow, 

And lifted lightnings .'' 

THALABA. 

Lead me to him. Lady ! 

14. 

She took him by the hand, 

And through the porch they past. 

Over the garden and the grove 

The fountain-streams of fire 

Pour'd a broad light, like noon ; 

A broad, unnatural light, 

Which made the rose's blush of beauty pale, 

And dimm'd the rich geranium's scarlet blaze. 

The various verdure of the grove 

Wore here one undistinguishable gray, 

Checker'd with blacker shade. 

Suddenly Laila stopp'd. 

" I do not think thou art the enemy," 

She said, " but He will know ! 

If thou hast meditated wrong, 

Stranger, depart in time — 

1 would not lead thee to thy death." 

15. 

She turn'd her gentle eyes 

Toward him then with anxious tenderness. 

" So let him pierce my breast," cried Thalaba, 

" If it hide thought to harm you I " 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



307 



LAir.A. 

'Tis a figure 

Almost 1 fear to look at ! — yet come on. 

'Twill ease me of a heaviness that seems 

rosink my heart; and thou mayst dwell liere then 

In safety ; for thou shalt not go to-morrow, 

Nor on the after, nor the after day, 

Nor ever ! It was only solitude 

Which made my misery here ; 

And no\V. that I can see a human face, 

And hear a human voice — 

Oh no ! thou wilt not leave me ! 

THALABA. 

Alas, I must not rest ! 

The star that ruled at my nativity 

Shone with a strange and blasting influence. 

O gentle Lady ! [ should draw upon you 

A killing curse ! 

LAILA. 

But I will ask my Father 

To save you from all danger ; and you know not 

The wonders he can work ; and when I ask, 

It is not in his power to say me nay. 

Perhaps thou knowest the happiness it is 

To have a tender Father ? 

THALABA. 

He was one. 

Whom, like a loathsome leper, I have tainted 

With my contagious destiny. One evening 

He kiss'd me, as he wont, and laid his hands 

Upon my head, and blest me ere I slept. 

His dying groan awoke me, for the Murderer 

Had stolen upon our sleep ! — For me was meant 

The midnight blow of death ; my Father died ; 

The brother playmates of my infancy. 

The baby at the breast, they perish'd all, — 

All in that dreadful hour ! — but I was saved 

To remember, and revenge. 

16. 

She answer'd not ; for now, 

Emerging from the o'er-arch'd avenue, 

The finger of her upraised hand 

Mark'd where the Guardian of the garden stood. 

It was a brazen Image, every limb. 

And swelling vein, and muscle true to life ; 

The left knee bending on, 

The other straight, firm planted, and his hand 

Lifted on high to hurl 

The lightning that it grasp'd. 

17. 

When Thalaba approach'd, 

The enchanted Image knew Hodeirah's son, 

And hurl'd the lightning at the dreaded foe. 

But from Mohareb's hand 

Had Thalaba received Abdaldar's Ring. 

Blindly the wicked work 

The righteous will of Heaven. 

Full in his face the lightning-bolt was driven ; 

The scattered fire recoil'd ; 

Like the flowing of a summer gale he felt 



Its ineffectual force ; 
His countenance was not changed. 
Nor a hair of his head was singed. 

18. 

He started, and his glance 

Turn'd angrily upon the Maid. 

The sight disarm'd suspicion ; — breathless, pale, 

Against a tree she stood ; 

Her wan lips quivering, and her eyes 

Upraised, in silent, supplicating fear. 

19. 

Anon she started with a scream of joy. 

Seeing her Father there. 

And ran and threw her arms around his neck. 

" Save me ! " she cried, " the Enemy is come ! 

Save me ! save me ! Okba ! " 

20. 

" Okba ! " repeats the youth ; 

For never since that hour. 

When in the tent the Spirit told his name, 

Had Thalaba let slip 

The memory of his Father's murderer; 

" Okba ! " — and in his hand, 

He grasp'd an arrow-shaft, 

And he rush'd on to strike him. 

21. 

" Son of Hodeirah ! " the Old Man replied, 

" My hour is not yet come ; " 

And putting forth his hand. 

Gently he repell'd the Youth. 

" My hour is not yet come ! 

But thou mayst shed this innocent Maiden's blood. 

That vengeance God allows thee ! " 

22. 

Around her Father's neck 

Still Laila's hands were clasp'd ; 

Her face was turn'd to Thalaba; 

A broad light floated o'er its marble paleness, 

As the wind waves the fountain fire. 

Her large, dilated eye, in horror raised, 

Watch'd every look and movement of the Youth : 

" Not upon her," said he, 

"Not upon her, Hodeirah's blood cries out 

For vengeance ! " and again his lifted arm 

Threaten'd the Sorcerer ; 

Again withheld, it felt 

A barrier that no human strength could burst. 

23. 

" Thou dost not aim the blow more eagerly," 

Okba replied, " than I would rush to meet it ! 

But that were poor revenge. 

O Thalaba, thy God 

Wreaks on the innocent head 

His vengeance ; — I must suffer in my child ! 

Why dost thou pause to strike thy victim ? Allah 

Permits, — commands the deed." 



" Liar ! 
And Lai 



24. 
quoth Thalaba. 
s wondering eye 



308 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK X. 



Look'd up, all anguish, to her father's face. 

"By Allah and the Prophet," he replied, 

" I speak the words of truth. 

Misery ! misery ! 

That I must beg mine enemy to speed 

The inevitable vengeance now so near ! 

I read it in her horoscope ; 

Her birth-star warn'd me of Hodeirah's race. 

I laid a spell, and call'd a Spirit up j 

He answered, one must die, 

Laila or Thalaba — 

Accursed Spirit ! even in truth 

Giving a lying hope ! 

Last, I ascended the seventh Heaven, 

And on the Everlasting Table there, 

In characters of light, 

I read her written doom. 

The years that it has gnawn me ! and the load 

Of sin that it has laid upon my soul ! 

Curse on this hand, that, in the only hour 

The favoring Stars allow'd, 

Reek'd with other blood than thine. 

Still dost thou stand and gaze incredulous ? 

Young man, be merciful, and keep her not 

Longer in agony." 

25. 

Thalaba' s unbelieving frown 

Scowl'd on the Sorcerer, 

When in the air the rush of wings was heard. 

And Azrael stood before them. 

In equal terror, at the sight, 

The Enchanter, the Destroyer stood, 

And Laila, the victim Maid. 

26. 

" Son of Hodeirah ! " said the Angel of Death, 

" The accursed fables not. 

When from the Eternal Hand I took 

The yearly Scroll of Fate, 

Her name was written there ; — 

Her leaf hath wither'd on the Tree of Life. 

This is the hour, and from thy hands 
Commission'd to receive the Maid I come." 



27. 

" Hear me, O Angel ! " Thalaba replied ; 

" To avenge my father's death, 

To work the will of Heaven, 

To root from earth the accursed sorcerer race, 

I have dared danger undismay'd ; 

I have lost all my soul held dear ; 

I am cut off from all the ties of life, 

Unmurmuring. For whate'er awaits me still, 

Pursuing to the end the enterprise, 

Peril or pain, I bear a ready heart. 

But strike this Maid ! this innocent ! — 

Angel, I dare not do it." 



"Remember," answer'd Azrael, "all thou say'st 

Is written down for judgment ! every word 

In the balance of thy trial must be weigh 'd ! " 



29. 

" So be it ! " said the Youth : 

" He who can read the secrets of the heart, 

Will judge with righteousness ! 

This is no doubtful path ; 

The voice of God within me cannot lie. — 

I will not harm the innocent." 

30. 

He said, and from above, 

As though it were the Voice of Night, 

The startling answer came. 

" Son of Hodeirah, think again ! 

One must depart from hence, 

Laila, or Thalaba ; 

She dies for thee, or thou for her ; 

It must be life for life ! 
Son of Hodeirah, weigh it well, 
While yet the choice is thine ! " 

31. 

He hesitated not. 

But, looking upward, spread his hands to Heaven. 

" Oneiza, in thy bower of Paradise, 

P^eceive me, still unstain'd ! " 

32. 

" What ! " exclaim'd Okba, " darest thou disobey, 

Abandoning all claim 

To Allah's longer aid ? " 

33. 

The eager exultation of his speech 

Earthward recall'd the thoughts of Thalaba. 

"And dost thou triumph, Murderer.? dost thou 

deem, 

Because I perish, that the unsleeping lids 

Of Justice shall be closed upon thy crime .'' 

Poor, miserable man ! that thou canst live 

With such beast-blindness in the present joy. 

When o'er thy head the sword of God 

Hangs for the certain stroke ! " 

34. 

" Servant of Allah, thou hast disobey'd : 

God hath abandon' d thee ; 

This hour is mine ! " cried Okba, 

And shook his daughter off, 
And drew the dagger from his vest, 
And aim'd the deadly blow. 

35. 

All was accomplish'd. Laila rush'd between 

To save the savior Youth. 

She met the blow, and sunk into his arms ; 

And Azrael, from the hands of Thalaba, 

Received her parting soul. 



NOTES TO BOOK X. 

JVo faithful crowded round her bier, — 3, p. 304. 

When any person is to be buried, it is usual to bring the 
corpse at mid-day, or afternoon prayers, to one or other of 



BOOK X, NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



309 



these Mosques, from whence it is accompanied by the greatest 
part of the congregation to the grave. Tlieir processions, at 
tliese times, are not so slow and solemn as in most parts of 
Christendom j for the whole company make what haste they 
can, singing, as they go along, some select verses of their 
Koran. That absolute submission which they pay to the will 
of God, allows them not to use any consolatory words upon 
these occasions ; no loss or misfortune is to be hereupon re- 
gretted or complained of: instead likewise of such expressions 
of sorrow and condolence, as may regard the deceased, the 
compliments turn upon tlie person wlio is the nearest con- 
cerned, a blessing (say his friends) be upon your head. — 
S/iaw. 

All Mahometans inter the dead at the hour set a})art for 
prayer; the defunct is not kept in the house, except he ex- 
pires after sunset ; but the body is transported to the IMosque, 
whither it is carried by those who are going to prayer ; each, 
from a spirit of devotion, is desirous to carry in his turn. 
Women regularly go on Friday to weep over, and pray at the 
sepulchres of the dead, whose memory they hold dear. — 
Clienicr. 

This custom of crowding about a funeral contributes to 
spread the plague in Turkey. Tt is not many years since, in 
some parts of Worcestershire, the mourners were accustomed 
to kneel with their heads upon the coffin during the burial 
service. 

The fullest account of a Mohammedan funeral is in the 
Letlres sur la Ordce, of M. Guys. Chance made him the 
spectator of a ceremony which the Moslem will not suffer an 
infidel to profane by his presence. 

" About ten in the morning I saw the grave-digger at work ; 
the slaves and the women of the family were seated in the 
burial-ground, many other women arrived, and then they all 
began to lament. After this prelude, they, one after tlie 
other, embraced one of the little pillars which are placed upon 
the graves, crying out, Ogloum, ogloum, sana JMu.^saphir gucldi, 
My son, my son, a guest is coming to see thee. At these 
words their tears and sobs began anew ; but the storm did 
not continue long ; they all seated themselves, and entered into 
conversation. 

At noon I heard a confused noise, and cries of lamen- 
tation ; it was the funeral which arrived. A Turk pre- 
ceded it, bearing upon his head a small chest; four other 
Turks carried the bier upon their shoulders ; then came the 
fatlier, the relations, and the friends of the dead, in great 
numbers. Their cries ceased at the entrance of the burial- 
ground, but then they quarrelled — and for this : The man who 
bore the chest opened it ; it was filled with copies of the 
Koran ; a crowd of Turks, young and old, threw themselves 
upon the books, and scrambled for them. Those who suc- 
ceeded ranged themselves around the Iman, and all at once 
began to recite the Koran, almost as boys say their lesson. 
Each of the readers received ten parats, about fifteen sols, 
wrapt in paper. It was then for these fifteen pence, that 
these pious assistants had quarrelled, and in our own country 
you might have seen them fight for less. 

The bier was placed by the grave, in which the grave-dig- 
ger was still working, and perfumes were burnt by it. After 
the reading of the Koran, the Iman chanted some Arabic 
prayers, and iiis full chant would, no doubt, have appeared to 
you, as it did to me, very ridiculous. All the Turks were 
standing ; they held their hands open over the grave, and 
answered j3me?i to all the prayers which the Iman addressed 
to God for the deceased. 

The prayers finished, a large chest was brought, about six 
feet long, and tliree broad ; its boards were very tliick. The 
coffin is usually made of cypress ; thus, literally, is verified 
the phrase of Horace, that the cypress is our last possession : 

J\reque harum, quas colis, arhorum, 
Te, prceter invisas cupressus, 
Ulla brevem dominum sequetur. 

The cemeteries of the Turks are usually planted with these 
trees, to which they have a religious attachment. The chest, 
which was in loose pieces, having been placed in the grave, 
the coffin was laid in it, and above, planks, with other pieces 
of wood. Then all the Turks, taking spades, cast earth upon 
the grave to cover it. This is a part of the ceremony at 
which all the bystanders assisted in their turn. 



Before the corpse is buried, it is carried to the Mosque. 
Then, after having recited the Fatica (a prayer very similar to 
our Lord's prayer, which is repeated by all present) the Iman 
asks the congregation what they have to testify concerning the 
life and morals of the deceased ? Each then, in his turn, re- 
lates those good actions with which he was acquainted. The 
body is then washed, and wrapped up like a mummy, so 
that it cannot be seen. Drugs and spices are placed in the 
bier with it, and it is carried to interment. Before it is 
lowered into the grave, the Iman commands silence, saying, 
" Cease your lamentations for a moment, and let me instruct 
this Moslem how to act, when he arrives in the other world." 
Then, in the ear of the corpse, he directs him how to answer 
the Evil Spirit, who will not fail to question him, respecting 
his religion, &;c. Tliis lesson finished, he repeats the Fatka, 
with ail the assistants, and the Ijody is let down into the grave. 
After they have thrown earth three times upon the grave, as 
the Romans used, they retire. The Iman only remains ; he 
approaches the grave, stoops down, inclines his ear, and listens 
to hear if the dead man disputes when the Angel of Death 
comes to take him : then he bids him farewell ; and in order 
to be well paid, never fails to report to the family the best 
news of the deceased. 

As soon as the ceremony of interment is concluded, the 
Imaum, seated with" his legs bent under his thighs, repeats a 
short prayer ; he then calls the deceased three limes by his 
name, mentioning also that of his mother, but without the 
smallest allusion to that of his father. W^hat will be con- 
sidered as infinitely more extraordinary is, that should the 
Imaum be ignorant of the name of the mother, it is usual for 
him to substitute that of Mary, in honor of the Virgin, pro- 
vided the deceased be a male, and that of Eve, in case the 
deceased be a female, in honor of the common mother of 
mankind. This custom is so invariable, that even at the in- 
terment of the Sultans, it is not neglected ; the Imaum call- 
ing out. Oh iMustapha ! Son of Mary ! or. Oh Fatimah ! 
Daughter of Eve ! 

Immediately afterwards, he repeats a prayer, called Tclkeen, 
which consists of the following words : — " Kemember the mo- 
ment of thy leaving tlie world, in making this profession of 
faith. Certainly there is no God but God. He is one, and 
there is no association in Him. Certainly Mohammed is the 
prophet of God. Certainly Paradise is real. Certainly the 
resurrection is real ; it is indisputable. Certainly God will 
bring to life tlie dead, and make them leave their graves. 
Certainly tliou hast acknowledged God for thy God ■, Islamism 
for thy religion; Mohammed for thy propliet ; tlie Koran for 
thy priest ; the sanctuary of Mecca for thy Kibla ; and tho 
faithful for tliy brethren. God is my God ; there is no other 
God but he. He is the master of the august and sacred 
throne of Heaven. Oh Mustaphah I (or any other name,) 
say that God is thy God, (which the Tmaum repeats thrice.) 
Say there is no other God but God, (also repeated thrice.) 
Say that JMohammed is the prophet of God ; that thy religion 
is Islam, and that thy prophet is Mohammed, upon whom be 
the blessing of salvation, and the mercy of the Lord. O God, 
do not abandon us." After tiiis ejaculation, the ceremony is 
concluded by a chapter of the Koran, and the party returns 
home. 

As soon as the grave was filled up, each friend planted a 
sprig of cypress on the right, and another on the left hand of 
the deceased, and then took his leave. This was to ascertain 
by their growth whether the deceased would enjoy the 
liappiness promised by Mohammed to all true believers, or 
whether he would forever be denied the bliss of the Houris 
The former would occur should the sprigs on the right hand 
take root, and the latter would be ascertained if the left only 
should flourish. If both succeeded, he would be greatly 
favored in the next world ; or if both failed, he would be 
tormented by black angels, until, through the mediation of 
the prophet, he should be rescued from their persecutions. 

The graves are not dug deep, but separated from each other 
carefully, that two bodies may not be placed together. The 
earth is raised, to prevent an unhallowed foot from treading 
upon it ; and, instead of a plain, flat stone being placed over 
it, one which is perforated in the centre is most commonly 
used, to allow of cypress-trees, or odoriferous herbs, being 
planted immediately over the corpse. Occasionally a square 
stone, hollowed out, and without a cover, is preferred; which 



310 



NOTES TO THALABA TttE DESl'ROYER. 



BOOK it. 



bain? filled with mould, the trees or herbs are cultivated in it." 
— Griffiths. 

J^or column raised by the way-side, &c. — 3, p. 304. 

The Turks hury not at all within the walls of the city, but 
the great Turkish Emperors themselves, with their wives and 
children about them, and some few other of their great Bas- 
saes, and thos3 only in chapels by themselves, built for that 
purpose. All the rest of the Turks are buried in the fields; 
some of the better sort, in tombs of marble ; but the rest, 
with tomb-stones laid upon them, or with two great stones, 
one set up at the head, and the other at the feet of every 
grave ; the gre itest part of them being of white marble, 
brought from the Isle of Marmora. 

They will not bury any man where another hath been 
buried, accounting it impiety to dig up another man's bones; 
by reason whereof, they cover all the best ground about the 
city with such great white stones : which, for the infinite 
number of tliem, are thought sufficient to make another wall 
about the city. — Knolles. 

Tlie Turks hury by the way-side, believing that the pas- 
sengers will pray for the souls of the dead. — Tavernier. 



His eyes are aching with the snow. — 4, p. 304. 

All that day we travelled over plains all covered with snow, 
as the day before ; and indeed it is not only troublesome, but 
very dangerous, to travel througii these deep snows. The 
mischief is. that the beams of tiie sun, which lie all day long 
upon it, molest the eyes and face with such a scorching heat, 
as very much weakens the sight, whatever remedy a man can 
apply, by wearing, as the people of the country do, a thin 
handkercliipf of green or black silk, which no way abates the 
annoyance. — Chardin. 

When they have to travel many days through a country 
covered with snow, travellers, to preserve their sight, cover 
the face with a silk kerchief, made on purpose, like a sort of 
black crape. Others have large furred bonnets, bordered with 
goat-skin, and the long goat-hair, hanging over the face, is as 
serviceable as the crape. — Tavernier. 

All Abyssinian historian says, that the village called Zinze- 
x\n.m, rain upun rain, \\i\s its ni me from hu extraordinary cir- 
cumstance that once liappnned in these parts ; for a shower of 
r.iin fell, which was not properly of the n iture of rain, as it did 
not run upon the ground, but remained very light, having 
S"arce the weight of feathers, of a beautiful white color, like 
flonr ; it fell in showers, and occasioned a darkness in the air 
more than ran, and likor to mist. It covered the face of the 
whole country for several days, retaining its wliiteness the 
whole time, then went away like dew, without leaving any 
sini'il, or unwholesome effect behind it. — Bruce. 

The Dutch were formerly expelled from an East Indian 
settlement, because their consul, in narrating to the Prince of 
the cou^ijtry the wonders of Europe, chanced to say, that in 
his own country, water became a solid body once a-year, for 
some time; when men, or even horses, might pass over it 
without sinking. The Prince, in a rage, said, that he had 
hitherto listened to his tales with patience, but this was so 
palpable a lie, that he would never more be connected with 
Europeans, who only could assert such monstrous falsehoods. 



Its broad, round-spreading branches, when they felt, &c. 5, p. 304. 

A strange account of the cedars of Lebanon is given by De 
la Roque. Voyage de Syi-ie et du Mont Liban. 1772. 

" This little forest is composed of twenty cedars, of a pro- 
digious size ; so large, indeed, thattbe finest planes, sycamores, 
and other large trees which we had seen, could not be com- 
pared with them. Besides these principal cedars, there were 
a great number of lesser ones, and some very small, mingled 
with the large trees, or in little clumps near them. They 
differed not in their foliage, which resembles the juniper, and 
is green throughout the year ; but the great cedars spread at 
their summit, and form a perfect round, whereas the small 
ones rise in a pyramidal form like the cypress. Both diffuse 
the same pleasant odor ; the large ones only yield fruit, a 



large cone, in shape almost like that of the pine, hut of a 
browner color, and compacter shell. It gives a very pleasant 
odor, and contains a sort of thick and transparent balm, 
which oozes out through small apertures, and falls drop by 
drop. This fruit, which it is difficult to separate from the I 
stalk, contains a nut like that of the cypress ; it grows at the' 
end of the boughs, and turns its point upwards. 

The nature of this tree is not to elevate its trunk, or the 
part between the root and the first branches ; for the largest 
cedars which we saw did not, in the height of their trunks, 
exceed six or seven feet. From this low but enormously 
thick body, prodigious branches rise, spreading as they rise, 
and forming, by the disposition of their boughs and leaves, 
which point upward, a sort of wheel, which appeyrs to be the 
work of art. The bark of the cedar, except at the trunk, 
smooth and shining, of a brown color; its wcod white and 
soft, immediately under the bark, but hard and red within, 
and very bitter, which renders it incorruptible, and almost ' 
immortal. A fragrant gum issues from the tree. 

The largest cedar which we measured was seven feet in 
circumference, wanting two inches ; and the whole extent of 
its brincbes, which it was easy to mear^ure, from their perfect 
roundness, formed a circumference of about 120 feet. 

The Patriarch of the Maronites, fully jiersnaded of the 
rarity of these trees, and wishing, by the preservation of those 
that remain, to show his respect for a forest so celebrated in 
Scripture, has pronounced canonical pains, and even excom- 
munication, against any Christians who shall dnre to cut 
them ; scarcely will he permit a little to be sometimes taken 
for crucifixes and little tabernacles in the chapels of our 
missionaries. 

The Maronites themselves have such a veneration for these 
cedars, that on the day of transfiguration, they celebrate the 
festival under them with great solemnity ; the Patriarch offi- | 
ciates, and says mass pontifically ; and, among other exercises ' 
of devotion, they particularly honor the Virgin Mary there, \\ 
and sing her praises, because she is compared to the cedars 
of Lebanon, and Lebanon itself used as a metaphor for the 
mother of Christ. 

******** 

The Maronites say, that the snows have no sooner begun to 
fall, than these cedars, whose boughs, in their infinite number, 
are all so equal in height, that they appear to have been shorn, 
and form, as we have said, a sort of wheel or parnsol ; than 
these cednrs, I say, never fail at that time to change their 
figure. The branches, which before spread themselves, rise 
insensibly, gathering together, it may be said, and turn their 
points upward towards Heaven, forming altogether a pyramid. 
It is Nature, they say, who inspires this movement, and makes 
them assume a new shape, without which these trees never 
could sustain the immense weight of snow remaining for so 
long a time. 

I have procured more particular information of this fact, 
and it has been confirmed by the testimony of many i)ersons, 
who have often witnessed it. This is what the secretary of 
the Maronite Patriarch wrote to me in one of his letters, 
which I think it right to give in his own words. Cedri Liha- 
ni guns plnntavit Dens, ut Psalmista loquitur, sitce snvt in pJa- 
nitie quadam, dliquantulum infra altissimum Montis Libnni cn- 
cumev, uhi tempore hyemali maxima vivium quavtitas descendif, 
tribusque et ultra mensibus mordaciter domivatnr. Cedri in 
altuni ascendunt extensis tamen ramis in gyrum solo parallelia, 
covficientibus suo gym fere umbellam solarem, Sed snperveni- 
ente nine, quia coacervaretur in magnet qvantitate eos dpsnper, 
neque possent pati tantvm pondus tanto tempore premens, sine 
certo fractionis discriniine, JSTatura, rerum omnium provida ma- 
ter, ipsis concessit, ut adveniente hyeme et descendentenive, statim 
rami in altum assurgant, et serum ivvicem uviti constituant 
qiiaai conum, tit melius sese ah adveniente hoste tucantnr. JVa- 
turci enim ipsa verum est, virt.utem quamlibet unitam simul reddi 
fortiorem. 

The cedars of Lebanon, which, as the Psalmist says, God 
himself planted, are situated in a little plain somewhat below 
the loftiest summit of Mount Lebanon, where, in the winter, a 
great quantity of snow falls, and continues for three months, 
or longer. The cedars are high, but their boughs spread out 
parallel with the ground into a circle, forming almost a shield 
against the sun. But when the snow falls, which would be 
heaped upon them in so great a quantity, that they could not 



BOOK X. 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



311 



endure such a weight so long a time, without the cert..in 
danger of bre iking; Nature, the provident mother of all, has 
endued tiii;m with power, tliut when the winter comes, and 
the snow descends, th.ir boughs immediately rise, and, uniting 
together, form a cone, that they may be the better defended 
from the coming enemy. For in nature itself, it is true, that 
virtue, as it is united, becomes stronger." 



Passing in summer o^er the coffee groves, &c. — 8, p. 305. 

The coffee plant is about the size of the orange-tree. The 
flower, in color, size, and smell, resembles the white jessa- 
mine. 'Ihe berry is first green, then red, in which ripe state 
it i-s gathered. 

Ol arius's description of coffee is amusing. "Theydrinka 
certain black water, which they call cahwa, made of a fruit 
brought out of Egypt, and which is in color like ordinary 
wheat, and in taste like Turkish wheat, and is of the bigness 
of a little bean. They fry, or rather burn it in an iron pan, 
without any liquor, beat it to powder, and boiling it with fair 
w.;tcr, they make this drink thereof, which hath as it were the 
taste of a burnt crust, and is not pleasant to the palate." — 
^iiih. Travels. 

Pietro della Valle liked it better, and says he should intro- 
duce it into Italy. If, said he, it were drank with wine instead 
of water, 1 should think it is the Nepenthe, which, according 
to Homer, Helen brought from Egypt, for it is certain that 
coffee comes from that country ; and as Nepenthe was said to 
assuage trouble and disquietude, so does this serve the Turks 
as an ordinary pastime, making them pass their hours in con- 
versation, and occasioning pleasant discourse, which induces 
forgetfulness of care. 



He read the stars, &c. — 13, p. 306. 

It is well known how much the Orientalists are addicted to 
this pretended science. There is a curious instance of public 
folly in Sir Joliii Chardin's Travels. 

" Sephie-Wiiza was born in the year of the Egire 1057. 
For the superstition of the Persians will not let us know the 
month or the day. Their addiction to astrology is such, that 
they carefully conceal the moments of their princes' birth, to 
prevent the casting their nativities, where they might meet 
peril ps with something which they should be unwilling to 
know." 

At the coronation of this prince two astrologers were to be 
present, with an astrolabe in their hands, to take the fortunate 
liour, as they term it, and observe the lucky moments that a 
happy constellation should point out for proceedings of that 
importance. 

Sephie-Mirza having by debauchery materially injured his 
health, the chief physician was greatly alarmed, " in regard 
his life depended upon the king's ; or if his life were spared, 
yet he was sure to lose his estate and his liberty, as happens 
to all those who attend the Asiatic Sovereigns, when they die 
under their care. The quecn-raother too accused him of 
treason or ignorance, believing that since he was her son's 
physician, he was o!iliged to cure him. This made the phy- 
sician at his wit's end, so that, all his receipts failing him, he 
bethought hi.pself of one that was peculiarly his own inven- 
tion, and which few physicians would ever have found out,; s 
not l)eing to be met with neither in Galen nor Hippocrates. 
Wh .t does he then do, hut out of an extraordinary fetch of his 
wit, he begins to lay the fault upon the stars and the king's 
astrologers, crying out, that they were altogether in the wrong. 
That if tlie king lay in a languishing condition, and could not 
recover his health, it was because they had failed to observe 
the happy hour, or the aspect of a fortunate constellation at 
the time of his coronation." The stratagem succeeded, the 
king was re-crowned, and by the new name of Solyman ! — 
Chardin. 



It was a brazen Image, every limb, &c. — 16, p. 307. 

We have now to refute their error, who are persuaded that 
brazen heads, made under certain constellations, may give 
answers, and be as it were guides and counsellers, upon all 
occasions, to those that had them in their possession. Among 



these is one Yepes, who aflirms that Henry de Villena made 
such a one at Madrid, broken to pieces afterwards by ordt^r of 
John II., king of Castile. The same thing is affirmed by 
Bartholomew Sibillus, and the author of the Image of the 
yVurld^ otYixgW ; by William of Malmsbury, of Sylvester j by 
John Gower, of Robert of Lincoln ; by the common people of 
England, of Roger Bacon ; and by Tostatus, bishop of Avila, 
George of Venice, Delrio, Sibillus, Raguseus, Del ncre, and 
others, too many to mention, of Albertus JMagnus ; who, as 
the most expert, had made an entire man of the same metil, 
and had spent thirty years without any interruption in forming 
him under several aspects and constellations. For example, 
he formed the eyes, according to the s .id Tostatus, in his 
Commentaries upon Exodus, when the sun was in a sign of 
the Zodiac correspondent to that part, casting them out of 
divers metals mixed together, and marked with the characters 
of the same signs and planets, and their several and necessary 
aspects. The same method he observed in the head, neck, 
shoulders, thighs, and legs, all whicli were f .shioned at sev( ral 
times, and being put and fistened together in the form of a 
man, had the faculty to reveal to the said Albertus the solu- 
tions of all his principal difficulties. To which they add, 
(that nothing be lost of the story of the Statue,) that it was 
battered to pieoes by St. Thomas, merely beciiuse he could 
not endure its excess of prating. 

But, to give a more rational account of this Androides of 
Albertus, as also of all these miraculous heads, I conceive the 
original of this faole may well be deduced from the Teraph of 
the Hebrews, by which, as Mr. Selden affirms, many are of 
opinion, that we must understand what is said in Genesis 
concerning Laban's gods, and in the first book of Kings, con- 
cerning the image which Rlichal put into the bed in David's 
place. For R. Eleazer holds, that it was made of the head of 
a male child, the first-born, and that dead-born, under whose 
tongue they applied a lamen of gold, whereon were engraved 
the characters and inscriptions of certain planets, which the 
Jews superstitiously wandered up and down with, instead of 
the Urim and Thummim, or the Ephod of the high-priest. 
And that this original is true and well deduced, there is a 
manifest indicium, in that Henry D'Assia, and Bc.rtholema-us 
Sibillus affirm, that the Androides of Albertus, and the head 
made by Virgil, were composed of flesh and bone, yet not by 
nature, but by art. But this being judged impossible by 
modern authors, and the virtue of images, annulets, and plan- 
etary Sigills, being in great reputation, men have thought 
ever since, (taking their opinion from Trismegistus, affirming 
in his Asclepion, that of the gods, some were made by the 
Sovereign God, and others by men, who, by some art, had the 
power to unite the invisible spirits to things visible and corpo- 
real, as is explained at large by St. Augustine,) that such 
figures were made of copper or some other metal, whereon 
men had wrought under some favorable aspects of Heaven 
and the planets. 

JVIy design is not absolutely to deny that he might coirpose 
some head or statue of m;in, like that of IMemnon, from which 
proceeded a small sound and pleasant noise, when the rising 
sun came, by his heat, to rarify and force out, by certain small 
conduits, the air which, in the cold of the night, was con- 
densed within it. Or, haply, they might be like those statues 
of Boetius, whereof Cassiodorus, speaking, said, Metclla 
vmgivnl Diornedis in cere grucs buccinavt, wnetis aiignis in.sibi- 
liit, aves simulates fritinniuiit, ft queEprnpriavivocem vescivvt, ab 
(Bre dulcedincm probanttir emittcre cavtilcnce ; for such, I doubt 
not, but maybe made by the help of that part of natural magic 
which depends on the mathematics. — Davies's History of 
Magic. 



And on the Everlasting Table there, &c. — 24, p. 308. 

This table is suspended in the Seventh Heaven, and guarded 
from the demons, lest they should change or corrupt any thing 
thereon. Its length is so great as is the space between heaven 
and earth, its breadth equal to the distance from the east to 
the west, and it is made of one pearl. The divine pen was 
created by the finger of God ; that also is of pearl, and of such 
length and breadth, that a swift horse could scarcely gallop 
round it in five hundred years. It is so endowed, that, self- 
moved, it writes all things, past, present, and to come. Light 



312 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK X.; 



is its ink, and the language which it uses, only the angel 
Seraphael understands. — Maracci. 



The yearly Scroll of Fate, &c. — 26, p. 308. 

They celebrate the night Leileth-ul-beraeth, on the 15th of 
the month of Schabann, with great apprehension and terror, 
because they consider it as the tremendous night on which 
the angels Kiramenn-keatibinn, placed on each side of man- 
kind, to write down their good and bad actions, deliver up 
their books, and receive fresh ones for the continuance of the 
same employment. It is believed, also, that on that night, the 
archangel Azrail, the angel of death, gives up also his records, 
and receives another book, in which are written the names of 
all those destined to die in the following year. — D''Ohsson. 



Her leaf hath wither' d on the Tree of Life. — 26, p. 308. 

Here, in the Fourth Heaven, I beheld a most prodigious 
angel, of an admirable presence and aspect, in whose awful 
countenance there appeared neither mirth nor sorrow, but an 
undescribable mixture of both. He neither smiled in my 
face, nor did he, indeed, scarce turn his eyes towards me to 
look upon me, as all the rest did, yet he returned my salu- 
tation after a very courteous, obliging manner, and said, 
" Welcome to these mansions, O Mahomet ; thou art the 
person whom the Almighty hath endowed with all tlie united 
perfections of nature ; and upon whom he, of his immense 
goodness, hath been pleased to bestow the utmost of his 
divine graces." 

There stood before him a most beautiful table, of a vast 
magnitude and extent, written all over, almost from the top 
to the bottom, in a very close, and scarce distinguisliable 
character, upon which written table his eyes were continually 
fixed ; and so exceedingly intent he was upon that his occu- 
pation, that, though I stood steadfastly observing his coun- 
tenance, I could not perceive his eyelids once to move. Cast- 
ing my eyes towards the left side of him, I beheld a prodigious 
large shady tree, the leaves whereof were as innumerable as 
the sands of the ocean, and upon every one of which were 
certain characters inscribed. Being extremely desirous of 
knowing the secret of this wonderful mystery, I inquired of 
Gabriel the meaning of what I was examining with my eyes 
with so anxious a curiosity. The obliging angel, to satisfy 
my longing, said, That person, concerning whom thou art so 
very inquisitive, is the redoubtable Atarael, the Angel of 
Death, who was never yet known either to laugh, smile, or be 
merry ; for, depend upon it, my beloved Mahomet, had he 
been capable of smiling, or looking pleasant upon any creatui-e 
in nature, it would assuredly have been upon thee alone. This 
table, upon which thou beholdest him so attentively fixing his 
looks, is called Et Lough El Mahofoud, and is the register 
upon which are engraven the names of every individual soul 
breathing ; and, notwithstanding the inspection of that register 
taketh up the greatest part of his time, yet he more particular- 
ly looketh it all over five times a-day, which are at those very 
same instants wherein the true believers are obliged to oiler 
up their adorations to our Omnipotent Lord. The means 
whereby he understandeth when the thread of each individual 
life is run out and expired, is to look upon the branches of 
that vast tree thou there beholdest, upon the leaves whereof 
are written the names of all mortals, every one having his 
peculiar leaf; there, forty days before the time of any person's 
life is expired, his respective leaf beginning to fade, wither, 
and grow dry, and the letters of his name to disappear ; at the 
end of the fortieth day they are quite blotted out, and the 
leaf falleth to the ground, by which ./Sza^-aeZ certainly knoweth 
that the breath of its owner is ready to leave the body, and 
hasteneth away to take possession of the departing soul. 

The size or stature of this formidable angel was so incom- 
prehensibly stupendous, so unmeasurably great, that if this 
earthly globe of ours, with all that is thereon contained, were 
to be placed in the palm of his hand, it would seem no more 
than one single grain of mustard-seed (though the smallest of 
all seeds) would do if laid upon the surface of the earth. — 
Rabadan. 



In the balance of thy trial must be weighed ! — 28, p. 308. 

The balance of the dead is an article in almost every creed 
Mahommed borrowed it from the Persians. I know not from 
whence the Monks introduced it ; probably they were ignorant 
enough to have invented the obvious fiction. 

In the Vision of Thurcillus, the ceremony is accurately 
described. " At the end of the north wall, within the church, 
sate St. Paul, and opposite him, without, was the devil and 
his angels. At the feet of the devil, a burning pit flamed up, 
which was the mouth of the pit of hell. A balance, equally 
poised, was fixed upon the wall, between the devil and the 
apostle, one scale hanging before each. The apostle had two 
weights, a greater and a less, all shining, and like gold, and 
the devil also had two smoky and black ones. Therefore, the 
souls that were all black, came one after another, with gi-eat 
fear and trembling, to behold the weighing of their good and 
evil works ; for these weights weighed the works of all the 
souls, according to the good or evil which they had done. 
When the scale inclined to the apostle, he took the soul, and 
introduced it, through the eastern gate, into the fire of Pur- 
gatory, that there it might expiate its crimes. But when the 
scale inclined and sunk towards the devil, then he and his 
angels snatched the soul, miserably howling and cursing the 
father and mother that begot it, to eternal torments, and cast 
it, with laughter and grinning, into the deep and fiery pit 
which was at the feet of the devil. Of this balance of good 
and evil, much may be found in the writings of the Holy J 
Fathers." Matthew Paris. 

Concerning the salvation of Charlemagne, Archbishop 
Turpin, a man of holy life, wrote thus: " I, Turpin, Arch- 
bishop ofRheims, being in my chamber, in the city of Vienna, 
saying my prayers, saw a legion of devils in the air, who were 
making a great noise. I adjured one of them to tell me from 
whence they came, and wherefore they made so great an 
uproar. And he replied that they came from Aix la Cha- 
pelle, where a great lord had died, and that they were re- 
turning in anger, because they had not been able to carry 
away his soul. I asked him who the great lord was, and why 
they had not been able to carry away his soul. He replied. 
That it was Charlemagne, and that Santiago had been greatly 
against them. And I asked him how Santiago had been 
against them; and he replied. We were weighing the good 
and the evil which he had done in this world, and Santiago 
brought so much timber, and so many stones from the churches 
which he had founded in his name, that they greatly over- 
balanced all his evil works ; and so we had no power over his 
soul. And having said this, the devil disappeared." 

We must understand from this vision of Archbishop Turpin, 
that they who build or repair churches in this world, erect 
resting-places and inns for their salvation. — Historia do Im- 
pcrador Carlos Magna, et dos Doze Pares de Franga. 

Two other corollaries follow from the vision. The devil's 
way home from Aix la Chapelle lay through Vienna ; and as 
churches go by weight, an architect of Sir Jolm Vanbrugh's 
school should always be employed. 

This balance of the dead was an easy and apt metaphor, 
but clumsily imagined as an actual mode of trial. 

" For take thy ballaunce, if thou be so wise, 

And weigh the winde that under heaven doth blow ; 

Or weigh the light that in the east doth rise ; 

Or weigli the thought that from man's mind doth flow , 
But if the weight of these thou canst not show. 

Weigh but one word which from thy lipa doth fall." 

Spenser 



And Jlzrael, from the hands of Thalaba, &c. — 35, p. 308. 

This double meaning is in the spirit of oracular prediction. 
The classical reader will remember the equivocations of 
Apollo. The fable of the Young Man and the Lion in the 
Tapestry will be more generally recollected. We have many 
buildings in England to which this story has been applied. 
Cooke's Folly, near Bristol, derives its name from a similar 
tradition. 

ThQ History of the Buccaneers affords a remarkable instance 
of prophecy occasioning its own accomplishment. 



BOOK XI. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



313 



" Bofore my first going over into the South Seas with Captain 
Sharp (and indeeil bolbre any privateers, at least since Drake 
and Oxengham) had gone that way wliich we afterwards went, 
except La Sound, a French captain, who, by Captain Wright^s 
instructions, had ventured as far as Chiapo town with a body 
of men, but was driven back again ; I being then on board 
Captain Co.con, in company with three or four more privateers, 
about four leagues to the east oi Portobcl, we took the packets 
bound thither from Cartkugena. We opened a great quantity 
of the merchants' letters, and found the contents of many of 
them to be very surprising; the merchants of several parts of 
Old Spain thereby informing their correspondents of Panama 
aul elsewhere, of a certain propliecy that went a!)out Spain 
that year, the tenor of which was, that there would be English 
privateers that year in the West Imlies, whu wuuld make suck 
great diszovcries, as to ope.n a door into the South Seas, which 
they su|)poscd was fastest shut ; and the letters were accord- 
ingly full of cautions to their friends to be very watchful and 
careful of their coasts. 

'J'his door they spake of, we all concluded must be the 
pass'ige over-land through the country of the Indians of Bar ien, 
who were a little before this become our friends, and had 
lati^ly fallen out with the Spaniards, breaking off the intercourse 
which for some time tliey had with them. And upon calling 
also to mind the frequent invitiitions we had from those 
Indians a little before this time, to pass through their country 
and fall upon the S^ianiardi in the South Sras, we from hence- 
forward began to entertain such tlioughts in earnest, anil soon 
came to a resolution to make those attempts which we after- 
wards did with Captains Sharp, Coxon, &c. So that the 
taking these letters gave the first life to those bold under- 
takings ; and we took the advantage of the fears the Spaniards 
were in from that prophecy, or probable conjecture, or what- 
ever it were ; for we sealed up most of the letters again, and 
sent them ashore to Portobel.^' — Dampicr. 



THE ELEVENTH BOOK. 



Those, Sir, that traffic in these seas, 
Fraught not their bark with fears. 

Sir Robert Howard. 



1. 

O FOOL, to think thy human hand 

Could check the chariot-wheels of Destiny ! 

To dream of weakness in the all-knowing Mind, 

That its decrees should change ! 

To hope that the united Powers 

Of Earth, and Air, and Hell, 

Might blot one letter from the Book of Fate, 

Might break one link of the eternal chain ! 

Thou miserable, wicked, poor old man I 

Fall now upon the body of thy child ; 

Beat now thy breast, and pluck the bleeding hairs 

From thy gray beard, and lay 

Thine ineffectual hand to close her wound, 

And call on Hell to aid, 

And call on Heaven to send 

Its merciful thunderbolt ! 

2. 

The young Arabian silently 

Beheld his frantic grief. 

The presence of the hated youth 

To raging anguish stung 

The wretched Sorcerer. 

" Ay ! look and triumph '. " he exclaim'd, 

40 



" This is the justice of thy God ! 
A righteous God is he, to let 
His vengeance fall upon the innocent head ! 
Curse thee, curse thee, Thalaba ! " 

s! 

All feelings of revenge 

Had left Hodeirah's son. 

Pitying and silently he heard 

The victim of his own iniquities; 

Not with the officious hand 

Of consolation, fretting the sore wound 

He could not hope to heal. 



So as the Servant of the Prophet stood, 
With sudden motion the night-air 

Gently fann'd his cheek. 

'Twas a Green Bird, whose wings 

Plad waved the quiet air. 

On the hand of Thalaba 

The Green Bird perch'd, and turn'd 

A mild eye up, as if to win 

The Adventurer's confidence ; 

Then, springing on, flew forward ; 

And now again returns 

To court him to the way; 

And now his hand perceives 

Her rosy feet press firmer, as she leaps 

Upon the wing again. 



Obedient to the call, 
^y the pale moonlight Thalaba pursued, 

O'er trackless snows, his Avay ; 
Unknowing he what blessed messenger 

E[ad come to guide his steps, — 

That Laila's spirit went before his path. 

Brought up in darkness, and the child of sin, 

Yet, as the meed of spotless innocence. 

Just Heaven permitted her by one good deed 

To work her own redemption after death; 

So, till the judgment day. 

She might abide in bliss, 

Green warbler of the Bowers of Paradise. 

6. 

The morning sun came forth. 

Wakening no eye to life 

In this wide solitude ; 

His radiance, with a saffron hue, like heat, 

Suffused the desert snow. 

The Green Bird guided Thalaba; 

Now oaring with slow wing her upward way, 

Descending now in slant descent 

On outspread pinions motionless; 

Floating now, with rise and fall alternate, 

As if the billows of the air 

Heaved her with their sink and swell. 

And when beneath the noon 

The icy glitter of the snow 

Dazzled his aching sight, 

Then on his arm alighted the Green Bird, 

And spread before his eyes 

Her plumage of refreshing hue. 



314 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK XI. 



Evening came on ; the glowing clouds 

Tinged with a purple ray the mountain ridge 

That lay before the Traveller. 

Ah ! whither art thou gone, 

Guide and companion of the youth, whose eye 

Has lost thee in the depth of Heaven ? 

Why hast thou left alone 
The weary wanderer in the wilderness ? 
And now the western clouds grow pale, 
And night descends upon his solitude. 



The Arabian youth knelt down, 

And bow'd his forehead to the ground. 

And made his evening prayer. 

When he arose, the stars were bright in heaven, 

The sky was blue, and the cold Moon 

Shone over the cold snow. 

A speck in the air ! 

Is it his guide that approaches ? 

For it moves with the motion of life ! 

Lo ! she returns, and scatters from her pinions 

Odors diviner than the gales of morning 

Waft from Sabea. 



Hovering before the youth she bung. 

Till from her rosy feet, that at his touch 

Uncurl'd their grasp, he took 

The fruitful bough they bore. 

He took and tasted : a new life 

Flow'd through his renovated frame; 

His limbs, that late were sore and stiff, 

Felt all the freshness of repose ; 

His dizzy brain was calm'd, 

The heavy aching of his lids was gone ; 

For Laila, from the Bowers of Paradise, 

Had borne the healing fruit. 

10. 

So up the mountain steep, 

With untired foot he past. 

The Green Bird guiding him, 

Mid crags, and ice, and rocks, 

A difficult way, winding the long ascent. 

How then the heart of Thalaba rejoiced. 

When, bosom'd in the mountain depths, 

A shelter'd Valley open'd on his view ! 

It was the Simorg's vale. 

The dwelling of the Ancient Bird. 

11. 

On a green and mossy bank, 

Beside a rivulet, 

The Bird of Ages stood. 

No sound intruded on his solitude ; 

Only the rivulet was heard, 

Whose everlasting flow, 

From the birth-day of the World, had made 

The same unvaried murmuring. 

Here dwelt the all-knowing Bird 

In deep tranquillity. 

His eyelids ever closed 

In full enjoyment of profound repose. 



12. 

Reverently the Youth approach 'd 

That old and only Bird ; 

And cross'd his arms upon his breast, 

And bow'd his head, and spake — 

" Earliest of existing things, 

Earliest thou, and wisest thou. 

Guide me, guide me, on my way ! 

I am bound to seek the Caverns 

Underneath the roots of Ocean, 

Where the Sorcerers have their seat ; 

Thou the eldest, thou the wisest, 
Guide me, guide me, on my way ! " 

13. 

The Ancient Simorg on the youth 

Unclosed his thoughtful eyes, 

And answer'd to his prayer — 

"Northward by the stream proceed; 

In the Fountain of the Rock 

Wash away thy worldly stains ; 

Kneel thou there, and seek the Lord, 

And fortify thy soul with prayer. 

Thus prepared, ascend the Sledge ; 

Be bold, be wary ; seek and find. 

God hath appointed all." 

The Ancient Simorg then let fall his lids, 

Relapsing to repose. 

14. 

Northward, along the rivulet, 

The adventurer went his way ; 

Tracing its waters upward to their source. 

Green Bird of Paradise, 

Thou hast not left the youth ! — 

With slow associate flight. 

She companies his way ; 

And now they reach the Fountain of the Rock. 

15. 

There, in the cold, clear well, 

Thalaba wash'd away his earthly stains. 

And bow'd his face before the Lord, 

And fortified his soul with prayer. 

The while, upon the rock. 

Stood the celestial Bird, 

And pondering all the perils he must pass, 

With a mild, melancholy eye. 

Beheld the youth beloved. 

16. 

And lo ! beneath yon lonely pine, the sledge : — 

There stand the harness'd Dogs, 

Their wide eyes watching for the youth. 

Their ears erect, and turn'd toward his way. 

They were lean as lean might be ; 

Their furrow'd ribs rose prominent ; 

And they were black from head to foot, 

Save a white line on every breast. 

Curved like the crescent moon. 

Thalaba takes his seat in the sledge ; 

His arms are folded on his breast ; 

The Bird is on his knees ; 

There is fear in the eyes of the Dogs, 

There is fear in their pitiful moan ; 



TIIALABA THE DESTROYER. 



315 



And now they turn their heads, 
And seeing him seated, away ! 

17. 

The youth, with the start of their speed, 

Falls back to the bar of the sledge ; 

His hair floats straight in the stream of the wind. 

Like the weeds in the running brook. 

They wind with speed their upward way. 

An icy path through rocks of ice : 

His eye is at the summit now. 

And tlius far all is dangerless ; 

And now upon the height 

The black Dogs pause and pant ; 

They turn their eyes to Thalaba, 

As if to plead for pity ; 
They moan and whine with fear. 

18. 
Once more away ! and now 

The long descent is seen, 

A long, long, narrow path ; 

Ice-rocks aright, and hills of snow 

Aleft the precipice. 

Be firm, be firm, O Thalaba ! 

One motion now, one bend. 

And on the crags below 

Thy shatter'd flesh will harden in the frost. 

Why howl the Dogs so mournfully .'' 

And wherefore does the blood flow fast 

All purple o'er their sable skin ? 

His arms are folded on his breast; 

IN or scourge nor goad hath he ; 

No hand appears to strike ; 

No sounding lash is heard ; 

But piteously they moan and whine. 

And track their way with blood. 

19. 

Behold ! on yonder height 

A giant Fiend aloft 

Waits to thrust down the tottering avalanche ! 

If Thalaba looks back, he dies ; 

The motion of fear is death. 

On — on — with swift and steady pace, 

Adown that dreadful way ! 

The Youth is firm, the Dogs are fleet, 

The sledge goes rapidly ; 

The thunder of the avalanche 

Re-echoes far behind. 

On — on — with swift and steady pace, 

Adown that dreadful way ! 

The Dogs are fleet, the way is steep, 

The Sledge goes rapidly ; 

They reach the plain below. 

20. 

A wide, blank plain, all desolate ; 

Nor tree, nor bush, nor herb ! 

On go the Dogs with rapid course ; 

The Sledge slides after rapidly ; 

And now the sun went down. 

They stopp'd and look'd at Thalaba; 

The Youth perform'd his prayer; 

They knelt beside him while he pray'd; 



They turn'd their heads to Mecca, 

And tears ran down their cheeks. 

Then down they laid them in the snow, 

As close as they could lie, 

They laid them down and slept. 

And backward in the sledge. 

The Adventurer laid himself; 

There peacefully slept Thalaba, 

And the Green Bird of Paradise 

Lay nestling in his breast. 

21. 

The Dogs awoke him at the dawn ; 

They knelt and wept again ; 

Then rapidly they journey'd on ; 

And still the plain was desolate, 

Nor tree, nor bush, nor herb ! 

And ever, at the hour of prayer, 

They stopp'd, and knelt, and wept; 

And still that green and graceful Bird 

Was as a friend to him by day, 

And, ever when at night he slept, 

Lay nestling in his breast. 

22. 

In that most utter solitude, 

It cheer'd his heart to hear 

Her soft and soothing voice. 

Her voice was soft and sweet ; 

It rose not with the blackbird's thrill. 

Nor warbled like that dearest bird that holds 

The solitary man 

A loiterer in his thoughtful walk at eve 

But if it swell'd with no exuberant joy, 

It had a tone that touch'd a finer string, 

A music that the soul received and own'd. 

Her bill was not the beak of blood ; 

There was a human meaning in her eye 

When fix'd on Thalaba ; 

He wonder'd while he gazed. 

And with mysterious love 

Felt his heart drawn in powerful sympathy. 

23. 

Oh joy ! the signs of life appear — 

The first and single Fir 

That on the limits of the living world 

Strikes in the ice its roots. 

Another, and another now ; 

And now the Larch, that flings its arms 

Down-curving like the falling wave ; 

And now the Aspin's scatter'd leaves 

Gray-glittering on the moveless twig ; 

The Poplar's varying verdure now, 

And now the Birch so beautiful. 

Light as a lady's plumes. 

Oh joy ! the signs of life ! the Deer 

Hath left his slot beside the way ; 

The little Ermine now is seen. 

White wanderer of the snow; 

And now from yonder pines they hear 

The clatter of the Grouse's wings; 

And now the snowy Owl pursues 

The Traveller's sledge, in hope of food; 

And hark ! the rosy-breasted bird, 



316 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



The Throstle of sweet song ! 

Joy ! joy ! the winter-wilds are left ! 

Green bushes now, and greener grass, 

Red thickets here, all berry-bright, 

And here the lovely flowers ! 

24. 

When the last morning of their way was come, 

After the early prayer. 

The Green Bird fix'd on Thalaba 

A sad and supplicating eye, 

And speech was given her then : 

" Servant of God, I leave thee now ; 

If rightly I have guided thee, 

Give me the boon I beg I " 

25. 

" O gentle Bird ! " quoth Thalaba, 

*' Guide and companion of my dangerous way, 

Friend and sole solace of my solitude. 

How can I pay thee benefits like these ? 

Ask what thou wilt, that I can give, 

O gentle Bird, the poor return 

Will leave me debtor still ! " 

26. 

" Son of Hodeirah ! " she replied, 

*' When thou shalt see an Old Man bent beneath 

The burden of his earthly punishment, 

Forgive him, Thalaba ! 

Yea, send a prayer to God in his behalf! " 

27. 

A flush o'erspread the young Destroyer's cheek; 

He turn'd his eye towards the Bird 

As if in half repentance ; for he thought 

Of Okba; and his Father's dying groan 

Came on his memory. The celestial Bird 

Saw and renew'd her speech; 

" O Thalaba, if she who in thine arms 

Received the dagger-blow, and died for thee. 

Deserve one kind remembrance, — save, O save 

The Father that she loves from endless death ! " 

28. 
" Laila ! and is it thou ? " the youth replied. 
" What is there that I durst refuse to thee ? 

This is no time to harbor in my heart 

One evil thought ; — here I put off revenge. 

The last rebellious feeling — Be it so ! 

God grant to me the pardon that 1 need, 

As I do pardon him ! — 

But who am I, that I sliould save 

The sinful soul alive ? " 

29. 

"Enough!" said Laila. "When the hour shall 

come. 

Remember me ! My task is done. 

We meet again in Paradise ! " 

She said, and shook her wings, and up she soar'd 

With arrowy swiftness through the heights of 

Heaven. 



30. 

His aching eye pursued her path, 

When starting onward went the Dogs; 

More rapidly they hurried now. 

In hope of near repose. 

It was the early morning yet. 

When by the well-head of a brook 

They stopp'd, their journey done. 

The spring was clear, the water deep ; 

A venturous man were he, and rash. 

That should have probed its depths ; 

For all its loosen'd bed below 

Heaved strangely up and down ; 

And to and fro, from side to side, 

It heaved, and waved, and toss'd ; 

And yet the depths were clear. 

And yet no ripple wrinkled o'er 

The face of that fair Well. 

31. 

And on that Well, so strange and fair, 

A little boat there lay. 

Without an oar, without a sail ; 

One only seat it had, one seat. 

As if for only Thalaba. 

And at the helm a Damsel stood, 

A Damsel bright and bold of eye ; 

Yet did a maiden modesty 

Adorn her fearless brow ; 

Her face was sorrowful, but sure 

More beautiful for sorrow. 

To her the Dogs look'd wistful up ; 

And then their tongues were loosed — 

" Have we done well, O Mistress dear ! 

And shall our sufferings end .'' " 

32. 

The gentle Damsel made reply — 
" Poor servants of the God I serve, 
When all this witchery is destroy 'd. 

Your woes will end with mine 
A hope, alas ! how long unknown ! 

This new adventurer gives; 
Now God forbid, that he, like you. 

Should perish for his fears ! 

Poor servants of the God I serve, 

Wait ye the event in peace." 

A deep and total slumber, as she spake. 

Seized them. Sleep on, poor sufferers ! be at rest! 

Ye wake no more to anguish : — ye have borne 

The Chosen, the Destroyer ! — soon his hand 

Shall strike the efficient blow ; 

And shaking off your penal forms, shall ye. 

With songs of joy, amid the Eden groves, 

Hymn the Deliverer's praise. 

33. 

Then did the Damsel say to Thalaba, 

" The morn is young, the Sun is fair. 

And pleasantly through pleasant banks 

Yon quiet stream flows on — 

Wilt thou embark with me ? 

Thou knowest not the water's way; 

Think, Stranger, well ! and night must come,— 



THALABA THE DESTROYER 



317 



Barest thou embark with me ? 

Through fearful perils thou must pass, — 

Stranger, the wretched ask thine aid ! 

Thou wilt embark with me ! " 
She smiled in tears upon the youth; — 
What heart were his, who could gainsay- 
That melancholy smile ? 
"I will," quoth Thalaba, 
"I will, in Allah's name ! " 

34. 

He sat him on the single seat ; 

The little boat moved on. 

Through pleasant banks the quiet stream 

Went winding pleasantly ; 

By fragrant fir-groves now it past, 

And now, through alder-shores. 

Through green and fertile meadows now 

It silently ran by. 

The flag-flower blossom'd on its side, 

The willow tresses waved. 

The flowing current furrow'd round 

The water-lily's floating leaf, 

The fly of green and gauzy wing, 

Fell sporting down its course ; 

And grateful to the voyager 

The freshness that it breathed, 

And soothing to his ear 

Its murmur round the prow. 

The little boat falls rapidly 

Adown the rapid stream. 

35. 

But many a silent spring, meantime, 

And many a rivulet and rill. 

Had swollen the growing stream ; 

And when the southern Sun began 

To wind the downward way of heaven, 

It ran a river deep and wide. 

Through banks that widen'd still. 

Then once again the Damsel spake — 

" The stream is strong, the river broad ; 

Wilt thou go on with me ? 

The day is fair, but night must come — 

Wilt thou go on with me .'' 

Far, far away, the sufferer's eye 

For thee hath long been looking, — 

Thou wilt go on with me ! " 

"Sail on, sail on," quoth Thalaba, 

" Sail on, in Allah's name ! " 

The little boat falls rapidly 

Adown the river-stream. 

36. 

A broader and yet broader stream, 

That rock'd the little boat ! 

The Cormorant stands upon its shoals, 

His black and dripping wings 

Half open'd to the wind. 

The Sun goes down, the crescent Moon 

Is brightening in the firmament ; 

And what is yonder roar. 

That sinking now, and swelling now, 

But evermore increasing, 

Still louder, louder, grows ? 



The little boat falls rapidly 

Adown the rapid tide; 

The Moon is bright above, 

And the great Ocean opens on their way. 

37. 
Then did the Damsel speak again — 

" Wilt thou go on with me .'' 
The Moon is bright, the sea is calm, 
I know the ocean-paths ; 

Wilt thou go on with me ? — 
Deliverer! yes! thou dost not fear! 

Thou wilt go on with me ! " 
" Sail on, sail on ! " quoth Thalaba, 

"Sail on, in Allah's name ! " 

38. 

The Moon is bright, the sea is calm, 

The little boat rides rapidly 

Across the ocean waves; 

The line of moonlight on the deep 

Still follows as they voyage on; 

The winds are motionless ; 

The gentle waters gently part 

In dimples round the prow. 

He looks above, he looks around, 

The boundless heaven, the boundless sea, 

The crescent moon, the little boat, 

Nought else above, below. 

39. 
The Moon is sunk ; a dusky gray 

Spreads o'er the Eastern sky ; 

The stars grow pale and paler ; — 

Oh, beautiful 1 the godlike Sun 

Is rising o'er the sea ! 

Without an oar, without a sail, 

The little boat rides rapidly ; — 

Is that a cloud that skirts the sea.'' 

There is no cloud in heaven ! 

And nearer now, and darker now — 

It is — it is — the Land ! 

For yonder are the rocks that rise 

Dark in the reddening morn ; 

For loud around their hollow base 

The surges rage and foam. 

40. 

The little boat rides rapidly, 

And pitches now with shorter toss 

Upon the narrow swell ; 

And now so near, they see 

The shelves and shadows of the cliff", 

And the low-lurking rocks, 

O'er whose black summits, hidden half, 

The shivering billows burst; — 

And nearer now they feel the breaker's spray. 

Then said the Damsel — " Yonder is our path 

Beneath the cavern arch. 

Now is the ebb ; and till the ocean flow 

We cannot override the rocks. 

Go thou, and on the shore 

Perform thy last ablutions, and with prayer 

Strengthen thy heart — I too have need to 

pray." 



318 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER 



BOOK XI. 



41. 
She held the helm with steady hand 

Amid the stronger waves ; 

Through surge and surf she drove ; 

The adventurer leap'd to land. 



NOTES TO BOOK XL 

Oreen icarhler of the Bowers of Paradise. — 5, p. 313. 

The souls of the blessed are supposed by some of the Ma- 
hnmmedans to animate green birds in the groves of paradise. 
Was this opinion invented to conciliate the Pagan v^rabs, 
who believed, that of the blood near the dead i)erson's brain 
was formed a bird named Hamah, which once in a hundred 
years visited the sepulchre ? 

To this there is an allusion in the Moallakat. " Then I 
knew with certainty, that in so fierce a contest with them, 
many a heavy blow would make the perched birds of the brain 
fly quickly from every skull." — Poem ofAntara. 

In the Bahar-Danush, parrots are called the green-vested 
resemblers of Heaven's dwellers. The following passages in 
the same work may, perhaps, allude to the same superstition, 
or perhaps are merely metaphorical, in the ususl style of its 
true Oriental bombast. " The bird of understanding fled 
from the nest of my brain." " My joints and members 
seemed as if they would separate from each other, and the 
bird of life would quit the nest of my body." " The bird of 
my soul became a captive in the net of her glossy ringlets." 

I remember in a European Magazine two similar lines by 
the author of the Lives of the Admirals : 

" My beating bosom is a well-wrought cage, 
Whence that sweet goldfinch Hope shall ne'er elope ! " 

The grave of Francisco Jorge, the Maronite martyr, was 
visited by two strange birds of unusual size. No one knew 
whence they came. They emblemed, says Vasconcellos, the 
purity and the indefatigable activity of his soul. 

The inhabitants of Otaheite have assigned a less respecta- 
ble p-irt of the body as the seat of the soul. 

The disembowelling of the body there, is always performed 
in great secrecy, and with much religious superstition. The 
bowels are, by these peoide, considered as the immediate 
orgtms of sensation, where the first impressions are received, 
and by which all the operations of the mind are carried on ; 
it is therefore natural to conclude, that they may esteem and 
venerate the intestines, as bearing the greatest affinity to the 
immortal part. I have frequently held conversations on this 
suliject, with a view to convince them that all intellectual 
operations were carried on in the head ; at which they would 
generally smile, and intimate that they had frequently seen 
men recover whose skulls had been fractured, and whose 
lieads had otherwise been much injured ; but that, in all cases 
in which the intestines had been wounded, the persons on a 
certainty died. Other arguments they would also advance in 
favor of their belief; such as the effect of fear, and other 
passions, which caused great agitation and uneasiness, and 
would sometimes produce sickness at the stomach, which they 
attributed entirely to the action of the bowels Vancouver. 



Had home the healing fruit. — 9, p. 314. 

When Hosein, the son of Ali, was sick of a grievous dis- 
order, he longed for a pomegranate, though that fruit was not 
then in season. Ali went out, and diligently inquiring, found 
a single one in the possession of a Jew. As he returned 
with it, a sick man met him and begged half the pomegranate, 
snying it would restore Ids health. Ali gave him half, and 
v.hen he had eaten it, the man requested he would give him 
the otiier half, the sooner to complete his recovery. Ali be- 
nignantly complied, returned to his son, and told him what 
liad happened, and Hosein approved what his father had 
done. 



Immediately behold a miracle ! as they were talking to- 
gether, the door was gently knocked at. He oidered the 
woman servant to go there, and she found a man, of all men 
the most beautiful, who had a plate in his hand, covered with 
green silk, in which were ten pomegranates. The woman 
was astonished at the beauty of the man and of the pome- 
granates, and she took one of them and hid it, and carried the 
other nine to Ali, who kissed the present. When he had 
counted them he found that one was wanting, and said so to 
the servant ; she confessed that she had taken it on account 
of its excellence, and Ali gave her her liberty. The pome- 
granates were from paradise ; Hosein was cured of his disease 
only by their odor, and rose up immediately, recovered, and 
in full strength. — Maracci. 

I suspect, says Maracci, that this is a true miracle wrought 
by some Christian saint, and falsely attributed to Ali. How- 
ever this may be, it does not appear absurd that God should, 
by some especial favor, reward an act of remarkable charity, 
even in an infidel, as he has sometimes, by a striking chas- 
tisement, punished enormous crimes. But the assertion, that 
the pomegranates were sent from paradise, exposes the fable. 

Maracci, after detailing and ridiculing the Mahommedan 
miracles, contrasts with them, in an appendix, a few of the 
real and permanent miracles of Christianity, which are proved 
by the testimony of the whole world. He selects five as 
examples. 1. The chapel of Loretto, brought by angels from 
Nazareth to Illyricum, and from Illyricum to Italy ; faithful 
messengers having been sent to both places, and finding in 
both its old foundations, in dimensions and materials exactly 
corresponding. 

2. The cross of St. Thomas at Meliapor. A Bramin, as the 
saint was extended upon his cross in prayer, slew him. On 
the anniversary of his martyrdom, during the celebration of 
mass, the cross gradually becomes luminous, till it shines one 
white glory. At elevating the host, it resumes its natural 
color, and sweats blood profusely ; in which the faithful dip 
their clothes, by which many miracles are wrought. 

3. Certissimum quia evidentissirnum. — At Bari, on the 
Adriatic, a liquor flows from the bones of St. Nicholas ; they 
call it St. Nicholas's manna, which, being preserved in bottles, 
never corrupts or breeds worms, except the possessor be cor- 
rupt himself, and daily it works miracles. 

4. At Tolentino in the March of Anconia, the arms of 
St. Nicholas swell with blood, and pour out copious streams, 
when any great calamity impends over Christendom. 

5. The blood of St. Januarius at Naples. 

These, says Maracci, are miracula perseverantia, perm.anent 
miracles ; and it cannot be said, as of the Mahommedan ones, 
that they are tricks of the devil. 



From the hirth-day of the world, Sec. — 11. p. 314. 

The birth-day of the world was logically ascertained in a 
provincial council held at Jerusalem, against the Q,uarto- 
decimans by command of Pope Victor, about the year 200. 
Venerable Bede {Comm. de ^quinoct. Kern.) supplies the 
mode of proof. " When the multitude of priests were as- 
sembled together, then Theophylus, the bishop, produced the 
authority sent unto him by Pope Victor, and explained what 
had been enjoined him. Then all the bishops made answer, 
Unless it be first examined how the world was at the be- 
ginning, nothing salutary can be ordained respecting the 
observations of Easter. And they said. What day can we be- 
lieve to have been the first, except Sunday ? And Theophylus 
said. Prove this which ye say. Then the bishops said. Ac- 
cording to the authority of the Scriptures, the evening and 
the morning were the first day ; and, in like manner, they 
were the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, 
and the sixth, and the seventh ; and on the seventh day, which 
was called the Sabbath, the Lord rested from all his works ; 
therefore, since Saturday, which is the Sabbath, was the last 
day, which but Sunday can have been the first? Then said 
Theophylus, Lo, ye liavo proved tliat Sunday was the first 
day ; what say ye now concerning the seasons — for there are 
four times or seasons in tlie year. Spring, Summer, Autumn, 
and Winter ; which of these was the first ? Tlie bishops an- 
swered, Spring. And Theophylus said. Prove this which ye 
say. Then the bishops said, It is written, the earth brought 



BOOK XII. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



319 



forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree 
5'ielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind ; but 
this is in the sprin^;. Then said Theopliylus, When do you 
believe the beginning of the world to liave been, in the be- 
ginning of the season, or in the middle, or in the end? And 
the bishops answered, at the Equinox, on the eighth of the 
kalends of April. And Theophylus said. Prove this which ye 
say. Then they answered. It is written, God made the light, 
and called the light day, and he made tlie darkness, and called 
the darkness night, and he divided the light and the darkness 
into equal parts. Then said Theophylus, Lo, ye have proved 
the day and the season. ■V\niat think ye now concerning the 
Moon ; was it created when increasing, or when full, or on 
the wane.'' And the bishops answered. At the fidl. And he 
said, Prove this which ye say. Then they answered, God 
made two great luminaries, and placed them in the firmament 
of the Heavens, that they might give light upon the earth ; 
the greater luminary in the beginning of the day, the lesser 
one in the beginning of the night. It could not have been 
thus unless the moon were at the full. Now, therefore, let 
us see when the world was created: it was made upon a 
Sunday in the spring, at tiie Equinox, which is on the eighth 
of the kalends of April, and at tlie full of the moon," 

According to the form of a border-oath, the work of creation 
began by night. " You shall swear by Heaven above you, 
Hell beneath you, by your part of Paradise, hy all that God 
viade in six days and seven nights, and by God himself, you 
are whart out sackless of art, part, way, witting, ridd, ken- 
ning, having or recetting of any of the goods and chattells 
named in this bill. So help you God." (JVicholson and Burn, 
1. XXV.) This, however, is assertion without proof, and would 
not have been admitted by Theophylus and his bishops. 



That old and only Bird. — 12, p. 314. 

Simorg Anka, says my friend Mr. Fox, in a note to his 
Achmed Ardebeili, is a bird or grilfon of extraordinary 
strength and size, (as its name imports, signifying as large as 
thirty eagles,) which, according to the Eastern writers, was 
sent by the Supreme Being to subdue and chastise the rebel- 
lious Dives. It was supposed to jjossoss rational faculties, and 
the gift of speech. The Caherman JVameh relates, that Simorg 
Anka, being asked his age, replied, this world is very ancient, 
for it has already been seven times replenished with beings 
different from man, and as often depopulated. That the age 
of Adam, in which we now are, is to endure seven thousand 
years, making a great cycle ; that himself had seen twelve 
of these revolutions, and know not how many more he had 
to see. 

I am afraid that Mr. Fox and myself have fallen into a 
grievous heresy, both respecting the unity and the sex of the 
Simorg. For this great bird is a hen ; there is indeed a 
cock also, but he seems to be of some inferior species, a sort 
of Prince George of Denmark, the Simorg's consort, not the 
cock Simorg. 

In that portion of the Shak-J^ameh which has been put into 
English rhyme by Mr. Champion, some anecdotes may be 
found concerning this all-knowing bird, who is there repre- 
sented as possessing one species of knowledge, of which she 
would not be readily suspected. Zalzer, the father of Rus- 
tam, is exposed in his infancy by his own f;ither, Saum, who 
takes him for a young devilling, because his body is black, and 
his hair white. The infant is laid at tlie foot of Mount 
Elburs, where the Simorg has her nest, and she takes him up, 
and breeds him with her young, who are very desirous of 
eating him, but she preserves him. When Zalzer is grown 
up, and leaves the nest, the Simorg gives him one of her feath- 
ers, telling him, whenever he is in great distress, to burn it, 
and she will immediately come to his assistance. Zalzer mar- 
ries Rodahver, who is likely to die in childing ; he then burns 
the feather, and the Simorg appears and orders the Cesarean 
operation to be performed. As these stories are not Ferdusi's 
invention, but the old traditions of the Persians, collected and 
arranged by him, this is, perhaps, the earliest fact concerning 
that operation which is to be met with, earlier probably than 
the fable of Semele. Zalzer was ordered first to give her 
wine, which acts as a powerful opiate, and after sewing up the 
incision, to anoint it with a mixture of milk, musk, and grass, 



pounded together, and dried in the shade, and then to rub it 
with a Simorg's featlier. 

In Mr. Fox's collection of Persic books, is an illuminated 
copy of Fordusi, containing a picture of the Simorg, who is 
there re))resented as an ugly dragon-looking sort of bird. 1 
should be loath to believe that she has so bad a physiognomy ; 
and as, in the same volume, there are blue and yellow horses, 
there is good reason to conclude that this is not a genuine 
portrait. 

When the Genius of the Lamp is ordered by Aladin to 
bring a roc's egg, and hang it up in the hall, he is violently 
enraged, and exclaims, Wretch, wouldst thou have me hang 
up my master.' From the manner in which rocs are usually 
mentioned in the Arabian Tales, the reader feels as much 
surprised at this indignation as Aladin Avas himself. Perhaps 
the original may have Simorg instead of roc. To think, in- 
deed, of robbing the Simorg's nest, either for the sake of 
drilling the eggs, or of poaching them, would, in a believer, 
whether Shiah or Sunni, be the height of human impiety. 

Since this note was written, the eighth volume of the 
Asiatic Researches has appeared, in which Captain Wilford 
identifies the roc with the Simorg. " Sinbad," he says, " was 
exposed to many dangers from the birds called Rocs or 
Simorgs, the Garudas of the Pauranics, whom Persian Ro- 
mancers represent as living in Madagascar, according to Marco 
Polo." But the Roc of the Arabian Tales has none of the 
characteristics of the Simorg; and it is only in the instance 
which I have noticed, that any mistake of one for the other 
can be suspected. 

The spring was clear, the icatcr deep. — 30, p. 316. 
Some travellers may perhaps be glad to know, that the 
spring from which this description was taken, is near Bristol, 
about a mile from Stokes-Croft turnpike, and known by the 
name of the Boiling- Well. Other, and larger springs, of 
the same kind, called the Lady Pools, are near Shobdon, in 
Herefordshire. 

It ran a river deep and wide. — 35, p. 317. 

A similar picture occurs in Miss Baillie's Comedy, " Tho 
Second Marriage." " By Heaven, there is nothing so in- 
teresting to me as to trace the course of a prosperous man 
through this varied world. First, he is seen like a little 
stream, wearing its shallow bed through the grass, circling and 
winding, and gleaning up its treasures from every twinkling 
rill, as it passes ; further on, the brown sand fences its margin, 
the dark rushes thicken on its side ; further on still, the broad 
flags shake their green ranks, the willows bend their wide 
boughs o'er its course; and yonder, at last, the fair river 
appears, spreading his bright waves to the light." 



THE TWELFTH BOOK. 



Why should he that loves me, sorry be 
For my deliverance, or at all complain 
My good to hear, and toward joys to see ? 
I go, and long desired have to go ; 
I go with gladness to my wished rest. 

Spenser's Daphnaida. 



Then Thalaba drew oiF Abdaldar's ring, 

And cast it in the sea, and cried aloud, 

Thou art my shield, my trust, my hope, O God ! 

Behold and guard me now, 

Thou who alone canst save. 

If, from my childhood up, I have look'd on 

With exultation to my destiny j 



320 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK XII. 



If, in the hour of anguish, I have own'd 
The justice of the hand that chasten'd me ; 

If, of all selfish passions purified, 

I go to work thy will, and from the world 

Root up the ill-doing race. 

Lord ! let not thou the weakness of my arm 

Make vain the enterprise ! " 

2. 

The Sun was rising all magnificent, 
Ocean and Heaven rejoicing in his beams. 

And noAV had Thalaba 

Peiform'd his last ablutions, and he stood 

And gazed upon the little boat 

Riding the billows near. 

Where, like a sea-bird breasting the broad waves, 

It rose and fell upon the surge. 

Till from the glitterance of the sunny main 

He turn'd his aching eyes ; 

And then upon the beach he laid him down, 

And watch'd the rising tide. 

He did not pray ; he was not calm for prayer ; 

His spirit, troubled with tumultuous hope, 

Toil'd with futurity; 

His brain, with busier workings, felt 

The roar and raving of the restless sea. 

The boundless waves that rose, and roll'd, and 

rock'd : 

The everlasting sound 

Oppress'd him, and the heaving infinite : 

He closed his lids for rest. 



Meantime, with fuller reach and stronger swell, 

Wave after wave advanced ; 

Each following billow lifted the last foam 

That trembled on the sand with rainbow hues; 

The living flower that, rooted to the rock, 

Late from the thinner element 

Shrunk down within its purple stem to sleep, 

Now feels the water, and again 

Awakening, blossoms out 

All its green anther-necks. 



Was there a Spirit in the gale 

That fluttered o'er his cheek ? 

For it came on him like the new-risen sun, 

Which plays and dallies o'er the night-closed flower. 

And wooes it to unfold anew to joy ; 

For it came on him as the dews of eve 

Descend with healing and with life 

Upon the summer mead ; 

Or like the first sound of seraph song 

And Angel greeting, to the soul 

Whose latest sense had shuddered at the groan 

Of anguish, kneeling by a death-bed side. 



He starts, and gazes round to seek 

The certain presence. " Thalaba ! " exclaim'd 

The Voice of the Unseen ; 

" Father of my Oneiza ! " he replied, 

" And have thy years been number'd ? art thou, too, 

Among the Angels ? " — « Thalaba ! " 



A second and a dearer voice repeats, 

" Go in the favor of the Lord, 

My Thalaba, go on ! 

My husband, I have dress'd our bower of bliss. 

Go, and perform the work ; 

Let me not longer suffer hope in Heaven ! " 



He turn'd an eager glance toward the sea. 

" Come ! " quoth the Damsel, and she drove 

Her little boat to land. 

Impatient through the rising wave, 

He rush'd to meet its way : 

His eye was bright, his cheek was flush'd with joy. 

"Hast thou had comfort in thy prayers.''" she 

ask'd. 

" Yea," Thalaba replied, 

" A heavenly visitation." '• God be praised ! " 

She answer'd ; " then I do not hope in vain ! " 

And her voice trembled, and her lip 

Quiver'd, and tears ran down. 



" Stranger," said she, " in years long past 

Was one who vow'd himself 

The Champion of the Lord, like thee, 

Against the race of Hell. 

Young was he, as thyself, 

Gentle, and yet so brave ! 

A lion-hearted man. 

Shame on me, Stranger ! in the arms of love 

I held him from his calling, till the hour 

Was past ; and then the Angel who should else 

Have crown 'd him with his glory- wreath, 

Smote him in anger. — Years and years are gone, 

And in his place of penance he awaits 

Thee, the Deliverer: surely thou art he ! 

It was my righteous punishment, 

In the same youth unchanged, 

And love unchangeable. 

Sorrow forever fresh. 

And bitter penitence. 

That gives no respite night nor day from grief, 

To abide the written hour, when I should waft 

The Doom'd Destroyer and Deliverer here. 

Remember thou, that thy success affects 

No single fate, no ordinary woes." 



As thus she spake, the entrance of the cave 

Darken'd the boat below. 

Around them, from their nests, 

The screaming sea-birds fled. 

Wondering at that strange shape, 

Yet unalarm'd at sight of living man, 

Unknowing of his sway and power misused : 

The clamors of their young 

Echoed in shriller cries. 

Which rung in wild discordance round the rock. 

And farther as they now advanced. 

The dim reflection of the darken'd day 

Grew fainter, and the dash 

Of the out-breakers deaden'd ; farther yet, 

And yet more faint the gleam j 

And there the waters, at their utmost bound, 



BOOK XII. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



321 



Si ently rippled on the rising rock. 

They landed and advanced, and deeper in, 

Two adamantine doors 

Closed up the cavern pass. 

9. 

Reclining on the rock beside, 

Sat a gray-headed man, 

Watching an hour-glass by. 

To him the Damsel spake — 

" Is it the hour appointed ? " The Old Man 

Nor answer'd her awhile, 

Nor lifted he his downward eye ; 

For now the glass ran low. 

And, like the days of age, 

With speed perceivable, 

The latter sands descend ; 

And now the last are gone. 

Then he look'd up, and raised his hand, and 

smote 

The adamantine gates. 

10. 

The gates of adamant. 

Unfolding at the stroke, 

Open'd, and gave the entrance. Then she turn'd 

To Thalaba, and said, 

" Go, in the name of God ! 

I cannot enter, — 1 must wait the end 

In hope and agony. 

God and Mahommed prosper thee, 

For thy sake and for ours ! " 

11. 

He tarried not, — he past 

The threshold, over which was no return. 

All earthly thoughts, all human hopes 

And passions now put off. 

He cast no backward glance 

Toward the gleam of day. 

There was a light within, 

A yellow light, as when the autumnal Sun, 

Through travelling rain and mist, 

Shines on the evening hills : 

Whether from central fires effused, 

Or that the sunbeams, day by day, 

From earliest generations, there absorbed. 

Were gathering for the wrath-flame. Shade was 

none 

In those portentous vaults ; 

Crag overhanging, nor columnal rock 

Cast its dark outline there ; 

For with the hot and heavy atmosphere 

The light incorporate, permeating all, 

Spread over all its equal yellowness. 

There was no motion in the lifeless air ; 

He felt no stirring as he past 

Adown the long descent ; 

He heard not his own footsteps on the rock, 

That through the thick stagnation sent no sound. 

How sweet it were, he thought, 

To feel the flowing wind ! 

With what a thirst of joy 

He should breathe in the open gales of heaven ! 

41 



12. 

Downward, and downward still, and still the way, 

The lengthening way is safe. 

Is there no secret wile, 

No lurking enemy .'' 

His w^atchful eye is on the wall of rock, — 

And warily he marks the roof. 

And warily surveys 

The path that lies before. 

Downward, and downward still, and still the way, 

The long, long way is safe ; 

Rock only, the same light. 

The same dead atmosphere. 

And solitude and silence like the grave. 

13. 

At length the long descent 

Ends on a precipice ; 

No feeble ray enter'd its dreadful gulf; 

For in the pit profound, 

Black Darkness, utter Nio-ht, 

Repell'd the hostile gleam, 

And o'er the surface the light atmosphere 

Floated, and mingled not. 

Above the depth, four over-awning wings, 

Unplumed, and huge, and strong, 

Bore up a little car; 

Four living pinions, headless, bodiless. 

Sprung from one stem that branched below 

In four down-arching limbs, 

And clinch'd the car-rings endlong and athwart 

With claws of griffin grasp. 

14. 

But not on these, the depth so terrible. 

The wondrous wings, fix'd Thalaba his eye ; 

For there, upon the brink. 

With fiery fetters fasten'd to the rock, 

A man, a living man, tormented lay. 

The young Othatha : in the arms of love 

He who had linger'd out the auspicious hour. 

Forgetful of his call. 

In shuddering pity, Thalaba exclaimed, 

" Servant of God, can I not succor thee .'' " 

He groan'd, and answered, " Son of Man, 

I sinn'd, and am tormented ; I endure 

In patience and in hope. 

The hour that shall destroy the Race of Hell, 

That hour shall set me free." 

15. 

" Is it not come ? " quoth Thalaba : 

" Yea ! by this omen ! " — and with fearless hand 

He grasp'd the burning fetters, — " in the name 

Of God ! " — and from the rock 

Rooted the rivets, and adown the gulf 

Dropp'd them. The rush of flames roar'd up. 

For they had kindled in their fall 

The deadly vapors of the pit profound ; 

And Thalaba bent on and look'd below. 

But vainly he explored 

The deep abyss of flame. 

That sunk beyond the plunge of mortal eye. 

Now all ablaze, as if infernal fires 



322 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK Xtl. 



Illumed the world beneath. 

Soon was the poison-fuel spent ; 

The flame grew pale and dim ; 

And dimmer now it fades, and now is quench'd ; 

And all again is dark, 

Save where the yellow air 

Enters a little in, and mingles slow. 

16. 

Meantime, the freed Othatha clasp'd his knees, 

And cried, " Deliverer ! " Struggling then 

With joyful hope, "And where is she," he cried, 

" Whose promised coming for so many a year — " 

"Go! " answer'd Thalaba, 

" She waits thee at the gates." 

" And in thy triumph," he replied, 

' There thou wait join us .? " — The Deliverer's eye 

Glanced on the abyss ; way else was none — 

The depth was unascendable. 

"Await not me," he cried; 

'' My path hath been appointed ! go — embark ! 

Return to life, — live happy ! " 

OTHATHA. 

But thy name .? — 

That through the nations we may blazon it, — 

That we may bless thee ! 

THALABA. 

Bless the Merciful ! 

17. 

Then Thalaba pronounced the name of God, 

And leap'd into the car. 

Down, down it sunk, — down, dow^n, — 

He neither breathes nor sees ; 

His eyes are closed for giddiness. 

His breath is sinking with the fall. 

The air that yields beneath the car 

Inflates the wings above. 

Down — down — a measureless depth ! — down — 

down, 

Was then the Simorg with the Pov/ers of ill 

Associate to destroy .'' 

And was that lovely Mariner 

A fiend as false as fair ? 

For still the car sinks down ; 

But ever the uprushing wind 

Inflates the wings above. 

And still the struggling wings 

Repel the rushing wind. 

Down — down — and now it strikes. 

18. 

He stands and totters giddily; 

All objects round awhile 

Float dizzy on his sight ; 

Collected soon, he gazes for the way. 

There was a distant light that led his search ; 

The torch a broader blaze. 

The unpruned taper flares a longer flame. 

But this was strong, as is the noontide sun. 

So, in the glory of its rays intense. 

It quiver'd with green glow. 

Beyond was all unseen ; 



No eye could penetrate 
That unendurable excess of light. 

19. 

It veil'd no friendly form, thought Thalaba : 

And wisely did he deem, 

For at the threshold of the rocky door, 

Hugest and fiercest of his kind accurs'd, 

Fit warden of the sorcery-gate, 

A rebel Afreet lay; 

He scented the approach of human food, 

And hungry hope kindled his eye of fire. 

Raising his hand to screen the dazzled sense, 

Onward held Thalaba, 

And lifted still at times a rapid glance ; 

Till the due distance gain'd. 

With head abased, he laid 

An arrow in its rest. 

With steady effort and knit forehead then, 

Full on the painful light 

He fix'd his aching eye, and loosed the bow. 

20. 

A hideous yell ensued ; 

And sure no human voice had scope or power 

For that prodigious shriek 

Whose pealing echoes thundered up the rock. 

Dim grew the dying light ; 

But Thalaba leap'd onward to the doors, 

Now visible beyond, 

And while the Afreet warden of the way 

Was writhing with his death-pangs, over him 

Sprung and smote the stony doors, 

And bade them, in the name of God, give way ! 

21. 

The dying Fiend beneath him, at that name, 

Toss'd in worse agony, 

And the rocks shudder" d, and the rocky doors 

Rent at the voice asunder. Lo ! within — 

The Teraph and the Fire, 

And Khawla, and, in mail complete, 

Mohareb for the strife. 

But Thalaba, with numbing force. 

Smites his raised arm, and rushes by ; 

For now he sees the fire, amid whose flames. 

On the white ashes of Hodeirah, lies 

Hodeirah's holy Sword. 

22. 

He rushes to the Fire : 

Then Khawla met the youth. 

And leap'd upon him, and with clinging arms 

Clasps him, and calls Mohareb now to aim 

The effectual vengeance. O fool ! fool ! he sees 

His Father's Sword, and who shall bar his way .-* 

Who stand against the fury of that arm 

That spurns her to the ground ? — 

She rises half, she twists around his knees, — 

A moment — and he vainly strives 

To shake her from her hold ; 

Impatient then he seized her leathery neck 

With throttling grasp, and as she loosed her hold, 

Thrust her aside, and unimpeded now 

Springs forward to the Sword. 



BOOK xir. 



THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



323 



23. 

The co-existent Flame 

Knew the Destroyer ; it encircled him, 

Roll'd up his robe, and gather' d round his head : 

Condensing to intenser splendor there, 

His Crown of Glory and his Light of Life, 

Hover'd the irradiate wreath. 

24. 

The instant Thalaba had laid his hand 

Upon his Father's Sword, 

Tlie Living Image in the inner cave 

Smote the Round Altar. The Domdaniel rock'd 

Through all its thundering vaults ; 

Over the surface of the reeling Earth, 

The alarum shocic was felt ; 

The Sorcerer brood, all, all, where'er dispersed. 

Perforce obey'd the summons; all, — they came 

Compell'd by Hell and Heaven; 

By Hell compell'd to keep 

Their baptism-covenant. 

And with the union of their strength 

Oppose the common danger ; forced by Heaven 

To share the common doom. 

25. 

Vain are all spells ! the Destroyer 

Treads the Domdaniel floor. 

They crowd with human arms and human force 

To crush the single foe. 

Vain is all human force ! 

He wields his Fatiier's Sword, 

The vengeance of awaken'd Deity. 

But chief on Thalaba Mohareb press'd: 

The Witch, in her oracular speech. 

Announced one fatal blow for both ; 

And, desperate of self safety, yet he hoped 

To serve the cause of Eblis, and uphold 

His empire, true in death. 

26. 

Who shall withstand the Destroyer ? 

Scatter'd befoi'e the sword of Thalaba 

The Sorcerer throng recede. 

And leave him space for combat. Wretched 

man, — 

What shall the helmet or the shield avail 

Against Almighty anger? — Wretched man, 

Too late Mohareb finds that he hath chosen 

The evil part ! — He rears his sliield 

To meet the Arabian's sword ; 

Under the edge of that fire-hardened steel, 

TJie shield falls sever'd ; his cold arm 

Rings with the jarring blow : — 

He lifts his cimeter ; 

A second stroke, and lo ! the broken hilt 

Hangs from his palsied hand : 

And now he bleeds, and now he flies. 

And fain would hide himself amid the troop ; 

But they feel the sword of Hodeirah; 

But they also fly from the ruin. 

And hasten to the inner cave, 

And fall all fearfully 

Around the Giant Idol's feet. 

Seeking protection from the Power they served. 



27. 

It was a Living Image, by the art 

Of magic hands, of flesh and bones composed, 

And human blood, through veins and arteries 

That flow'd with vital action. In the shape 

Of Eblis it was made ; 

Its stature such, and such its strength, 

As when among the sons of God 

Preeminent he raised his radiant head, 

Prince of the Morning. On his brow 

A coronet of meteor flames, 

Flowing in points of light. 

Self-poised in air before him 

Hung the Round Altar, rolling like the V>^orld 

On its diurnal axis, like the World 

Checker'd with sea and shore, 

The work of Demon art. 

For where the sceptre in the Idol's hand 

Touch'd the Round Altar, in its answering realm, 

Earth felt the stroke, and Ocean rose in storms, 

And shatter'd Cities, shaken from their seat, 

Crush'd all their habitants. 

His other arm was raised, and its spread palm 

Sustain'd the ocean-weight, 

Whose naked waters arch'd the sanctuary ; 

Sole prop and pillar he. 

28. 

Fallen on the ground, around his feet. 

The Sorcerers lay. Mohareb's quivering arms 

Clung to the Idol's knees ; 

The Idol's face was pale ; 

And calm in terror he beheld 

The approach of the Destroyer. 

29. 

Sure of his stroke, and therefore in pursuit 

Following, nor blind, nor hasty, on his foe 

Moved the Destroyer. Okba met his way, 

Of all that brotherhood 

He only fearless, miserable man, 

The one that had no hope. 

" On me, on me," the childless Sorcerer cried, 

Let fall the weapon ! I am he who stole 

Upon the midniglit of thy Father's tent ; 

This is the hand that pierced Hodeirah's heart, 

That felt thy brethren's and thy sisters' blood 

Gush round the dagger-hilt. Let fall on me 

The fated sword ! the vengeance-hour is come ! 

Destroyer, do thy work ! " 

30. 

Nor wile, nor weapon, had the desperate wretcli; 

He spread his bosom to the stroke. 

" Old Man, I strike thee not ! " said Thalaba ; 

" The evil thou hast done to me and mine 

Brought its own bitter punishment. 

For thy dear Daughter's sake I pardon thee, 

As I do hope Heaven's pardon. — For her sake 

Repent while time is yet! — Thou hast my prayers 

To aid thee ; thou poor sinner, cast thyself 

Upon the goodness of offended God ! 

I speak in Laila's name ; and what if now 

Thou canst not think to join in Paradise 

Her spotless Spirit, — hath not Allah made 



324 



NOTES TO THALABA THE DESTROYER. 



BOOK XII. 



Al-Araf, in his wisdom ? where the sight 
Of Heaven may kindle in the penitent 
The strong and purifying fire of hope, 

Till, at the Day of Judgment, he shall see 
The Mercy-Gates unfold." 

31. 

The astonish'd man stood gazing as he spake ; 

At length his heart was soften' d, and the tears 

Gush'd, and he sobb'd aloud. 

Then suddenly was heard 

The all-beholding Prophet's voice divine — 

" Thou hast done well, my Servant ! 

Ask and receive thy reward ! " 

32. 

A deep and awful joy 

Seem'd to dilate the heart of Thalaba; 

With arms in reverence cross' d upon his breast, 

Upseeking eyes suffused with tears devout, 

He answered to the Voice — " Prophet of God, 

Holy, and good, and bountiful ! 

One only earthly wish have I, to work 

Thy will ; and thy protection grants me that. 

Look on this Sorcerer ! Heavy are his crimes ; 

But infinite is mercy ! If thy servant 

Have now found favor in the sight of God, 

Let him be touch 'd with penitence, and save 

His soul from utter death." 

33. 

*' The groans of penitence," replied the Voice, 

" Never arise unheard ! 

But, for thyself, prefer the prayer ; 

The treasure-house of Heaven 

Is open to thy will." 

34. 
*' Prophet of God ! " then answered Thalaba, 

" I am alone on earth ; 
Thou knowest the secret wishes of my heart ! 
Do with me as thou wilt ! Thy will is best." 



35. 
There issued forth no Voice to answer him ; 

But lo ! Hodeirah's Spirit comes to see 

His vengeance, and beside him, a pure form 

Of roseate light, his Angel mother hung. 

**My Child, my dear, my glorious, blessed Child, 

My promise is perform'd — fulfil thy work ! " 



36. 

Thalaba knew that his death-hour was come; 

And on he leap'd, and springing up, 

Into the Idol's heart 

Hilt-deep he plunged the Sword. 

The Ocean-vault fell in, and all were crush'd. 

In the same moment, at the gate 

Of Paradise, Oneiza's Houri form 

Welcomed her Husband to eternal bliss. 



NOTES TO BOOK XII. 



A rebel Afreet lay. — 19, p. 322. 

One of these evil Genii is thus described in the Bahar Da- 
nush : — On his entrance, he beheld a black demon heaped on 
the ground like a mountain, with two large horns upon his head> 
and a long i)roboscis, fast asleep. In his head the Divine Cre- 
ator had joined the likenesses of the elephant and the wild bull. 
His teeth grew out as tlie tusks of a boar, and all over his mon- 
strous carcass hung shaggy hairs, like those of the bear. Tho 
eye of mortal-born was dimmed at his appearance, and the 
mind, at his horrible form and frightful figure, was confounded. 

He was an Afreet, created from mouth to foot by the wrath 
of Ood. 

His hair like a bear's, his teeth like a boards. JVo one ever 
beheld such a monster. 

Crook-backed, and crabbedfaced ; he might be scented at the 
distance of a thousand fer sun gs. 

His nostrils were like the ovens of brick-burners, and his mouth 
resembled the vat of the dyer. 

When his breath came forth, from its vehemence the dust 
rose up as in a whirlwind, so as to leave a chasm in the earth ; 
and when he drew it in, chaiF, sand, and pebbles, from the dis- 
tance of some yards, were attracted to his nostrils. 

Bahar Danush. 



M-Araf, in his wisdom 7 &o. 30, p. 324. 

Araf is a place between the Paradise and the Hell of the 
Mahommedans ; some deem it a veil of separation, some a 
strong wall. Others hold it to be a Purgatory, in which those 
believers will remain, whose good and evil works have been 
so equal, that they were neither virtuous enough to enter Par- 
adise, nor guilty enough to be condemned to the fire of Hell. 
From whence they see the glory of the blessed, and are near 
enough to congratulate them 5 but their ardent desire to par- 
take the same happiness becomes a great pain. At length, at 
the day of judgment, when all men, before they are judged, 
shall be cited to render homage to their Creator, those who 
are here confined sh ill prostrate themselves before the face 
of the Lord, in adoration ; and by this act of religion, which 
shall be accounted a merit, the number of their good worka 
will exceed their evil ones, and they will enter into glory. 

Saadi says, that Araf appears a Hell to the happy, and a 
Paradise to the damned. — D'Herbelot. 



PREFACE TO MADOC. 



325 



J«a^5JDt* 



OMJ^E SOLUM FORTI P ATRIA. 



TO CHARLES WATKIN WILLIAMS WYNN, 

THIS P O E I\I 

WAS ORIGINALLY INSCRIBED, IN 1805, 

A3 A TOKEN OF SIXTEEN TEARS OF UNINTERRUPTED FRIENDSHIP; 

AND IS NOW RE-INSCRIBED, WITH THE SAME FEELING, 

AFTER AN INTERVAL OF THIRTY-TWO. 



PREFACE. 

When Madoc was brought to a close, in the 
summer of 1799, Mr. Coleridge advised me to 
publish it at once, and to defer making any mate- 
rial alterations, if any should suggest themselves, 
till a second edition. But four years had passed 
over my head since Joan of Arc was sent to the 
press, and I was not disposed to commit a second 
imprudence. If the reputation obtained by that 
poem had confirmed the confidence which I felt 
in myself, it had also the effect of making me per- 
ceive my own deficiencies, and endeavor, with all 
diligence, to supply them. I pleased myself with 
the hope that it would one day be likened to Tasso's 
Rinaldo, and that, as the Jerusalem had fulfilled 
the promise of better things, whereof that poem 
was tlie pledge, so might Madoc be regarded in 
relation to the juvenile work which had preceded 
it. Thinking that this would probably be the 
greatest poem I should ever produce, my intention 
was to bestow upon it all possible care, as indeed 
I had determined never again to undertake any 
subject without due preparation. With this view 
it was my wish, before Madoc could be considered 
as completed, to see more of Wales than I had 
yet seen. This I had some opportunity of doing 
in the autumn of 1801, with my old friends and 
schoolfellows, Charles Wynn and Peter Elmsley. 
And so much was I bent upon making myself bet- 
ter acquainted with Welsh scenery, manners, and 
traditions, than could be done by books alone, that 
if I had succeeded in obtaining a house in the Vale 
of Neath, for which 1 was in treaty the year fol- 
lowing, it would never have been my fortune to 
be classed among the Lake Poets. 

Little had been done in revising the poem till 
the first year of my abode at Keswick : there, in 
the latter end of 1803, it was resumed, and twelve 
months were diligently employed in reconstructing 
it. The alterations were more material than those 



which had been made in Joan of Arc, and much 
more extensive. In its original form, the poem 
consisted of fifteen books, containing about six 
thousand lines. It was now divided into two parts, 
and enlarged in the proportion of a full third. 
Shorter divisions than the usual one of books, or 
cantos, were found more convenient ; the six books, 
therefore, which the first part comprised, were dis- 
tributed in seventeen sections, and the other nine 
in twenty-seven. These changes in the form of 
the work were neither capriciously made, nor for 
the sake of novelty. The story consisted of two 
parts, almost as distinct as the Iliad and Odyssey ; 
and the subdivisions were in like manner indicated 
by the subject. The alterations in the conduct of 
the piece occasioned its increase of length. 

When Matthew Lewis published the Castle 
Spectre, he gave as his reason for introducing 
negro guards in a drama which was laid in feudal 
times, that he thought their appearance would pro- 
duce a good effect ; and if the effect would have 
been better by making them blue instead of black, 
blue, said he, they should have been. He was 
not more bent upon pleasing the public by stage 
effect, (which no dramatist ever studied more suc- 
cessfully,) than I was upon following my ov/n 
sense of propriety, and thereby obtaining the ap- 
probation of that fit audience, which, being con- 
tented that it should be few, I was sure to find. 
Mr. Sotheby, whose Saul was published about the 
same time as Madoc, said to me a year or two 
afterwards, " You and I, Sir, find that blank verse 
will not do in these days ; we must stand upon 
another tack." Mr. Sotheby considered the de- 
cision of the Pie-Poudre Court as final. But my 
suit was in that Court of Record, which, sooner 
or later, pronounces unerringly upon the merits of 
the case. 

Madoc was immediately reprinted in America 
in numbers, making two octavo volumes. About 
nine years afterwards, there appeared a paper in 



326 



PREFACE TO MADOC. 



the Quarterly Review, which gave great offence to 
the Americans; if I am not mistaken in my rec- 
ollections, it was the first in that journal which 
had any such tendency. An American author, 
whose name I heard, but had no wish to remem- 
ber, supposed it to have been written by me ; and 
upon this gratuitous supposition, (in which, more- 
over, he happened to be totally mistaken,) he at- 
tacked me in a pamphlet, which he had the cour- 
tesy to send me, and which I have preserved 
among my Curiosities of Literature. It is noticed 
in this place, because, among other vituperative 
accusations, the pamphleteer denounced the author 
of Madoc as having '• meditated a most serious 
injury against the reputation of the New World, 
by attributing its discovery and colonization to a 
little vagabond Welsh Prince." This, he said, 
" being a most insidious attempt against the honor 
of America and the reputation of Columbus." * 

This poem was the means of making me person- 
ally acquainted with Miss Seward. Her encomias- 
tic opinion of it was communicated to me through 
Charles Lloyd, in a Avay which required some cour- 
teous acknowledgment; this led to an interchange 
of letters, and an invitation to Lichfield, where, 
accordingly, I paid her a visit, when next on my 
way to London, in 1807. She resided in the 
Bishop's palace. I was ushered up the broad 
brown staircase by her cousin, the Reverend 
Henry White, then one of the minor canons of 
that cathedral, a remarkable person, who intro- 
duced me into the presence with jubilant but 
appalling solemnity. Miss Seward was seated at 
her desk. She had just finished some verses, to 
be " Inscribed on the blank leaves of the Poem 
Madoc," and the first greeting was no sooner past, 
than she requested that I would permit her to read 
them to me. It was a mercy that she did not ask 
me to read them aloud. But she read admirably 
herself. The situation, however, in which I found 
myself, was so ridiculous, and I was so apprehen- 
sive of catching the eye of one person in the 
room, who was equally afraid of meeting mine, 
that I never felt it more difficult to control my 
emotions, than while listening, or seeming to 
listen, to my own praise and glory. But, bending 
my head, as if in a posture of attentiveness, and 
screening my face with my hand, and occasionally 
using some force to compress the risible muscles, 
I got through the scene without any misbehavior, 
and expressed my thanks, if not in terms of such 
glowing admiration as she was accustomed to 
receive from others, and had bestowed upon my 
unworthy self, yet as well as I could. I passed 
two days under her roof, and corresponded with 
her from that time till her death. 

Miss Seward had been crippled by having re- 
peatedly injured one of her knee-pans. Time had 
taken away her bloom and her beauty ; but her fine 

* The title of this notable pamphlet is, " The United States 
and England ; being a Reply to the Criticism on Tnchiquin's 
Letters, contained in the Quarterly Review for January, 1814. 
New York : published by A. H. Tnskeep ; and Bradford and 
Inskeep, Philadelphia. Van Winkle and Wiley, Printers, 
1815." 



countenance retained its animation, and her eyes 
could not have been brighter nor more expressive 
in her youth. Sir Walter Scott says of them, 
" they were auburn, of the precise shade and hue of 
her hair. In reciting, or in speaking with anima- 
tion, they appeared to become darker, and as it 
were to flash fire. I should have hesitated," he 
adds, " to state the impression which this peculiarity 
made upon me at the time, had not my observation 
been confirmed by that of the first actress on this 
or any other stage, with whom 1 lately happened 
to converse on our deceased friend's expressive 
powers of countenance." * Sir Walter has not 
observed that this peculiarity was hereditary. 
Describing, in one of her earlier letters, a scene 
with her mother, she says, " I grew so saucy to 
her, that she looked grave, and took her pinch of 
snuff, first at one nostril, and then at the other, 
with swift and angry energy, and her eyes began 
to grow dark and to flash. 'Tis an odd peculiarity ; 
but the balls of my mother's eyes change from 
brown into black, when she feels either indignation 
or bodily pain."t 

Miss Seward M'^as not so much overrated at one 
time, as she has since been unduly depreciated. 
She was so considerable a person when her repu- 
tation was at its height, that Washington said no 
circumstance in his life had been so mortifying to 
him as that of having been made the subject of her 
invective in her Monody on Major Andre. After 
peace had been concluded betv/een Great Britain 
and the United States, he commissioned an Amer- 
ican officer, who was about to sail for England, to 
call upon her at Lichfield, and explain to her, that, 
instead of having caused Andre's death, he had 
endeavored to save him ; and she was requested to 
peruse the papers in proof of this, which he sent 
for her perusal. " They filled me with contrition," 
says Miss Seward, " for the rash injustice of my 
censure." + 

An officer of her name served as lieutenant in 
the garrison at Gibraltar during the siege. To his 
great surprise, — for he had no introduction which 
could lead him to expect the honor of such notice, 
— he received an invitation to dine with General 
Elliot. The General asked him if he were related to 
the author of the Monody on Major Andre. The 
Lieutenant replied that he had the honor of being 
very distantly related to her, but he had not the 
happiness of her acquaintance. "It is sufficient, 
Mr. Seward," said the General, " that you bear 
her name, and a fair reputation, to entitle you to 
the notice of every soldier who has it in his power 
to serve and oblige a military brother. You will 
always find a cover for you at my table, and a 
sincere welcome ; and whenever it may be in my 
power to serve you essentially, I shall not want the 
inclination." § 

These anecdotes show the estimation in which 

* Biographical Preface to the Poetical Works of Anna 
Seward, p. xxiii. 

t Literary Correspondence. Ih. p. cxxi. 
J Letters of Anna Seward, vol. v. p. 143. 
$ Ibid, vol. i. p. 298. 



MADOC 



327 



she was, not undeservedly, held. Her epistolary 
style was distorted and disfigured by her admira- 
tion of Johnson ; and in her poetry she set, rather 
than followed, the brocade fashion of Dr. Darwin. 
Still there are unquestionable proofs of extra- 
ordinary talents and great ability, both in her 
letters and her poems. She was an exemplary 
daughter, a most affectionate and faithful friend. 
Sir Walter has estimated, with characteristic skill, 
her powers of criticism, and her strong preposses- 
sions upon literary points. And believing that 
the more she was known, the more she would 
have been esteemed and admired, I bear a willing 
testimony to her accomplishments and her genius, 
to her generous disposition, her frankness, and 
her sincerity and warmth of heart. 

Keswick, Feb. 19, 1838. 



PREFACE 

TO 

THE FIRST EDITION. 

The historical facts on which this Poem is 
founded may be related in a few words. On the 
death of Owen Gwyneth, king of North Wales, 
A. D. 1169, his children disputed the succession. 
Yorwerth, the elder, was set aside without a strug- 
gle, as being incapacitated by a blemish in his 
face. Hoel, though illegitimate, and born of an 
Irish mother, obtained possession of the throne for 
a while, till he was defeated and slain by David, 
the eldest son of the late king by a second wife. 
The conqueror, who then succeeded without op- 
position, slew Yorwerth, imprisoned Rodri, and 
hunted others of his brethren into exile. But 
Madoc, meantime, abandoned his barbarous coun- 
try, and sailed away to the West in search of some 
better resting-place. The land which he discov- 
ered pleased him : he left there part of his people, 
and went back to Wales for a fresh supply of ad- 
venturers, with whom he again set sail, and was 
heard of no more. Strong evidence has been ad- 
duced that he reached America, and that his pos- 
terity exist there to this day, on the southern 
branches of the Missouri,* retaining their com- 
plexion, their language, and, in some degree, their 
arts. 

About the same time, the Aztecas, an American 
tribe, in consequence of certain calamities, and of a 
particular omen, forsook Aztlan, their own country, 
under the guidance of Yuhidthiton. They became 
a mighty people, and founded the Mexican empire, 
taking the name of Mexicans, in honor of Mexitli, 
their tutelary god. Their emigration is here con- 
nected with the adventures of Madoc, and their 
superstition is represented as the same which their 
descendants practised, when discovered by the 

* That country has now been fully explored, and wlier- 
ever Madoc may have settled, it is now certain that no Welsh 
Indians are to be found upon any branches of the Missouri. 
— 1815. 



Spaniards. The manners of the Poem, in both its 
parts, will be found historically true. It assumes 
not the degraded title of Epic : and the question, 
tlierefore, is not whether the story is formed upon 
the rules of Aristotle, but whether it be adapted to 
the purposes of poetry. 

Keswick, 1805. 



Three tnings must be avoided in Poetry ; Vie frivolous, the 
obscure, and the superjluous. 

The three excellencies of Poetry ; simplicity of language, sim- 
plicity (f subject, and sinipUcity of invention. 

The three indispensable purities of Poetry ; pure truth, pure 
language, and pure manners. 

Three things should all Poetry be ; thoroughly erudite, thor- 
oughly animated, and thoroughly natural. 

Triads. 



C05IE, LISTEN TO A TALE OF TIMES OF OLD ! 

COME, FOR YE KNOW ME. I AM HE WHO SANG 

THE MAID OF ARC, AND 1 AM HE WHO FRAMED 

OF THALABA THE WILD AND WONDROUS SONG. 

COME, LISTEN TO MY LAY, AND YE SHALL HEAR 

HOW MADOC FROM THE SHORES OF BRITAIN SPREAD 

THE ADVENTUROUS SAIL, EXPLORED THE OCEAN PATHS, 

AND QUELLED BARBARIAN POWER, AND OVERTHREW 

THE BLOODY ALTARS OF IDOLATRY, 

AND PLANTED IN ITS FANES TRIUMPHANTLY 

THE CROSS OF CHRIST. COME, LISTEN TO MY LAY ! 



PART I. 
MADOC IN WALES. 



THE RETURN TO WALES. 

Fair blows the wind, — the vessel drives along 
Her streamers fluttering at their length, her sailrf 
All full, — she drives along, and round her prow 
Scatters the ocean spray. What feelings then 
Fill'd every bosom, when the mariners, 
After the peril of that weary way. 
Beheld their own dear country ! Here stands one 
Stretching his sight toward the distant shore ; 
And as to well-known forms his busy joy 
Shapes the dim outline, eagerly he points 
The fancied headland, and the cape and bay. 
Till his eyes ache o'erstraining. This man shakes 
His comrade's hand, and bids him welcome home, 
And blesses God, and then he weeps aloud : 
Here stands another, who, in secret prayer, 
Calls on the Virgin, and his patron Saint, 
Renewing his old vows of gifts, and alms, 
And pilgrimage, so he may find all well. 
Silent and thoughtful, and apart from all. 
Stood Madoc ; now his noble enterprise 
Proudly remembering, now in dreams of hope, 



328 



MADOC IN WALES. 



Anon of bodings full, and donbt, and fear. 
Fair smiled the evening, and the favoring gale 
Sung in the shrouds, and swift the steady bark 
Rush'd roaring through the waves. 

Tlie sun goes down : 
Far off his light is on the naked crags 
Of Penmanmawr, and Arvon's ancient hills ; 
And the last glory lingers yet awhile, 
Crowning old Snowdon's venerable head, 
That rose amid his mountains. Now the ship 
Drew nigh where Mona, the dark island, stretch'd 
Her shore along the ocean's lighter line. 
There, through the mist and twilight, many a fire, 
Up-flaming, stream'd upon the level sea 
Red lines of lengthening light, which, far away, 
Rising and falling, flash'd athwart the waves. 
Thereat, full many a thought of ill disturb'd 
Prince Madoc's mind; — did some new conqueror 

seize 
The throne of David .' had the tyrant's guilt 
Awaken'd vengeance to the deed of death ? 
Or blazed they for a brother's obsequies, 
The sport and mirth of murder ^ — Like the lights 
Which there upon Aberfraw's royal walls 
Are waving with the wind, the painful doubt 
Fluctuates within him. — Onward drives the gale, — 
On flies the bark ; — and she hath reach'd at length 
Her haven, safe from her unequall'd way ! 
And now, in louder and yet louder joy 
Clamorous, the happy mariners all-hail 
Their native shore, and now they leap to land. 

There stood an old man on the beach, to wait 
The comers from the ocean ; and he ask'd. 
Is it the Prince r And Madoc knew his voice, 
And turn'd to him, and fell upon his neck; 
For it was Urien, who had foster'd him, 
Had loved him like a child ; and Madoc loved, 
Even as a father, loved he that old man. 
My sister .? quoth the Prince. — Oh, she and I 
Have wept together, Madoc, for thy loss, — 
That long and cruel absence ! — she and I, 
Hour after hour, and day by day, have look'd 
Toward the waters, and with aching eyes. 
And aching heart, sat watching every sail. 

And David and our brethren ^ cried the Prince, 
As they moved on. — But then old Urien's lips 
Were slow at answer; and he spake, and paused 
In the first breath of utterance, as to choose 
Fit words for uttering some unhappy tale. 
More blood, quoth Madoc, yet .? Hath David's fear 
Forced him to still more cruelty .'' Alas — 
Woe for the house of Owen ! 

Evil stars. 
Replied the old man, ruled o'er thy brethren's birth. 
From Dolwyddelan driven, his peaceful home, 
Poor Yorwerth sought the church's sanctuary ; 
The murderer follow'd; — Madoc, need I say 
Who sent the sword ? — Llewelyn, his brave boy. 
Where wanders he .'' in this his rightful realm. 
Houseless and hunted ; richly would the king 
Gift the red hand that rid him of that fear ! 
Ririd, an outlaw 'd fugitive, as yet 
Eludes his deadly purpose ; Rodri lives, 



A prisoner he, — I know not in what fit 

Of natural mercy from the slaughter spared. 

Oh, if my dear old master saw the wreck 

And scattering of his house ! — that princely race ! 

The beautiful band of brethren that they were ! 

Madoc made no reply, — he closed his eyes, 
Groaning. But Urien, for his heart was full, 
Loving to linger on the woe, pursued : 
I did not think to live to such an hour 
Of joy as this ! and often, when my sight 
Turn'd dizzy from the ocean, overcome 
With heavy anguish, Madoc, I have prayed 
That God would please to take me to his rest. 

So as he ceased his speech, a sudden shout 
Of popular joy awakened Madoc's ear ; 
And calling then to mind the festal fires, 
He ask'd their import. The old man replied, 
It is the giddy people merry-making, 
To welcome their new Queen ; unheeding they 
The shame and the reproach to the long line 
Of our old royalty ! — Thy brother weds 
The Saxon's sister. 

What ! — in loud reply 
Madoc exclaim'd, hath he forgotten all .'' 
David ! King Owen's son, — my father's son, — 
He wed the Saxon, — the Plantagenet ! 

Quoth Urien, He so dotes, as she had dropp'd 
Some philtre in his cup, to lethargize 
The British blood that came from Owen's veins. 
Three days his halls have echoed to the song 
Of joyance. 

Shame ! foul shame ! that they should hear 
Songs of such joyance ! cried the indignant Prince : 
Oh, that my Father's hall, where I have heard 
The songs of Corwen, and of Keiriog's day. 
Should echo this pollution ! Will the chiefs 
Brook this alliance, this unnatural tie ? 

There is no face but wears a courtly smile, 
Urien replied : Aberfrav/'s ancient towers 
Beheld no pride of festival like this, 
No like solemnities, when Owen came 
In conquest, and Gowalchmai struck the harp. 
Only Goervyl, careless of the pomp. 
Sits in her solitude, lamenting thee. 

Saw ye not then my banner.? quoth the Lord 
Of Ocean ; on the topmast-head it stood 
To tell the tale of triumph : — or did night 
Hide the glad signal, and the joy hath yet 
To reach her 1 

Now had they almost attain 'd 
The palace portal. Urien stopp'd, and said, 
The child should know your coming ; it is long 
Since she hath heard a voice that to her heart 
Spake gladness ; — none but I must tell her this. 
So Urien sought Goervyl, whom he found 
Alone, and gazing on the moonlight sea. 

Oh, you are welcome, Urien ! cried the maid. 
There was a ship came sailing hither ward — 
I could not see his banner, for the night 



MADOC IN WALES. 



329 



Closed in so fast around her ; but my heart 
Indulged a foolish hope 1 

The old man replied, 
With difficult effort keeping his heart down, 
God, in his goodness, may reserve for us 
That blessing yet ! I have yet life enow 
To trust that I shall live to see the day, 
Albeit the number of my years well nigh 
Be full. 

Ill-judging kindness ! said the maid. 
Have I not nursed, for two long, wretched years, 
That miserable hope, which every day 
Grew weaker, like a baby sick to death. 
Yet dearer for its weakness day by day ? 
No, never shall we see his daring bark ! 
I knew and felt it in the evil horn- 
When forth she fared ! I felt it then ! that kiss 
Was our death-parting ! — And she paused to curb 
The agony : anon, — But thou hast been 
To learn their tidings, Urien .? — He replied, 
In half-articulate words, — They said, my child. 
That Madoc lived, — that soon he would be here. 

She had received the shock of happiness : 
Urien ! she cried — thou art not mocking me ! 
Nothing the old man spake, but spread his arms, 
Sobbing aloud. Goervyl from their hold 
Started, and sunk upon her brother's breast. 

Recovering first, the aged Urien said — 
"Enough of this, — there will be time for this, 
My children ! better it behoves ye now 
To seek the King. And, Madoc, I beseech thee, 
Bear with thy brother ! gently bear with him, 
My gentle Prince ! he is the headstrong slave 
Of passions unsubdued ; he feels no tie 
Of kindly love or blood ; — provoke him not, 
Madoc ! — It is his nature's malady. 

Thou good old man ' replied the Prince, be sure 
I shall remember what to him is due, 
What to myself; for I was in my youth 
Wisely and well train 'd up ; nor yet hath time 
Effaced the lore my foster-father taught. 

[heart 

Haste, haste ! exclaim'd Goervyl ; — for her 
Smote her in sudden terror at the thought 
Of Yorwerth, and of Owen's broken house ; — 
I dread his dark suspicions ! 

Not for me 
Suffer that fear, my sister ! quoth the Prince ; 
Safe is the straight and open way I tread ; 
Nor hath God made the human heart so bad 
That thou or I should have a danger there. 
So saying, they toward the palace gate 
Went on, ere yet Aberfraw had received 
The tidings of her wanderer's glad return. 



II. 



THE MARRIAGE FEAST. 

The guests were seated at the festal board ; 
Green rushes strowed the floor ; high in the hall 
42 



Was David ; Emma, in her bridal robe, 
In youth, in beauty, by her husband's side 
Sat at the marriage feast. The monarch raised 
His eyes ; he saw the mariner approach ; 
Madoc! he cried ; strong nature's impulses 
Prevail'd, and with a holy joy he met 
Ilis brother's warm embrace. 

With that, what peals 
Of exultation shook Aberfraw's tower ! 
How then reechoing rang the home of Kings, 
When from subdued Ocean, from the World 
That he had first foreseen, he first had found, 
Came her triumphant child ! The mariners, 
A happy band, enter the clamorous hall ; 
Friend greets with friend, and all are friends; one 

joy 

Fills with one common feeling every heart, 

And strangers give and take the welcoming 

Of hand, and voice, and eye. That boisterous joy 

At length allay'd, the board was spread anew ; 

Anew the horn was brimm'd, the central hearth 

Built up anew for later revelries. 

Now to the ready feast ! the seneschal 

Duly below the pillars ranged the crew ; 

Toward the guest's most honorable seat 

The King him.self led his brave brother; — then, 

Eyeing the lovely Saxon as he spake. 

Here, Madoc, see thy sister ! thou hast been 

Long absent, and our house hath felt the while 

Sad diminution ; but my arm at last 

Hath rooted out rebellion from the land ; 

And I have stablished now our ancient house, 

Grafting a scion from the royal tree 

Of England on the sceptre ; so shall peace 

Bless our dear country. 

Long and happy years 
Await my sovereigns ! — thus the Prince replied, — 
And long may our dear country rest in peace ! 
Enough of sorrow hath our royal house 
Known in the field of battles, — yet we reap'd 
The harvest of renown. 

Ay, — many a day, 
David replied, together have we led 
The onset. — Dost thou not remember, brother, 
How in that hot and unexpected charge 
On Keiriog's bank, we gave the enemy 
Their welcoming ^ 

And Berwyn's after-strife ! 
Quoth Madoc, as the memory kindled him : 
The fool that day, who in his mask attire 
Sported before King Henry, wished in vain 
Fitlier habilinlents of javelin proof! 
And yet not more precipitate that fool 
Dropp'd his mock weapons, than the archers cast 
Desperate their bows and quivers-full away, 
When we leap'd on, and in the mire and blood 
Trampled their banner I 

That, exclaimed the king, 
That was a day indeed, which I may still 
Proudly remember, proved as I have been 
In conflicts of such perilous assay. 
That Saxon combat seem'd like woman's war. 
When with the traitor Hoel I did wage 
The deadly battle, then was I in truth 
Put to the proof; no vantage-ground was there, 



330 



MADOC IN WALES. 



Nor famine, nor disease, nor storms to aid, 
But equial, hard, close battle, man to man, 
Briton to Briton. By my soul, pursued 
The tyrant, heedless how from Madoc's eye 
Flash'd the quick wrath like lightning, — though 

I knew 
The rebel's worth, his prowess then excited 
Unwelcome wonder ; even at the last. 
When stiff with toil and faint with wounds, he 

raised 
Feebly his broken sword, — 

Then Madoc's grief 
Found utterance; Wherefore, David, dost thou 

rouse 
The memory now of that unhappy day. 
That thou shouldst wish to hide from earth and 

heaven ? 
Not in Aberfraw, — not to me this tale ! 
Tell it the Saxon ! — he will join thy triumph, — 
He hates the race of Owen ! — but I loved 
My brother Hoel, — loved him? — that ye knew ! 
I was to him the dearest of his kin. 
And he my own heart's brother. 

David's cheek 
Grew pale and dark ; he bent his broad, black brow 
Full upon Madoc's glowing countenance ; 
Art thou return'd to brave me ? to my teeth 
To praise the rebel bastard .' to insult 
The royal Saxon, my affianced friend ? 
I hate the Saxon ! Madoc cried ; not yet 
Have I forgotten, how from Keiriog's shame 
Flying, the coward wreak'd his cruelty 
On our poor brethren ! — David, seest thou never 
Those eyeless spectres by thy bridal bed ? 
Forget that horror ? — may the fire of God 
Blast my right hand, or ever it be link'd 
With that accursed Plantagenet's ' 

The while. 
Impatience struggled in the heaving breast 
Of David ; every agitated limb 
Shook with ungovernable wrath ; the page. 
Who chafed his feet, in fear suspends his task ; 
In fear the guests gaze on him silently ; 
His eyeballs flash'd ; strong anger choked his voice ; 
He started up — Him Emma, by the hand 
Gently retaining, held, with gentle words 
Calming his rage. Goervyl, too, in tears 
Besought her generous brother : he had met 
Emma's reproaching glance, and, self-reproved, 
While the warm blood flush'd deeper o'er his cheek. 
Thus he replied ; I pray you pardon me, 
My Sister-Queen ! nay, you will learn to love 
This high affection for the race of Owen, 
Yourself the daughter of his royal house 
By better ties than blood. 

Grateful the Queen 
Replied, by winning smile and eloquent eye. 
Thanking the gentle Prince : a moment's pause 
Ensued; Goervyl then with timely speech 
Thus to the wanderer of the waters spake : 
Madoc, thou hast not told us of the world 
Beyond the ocean and the paths of man. 
A lovely land it needs must be, my brother, 
Or sure you had not sojourn'd there so long, 
Of me forgetful, and my heavy hours 



Of grief, and solitude, and wretched hope. 
Where is Cadwallon ? for one bark alone 
I saw come sailing here. 

The tale you ask 
Is long, Goervyl, said the mariner, 
And 1 in truth am weary. Many moons 
Have wax'd and waned, since from that distant 

world, 
The country of my dreams, and hope, and faith, 
We spread the homeward sail ; a goodly world, 
My Sister ! thou wilt see its goodliness. 
And greet Cadwallon there. — But this shall be 
To-morrow's tale ; — indulge we now the feast ! 
You know not with what joy we mariners 
Behold a sight like this. 

Smiling he spake, 
And turning, from the sewer's hand he took 
The flowing mead. David, the while, relieved 
From rising jealousies, with better eye 
Regards his venturous brother. Let the Bard, 
Exclaim'd the king, give his accustom'd lay ; 
For sweet, I know, to Madoc is the song 
He loved in earlier years. 

Then, strong of voice, 
The officer proclaim'd the sovereign will. 
Bidding the hall be silent; loud he spake, 
And smote the sounding pillar with his wand, 
And hush'd the banqueters. The chief of Bards 
Then raised the ancient lay. 

Thee, Lord ! he sung, 
O Father ! Thee, whose wisdom, Thee, whose 

power. 
Whose love — all love , all power, all wisdom, Thou I 
Tongue cannot utter, nor can heart conceive. 
He in the lowest depth of Being framed 
The imperishable mind : in every change,, 
Through the great circle of progressive life. 
He guides and guards, till evil shall be known, 
And being known as evil, cease to be ; 
And the pure soul, emancipate by Death, j 

The Enlarger, shall attain its end predoom'd, , 

The eternal newness of eternal joy. ! 

He left this lofty theme ; he struck the harp | 
To Owen's praise, swift in the course of wrath, > 
Father of Heroes. That proud day he sung, 
When from green Erin came the insulting host, , 
Lochlin's long burdens of the flood, and they 
Who left their distant homes in evil hour, 
The death-doom'd Normen. There was heaviest 

toil. 
There deeper tumult, where the dragon race 
Of Mona trampled down the humbled head 
Of haughty power ; the sword of slaughter carved 
Food for the yellow-footed fowl of heaven, 
And Menai's waters, burst with plunge on plunge. 
Curling above their banks with tempest-swell. 
Their bloody billows heaved. 

The long-past days 
Came on the mind of Madoc, as he heard 
That song of triumph ; on his sun-burnt brow 
Sat exultation : — other thoughts arose. 
As on the fate of all his gallant house 
Mournful he mused ; oppressive memory swell'd 
His bosom ; over his fix'd eye-balls swam 



MADOC IN WALES 



331 



The tear's dim lustre, and the loud-toned harp 
Rung on his ear in vain; — its silence first 
Roused him from dreams of days that were no more. 



111. 

CADWALLON. 

Then on the morrow, at the festal board, 
The Lord of Ocean thus began his tale : — 

[wind, 
My heart beat high, when, with the favoring 
We sail'd away ; Aberfraw ! when thy towers. 
And the huge headland of my mother isle, 
Shrunk and were gone. 

But, Madoc, ] would learn. 
Quoth David, how this enterprise arose. 
And the wild hope of worlds beyond the sea; 
For at thine outset being in the war, 
I did not hear from vague and common fame 
The moving cause. Sprung it from bardic lore, 
The hidden wisdom of the years of old, 
Forgotten long.'' or did it visit thee 
In dreams that come from Heaven ? 

The Prince replied. 
Thou shalt hear all ; — but if, amid the talc, 
Strictly sincere, I haply should rehearse 
Aught to the King ungrateful, let my brother 
Be patient with the involuntary fault. 

I was the guest of Rhys at Dinevawr, 
And there the tidings found me, that our sire 
Was gather'd to his fathers : — not alone 
The sorrow came ; the same ill messenger 
Told of the strife that shook our royal house. 
When Hoel, proud of prowess, seized the throne 
Which you, for elder claim and lawful birth, 
Challenged in arms. With all a brother's love, 
I on the instant hurried to prevent 
The impious battle : — all the day I sped ; 
Night did not stay me on my eager way — 
Where'er I pass'd, new rumor raised new fear — 
Midnight, and morn, and noon, I hurried on. 
And the late eve was darkening when I reach'd 
Arvon, the fatal field. — The sight, the sounds, 
Live in my memory now, — for all was done ! 
For horse and horseman, side by side in death. 
Lay on the bloody plain ; — a host of men. 
And not one living soul, — and not one sound. 
One human sound ; — only the raven's wing. 
Which rose before my coming, and the neigh 
Of wounded horses, wandering o'er the plain. 

! Night now was coming on ; a man approach'd 
And bade me to his dwelling nigh at hand. 
Thither 1 turn'd, too weak to travel more ; 
For I was overspent with weariness. 
And, having now no hope to bear me up. 
Trouble and bodily labor master' d me. 
I ask'd him of the battle : — who had fallen 
He knew not, nor to whom the lot of war 
Had given my father's sceptre. Here, said he, 
I came to seek if haply I might find 



Some wounded wretch, abandon'd else to death. 
My search was vain ; the sword of civil war 
Had bit too deeply. 

Soon we reach'd his home, 
A lone and lowly dwelling in the hills. 
By a gray mountain stream. Beside the hearth 
There sat an old blind man ; his head was raised 
As he were listening to the coming sounds. 
And in the fire-light shone his silver locks. 
Father, said he who guided me, I bring 
A guest to our poor hospitality; 
And then he brought me water from the brook. 
And homely fare, and I was satisfied : 
That done, he piled the hearth, and spread around 
The rushes of repose. I laid me down; 
But worn with toil, and full of many fears, 
Sleep did not visit me : the quiet sounds 
Of nature troubled my distemper'd sense; 
My ear was busy with the stirring gale. 
The moving leaves, the brook's perpetual flow. 

So on the morrow languidly I rose, 
And faint with fever ; but a restless wish 
Was working in me, and I said. My host, 
Wilt thou go with me to the battle-field. 
That I may search the slain .'' for in the fray 
My bretliren fought ; and though with all my speed 
I strove to reach them ere the strife began, 
Alas, 1 sped too slow ! 

Grievest thou for that ? 
He answer'd ; grievest thou that thou art spared 
The shame and guilt of that unhappy strife, 
Briton with Briton in unnatural war ? 
Nay, I replied, mistake me not ! 1 came 
To reconcile the chiefs ; they might have heard 
Their brother's voice. 

Their brother's voice .'' said he ; 
Was it not so ? — And thou, too, art the son 
Of Owen ! — Yesternight I did not know 
The cause there is to pity thee. Alas, 
Two brethren thou wilt lose when one shall fall ! — 
Lament not him whom death may save from guilt; 
For all too surely in the conqueror 
Thou wilt find one whom his own fears henceforth 
Must make to all his kin a perilous foe. 

I felt as though he wrong'd my father's sons, 
And raised an angry eye, and answer'd him — 
My brethren love me. 

Then the old man cried, 
Oh, what is Princes' love ? what are the ties 
Of blood, the affections growing as we grow, 
If but ambition come ? — Thou deemest sure 
Thy brethren love thee ; — ye have play'd together 
In childhood, shared your riper hopes and fears, 
Fought side by side in battle : — they may be 
Brave, generous, all that once their father was, 
Whom ye, I ween, call virtuous. 

At the name, 
With pious warmth I cried. Yes, he was good, 
And great, and glorious ! Gwyneth's ancient annals 
Boast not a name more noble. In the war 
Fearless he was, — the Saxon found him so. 
Wise was his counsel ; and no supplicant 
For justice ever from his palace-gate 



333 



MADOC IN WALES. 



Unrighted turned away. King Owen's name 
Shall live to after-times without a blot ! 

There were two brethren once of kingly line, 
The old man replied ; they loved each other well ; 
And when the one was at his dying hour. 
It then was comfort to him that he left 
So dear a brother, who would duly pay 
A father's duties to his orphan boy. 
And sure he loved the orphan, and the boy 
With all a child's sincerity loved him, 
And learnt to call him father : so the years 
Went on, till when the orphan gain'd the age 
Of manhood, to the throne his uncle came. 
The young man claim'd a fair inheritance. 
His father's lands; and — mark what follows, 

Prince ! — 
At midnight he was seized, and to his eyes 
The brazen plate was held — He cried aloud; 
He look'd around for help ; — he only saw 
His Uncle's ministers, prepared to do 
Their wicked work, who to the red-hot brass 
Forced his poor eyes, and held the open lids, 
Till the long agony consumed the sense ; 
And when their hold relax 'd, it had been worth 
The wealth of worlds if he could then have seen, 
Dreadful to him and hideous as they were, 
Their ruffian faces ! — I am blind, young Prince, 
And I can tell how sweet a thing it is 
To see the blessed light ! 

Must more be told .? 
What further agonies he yet endured ? 
Or hast thou known the consummated crime, 
And heard Cynetha's fate .'' 

A painful glow 
Inflamed my cheek, and for my father's crime 
I felt the shame of guilt. The dark-brow'd man 
Beheld the burning flush, the uneasy eye. 
That knew not where to rest. Come ! we v/ill 

search 
The slain, arising from his seat, he said ; 
I follow'd; to the field of fight we went. 
And over steeds, and arms, and men, we held 
Our way in silence. Here it was, quoth he. 
The fiercest war was waged ; lo ! in what heaps 
Man upon man fell slaughter'd ! Then my heart 
Smote me, and my knees shook; for I beheld 
Where, on his conquer'd foemen, Hoel lay. 

He paused ; his heart was full ; and on his tongue 
The imperfect utterance died ; a general gloom 
Sadden'd the hall, and David's cheek grew pale. 
Commanding first his feelings, Madoc broke 
The oppressive silence. 

Then Cadwallon took 
My hand, and, pointing to his dwelling, cried. 
Prince, go and rest thee there, for thou hast need 
Of rest; — the care of sepulture be mine. 
Nor did 1 then comply, refusing rest, 
Till I had seen in holy ground inearth'd 
My poor, lost brother. Wherefore, he exclaim'd, 
(And I was awed by his severer eye,) 
Wouldst thou be pampering thy distempered mind ? 
Affliction is not sent in vain, young man, 
From that good God, who chastens whom he loves. 



Oh ! there is healing in the bitter cup ! 
Go yonder, and before the unerring will 
Bow, and have comfort ! To the hut I went, 
And there, beside the lonely mountain-stream, 
I veil'd my head, and brooded on the past. 

He tarried long ; I felt the hours pass by, 
As in a dream of morning, when the mind, 
Half to reality awaken' d, blends 
With airy visions and vague phantasies 
Her dim perception ; till at length his step 
Aroused me, and he came. I question'd him — 
Where is the body ? hast thou bade the priests 
Perform due masses for his soul's repose ? 

He answer'd me — The rain and dew of heaven 
Will fall upon the turf that covers him, 
And greener grass will flourish on his grave. 
But rouse thee. Prince ! there will be hours enough 
For mournful memory ; — it befits thee now 
Take counsel for thyself; — the son of Owen 
Lives not in safety here. 

I bow'd my head, 
Oppress'd by heavy thoughts ; all wretchedness { 
The present ; darkness on the future lay ; j 

Fearful and gloomy both. I answer'd not. I 

Hath power seduced thy wishes ^ he pursued, 
And wouldst thou seize upon thy father's throne .? 
Now God forbid ! quoth I. Now God forbid ! 
Quoth he; — but thou art dangerous. Prince ! and] 

what j 

Shall shield thee from the jealous arm of power I 
Think of Cynetha ! — the unsleeping eye 
Of justice hath not closed upon his wrongs; 
At length the avenging arm is gone abroad, — 
One woe is past, — woe after woe comes on, — 
There is no safety here, — here thou must be 
The victim of the murderer ! Does thy heart 
Shrink from the alternative .? — look round ! ■ 

behold «• 

What shelter, — whither wouldst thou fly for peace ? 
What if the asylum of the Church were safe, — 
Were there no better purposes ordain'd 
For that young arm, that heart of noble hopes ^ 
Son of our kings, — of old Cassibelan, 
Great Caratach, immortal Arthur's line, — 
Oh, shall the blood of that heroic race 
Stagnate in cloister-sloth .' — Or wouldst thou leave 
Thy native isle, and beg, in awkward phrase, 
Some foreign sovereign's charitable grace, — 
The Saxon or the Frank, — and earn his gold, 
The hireling in a war whose cause thou know'st not,' 
Whose end concerns not thee .'' 

1 sat and gazed, 
Following his eye with wonder, as he paced 
Before me to and fro, and listening still. 
Though now he paced in silence. But anon, 
The old man's voice and step awakened us. 
Each from his thought; I will come out, said he. 
That I may sit beside the brook, and feel 
The comfortable sun. As forth he came, 
I could not choose but look upon his face : 
Gently on him had gentle nature laid 
The weight of years; all passions that disturb 



MADOC IN WALES. 



a33 



Were past away ; the stronger lines of grief 
Softened and settled, till they told of grief 
By patient hope and piety subdued : 
His eyes, which had their hue and brightness left, 
Fix'd lifelessly, or objectless they roll'd, 
Nor moved by sense, nor animate with thought. 
On a smooth stone beside the stream he took 
His wonted seat in the sunshine. Thou hast lost 
A brother, Prince, he said — or the dull ear 
Of age deceived me. Peace be with his soul ! 
And may the curse that lies upon the house 
Of Owen turn away ! Wilt thou come hither. 
And let me feel thy face ? — I wondered at him : 
Yet while his hand perused my lineaments. 
Deep awe and reverence fill'd me. O my God, 
Bless this young man ! he cried ; a perilous state 
Is his; — but let not thou his father's sins 
Be visited on him ! 

I raised my eyes. 
Inquiring, to Cadwallon ; Nay, young Prince, 
Despise not thou the blind man's prayer ! he cried ; 
It might have given thy father's dying hour 
A hope, that sure he needed — for, know thou, 
It is the victim of thy father's crime, 
Who asks a blessing on thee ! 

At his feet 
I fell, and clasp'd his knees : he raised me up ; — 
Blind as I was, a mutilated wretch, 
A thing that nature owns not, I survived. 
Loathing existence, and with impious voice 
Accused the will of Heaven, and groan'd for death. 
Years pass'd away ; this universal blank 
Became familiar, and my soul reposed 
On God, and I had comfort in my prayers. 
But there were blessings for me yet in store 
Thy father knew not, when his blood}'- fear 
All hope of an avenger had cut off, 
How there existed then an unborn babe, 
Child of my lawless love. Year after year 
I lived a lonely and forgotten wretch, 
Before Cadwallon knew his father's fate, 
Long years and years before I knew my son ; 
For never, till his mother's dying hour. 
Learnt he his dangerous birth. He sought me 

then ; 
He woke my soul once more to human ties ; — 
I hope he hath not wean'd my heart from Heaven, 
Life is so precious now ! — 

Dear, good old man ! 
And lives he still? Goervyl ask'd, in tears ; 
Madoc replied, I scarce can hope to find 
A father's welcome at my distant home. 
I left him full of days, and ripe for death ; 
And the last prayer Cynetha breathed upon me 
Went like a death-bed blessing to my heart ! 

When evening came, toward the echoing shore 
I and Cadwallon walk'd together forth : 
Bright with dilated glory shone the west; 
But brighter lay the ocean-flood below, 
The burnish'd silver sea, that heaved and flash'd 
Its restless rays, intolerably bright. 
Prince, quoth Cadwallon, thou hast rode the waves 
In triumph, when the invaders felt thine arm. 
Oh, what a nobler conquest might be won, 



There, — upon that wide field ! — What meanest 

thou .? 
I cried. — That yonder waters are not spread 
A boundless waste, a bourne impassable ! — 
That man should rule the Elements ! — that there 
Might manly courage, manly wisdom find 
Some happy isle, some undiscovered shore. 
Some resting-place for peace. — Oh that my soul 
Could seize the wings of Morning I soon would I 
Behold that other world, where yonder sun 
Speeds now, to dawn in glory ! 

As he spake, 
Conviction came upon my startled mind. 
Like lightning on the midnight traveller. 
I caught his hand ; — Kinsman, and guide, and 

friend, 
Yea, let us go together ! — Down we sat. 
Full of the vision, on the echoing shore ; 
One only object fill'd ear, eye, and thought: 
We gazed upon the awful world of waves, 
And talk'd and dreamt of years that were to come. 



IV. 



THE VOYAGE. 



Not with a heart unmoved I left thy shores. 
Dear native isle ! oh — not without a pang, 
As thy fair uplands lessened on the view, 
Cast back the long, involuntary look 1 
The morning cheer'd our outset ; gentle airs 
Curl'd the blue deep, and bright the summer sun 
Play'd o'er the summer ocean, when our barks 
Began their way. 

And they were gallant barks, 
As ever through the raging billows rode ; 
And many a tempest's buffeting they bore. 
Their sails all swelling with the eastern breeze, 
Their tighten'd cordage clattering to the mast, 
Steady they rode the main ; the gale aloft 
Sung in the shrouds, the sparkling waters hiss'd 
Before, and froth'd, and whiten'd far behind. 
Day after day, with one auspicious wind. 
Right to the setting sun we held our course. 
My hope had kindled every heart ; they blest 
The unvarying breeze, whose unabating strength 
Still sped us onward ; and they said tliat Heaven 
Favor'd the bold emprise. 

How many a time. 
Mounting the mast-tower-top, with eager ken 
They gazed, and fancied in the distant sky 
Their promised shore, beneath tlie evening cloud. 
Or seen, low lying, through the haze of morn. 
I, too, with eyes as anxious watch'd the waves, 
Though patient, and prepared for long delay ; 
For not on wild adventure had I rush'd 
With giddy speed, in sorhe delirious fit 
Of fancy ; but in many a tranquil hour 
Weigh'd well the attempt, till hope matured to faith- 
Day after day, day after day the same, — 
A weary waste of waters ! still the breeze 
Hung heavy in our sails, and we held on 
One even course : a second week was gone. 



334 



MA DOC IN WALES. 



And now another past, and still the same, 
Waves beyond waves, the interminable sea ! 
What marvel, if at length the mariners 
Grew sick with long expectance ? I beheld 
Dark looks of growing restlessness ; 1 heard 
Distrust's low murmurings; nor avail'd it long 
To see and not perceive. Shame had awhile 
Repress'd their fear, till, like a smother'd fire, 
It burst, and spread with quick contagion round. 
And strengthen'd as it spread. They spake in tones 
Which might not be mistaken ; — They had done 
What men dared do, ventured where never keel 
Had cut the deep before ; still all was sea, 
The same unbounded ocean !■ — to proceed 
Were tempting Heaven. 

I heard with feign'd surprise, 
And, pointing then to where our fellow bark, 
Gay with her fluttering streamers and full sails, 
Rode, as in triumph, o'er the element, 
I ask'd them what their comrades there would deem 
Of those so bold ashore, who, when a day. 
Perchance an hour, might crown their glorious toil. 
Shrunk then, and coward-like return'd to meet 
Mockery and shame .' True, they had ventured on 
In seas unknown, beyond where ever man 
Had plough'd the billows yet : more reason so 
Why they should now, like him whose happy speed 
Well nigh hath run the race, with higher hope 
Press onward to the prize. But late they said. 
Marking the favor of the steady gale, 
That Heaven was with us ; Heaven vouchsafed us 

still 
Fair seas and favoring skies ; nor need we pray 
For other aid ; the rest was in ourselves ; 
Nature had given it, when she gave to man 
Courage and constancy. 

They answer'd not, 
Awhile obedient; but I saw with dread 
The silent sullenness of cold assent. 
Then, with what fearful eagerness I gazed, 
At earliest daybreak, o'er the distant deep ! 
How sick at heart with hope, when evening closed, 
Gazed through the gathering shadows ! — but I saw 
The sun still sink below the endless waves. 
And still at morn, beneath the farthest sky. 
Unbounded ocean heaved. Day after day 
Before the steady gale v/e drove along, — 
Day after day ! The fourth week now had past ; 
Still all around was sea, — the eternal sea ! 
So long that we had voyaged on so fast. 
And still at morning where we were at night, 
And where we were at morn, at nightfall still. 
The centre of that drear circu.mference. 
Progressive, yet no change ! — almost it seem'd 
That we had pass'd the mortal bounds of space, 
And speed was toiling in infinity. 
My days were days of fear ; my hours of rest 
Were like a tyrant's slumber. Sullen looks. 
Eyes turn'd on me, and whispers meant to meet 
My ear, and loud despondency, and talk 
Of home, now never to be seen again, — 
I suffer'd these, dissembling as I could. 
Till that avail'd no longer. Resolute 
The men came round me . They had shown enouo-h 
Of courage now, enough of constancy ; 



Still to pursue the desperate enterprise 

Were impious madness ! they had deem'd, indeed, 

That Heaven in favor gave the unchanging gale ; — 

More reason now to think offended God, 

When man's presumptuous folly strove to pass 

The fated limits of the world, had sent 

His winds, to waft us to the death we sought. 

Their lives were dear, they bade me know, and they 

Many, and I, the obstinate, but one. 

With that, attending no reply, they hailed 

Our fellow bark, and told their fix'd resolve, 

A shout of joy approved. Thus, desperate now, 

I sought my solitary cabin ; there 

Confused with vague, tumultuous feelings lay, 

And to remembrance and reflection lost, 

Knew only I was wretched. 

Thus entranced 
Cadwallon found me ; shame, and grief, and pride, 
And baffled hope, and fruitless anger swell'd 
Within me. All is over ! I exclaim'd; 
Yet not in rne, my friend, hath time produced 
These tardy doubts and shameful fickleness ; 
1 have not fail'd, Cadwallon ! Nay, he said. 
The coward fears which persecuted me 
Have shown what thou hast suffer'd . We have yet 
One hope — I pray'd them to proceed a day, — 
But one day more; — this little have I gain'd, 
And here will wait the issue ; in yon bark 
I am not needed, — they are masters there. 

One only day ! — The gale blew strong, the bark 
Sped through the waters ; but the silent hours, 
Who make no pause, went by; and centred still. 
We saw the dreary vacancy of heaven 
Close round our narrow view, when that brief term, 
The last, poor respite of our hopes, expired. 
They shorten'd sail, and call'd with coward prayer 
For homeward winds. Why, v^hat poor slaves are 

we ! 
In bitterness I cried ; the sport of chance ; 
Left to the mercy of the elements, 
Or the more wayward will of such as these, 
Blind tools and victims of their destiny ! 
Yea, Madoc ! he replied, the Elements 
Master indeed the feeble powers of man ! 
Not to the shores of Cambria will thy ships 
Win back their shameful way ! — or He, whose will 
Unchains the winds, hath bade them minister 
To aid us, when all human hope was gone. 
Or we shall soon eternally repose 
From life's long voyage. 

As he spake, I saw 
The clouds hang thick and heavy o'er the deep. 
And heavily, upon the long, slow swell, 
The vessel labor'd on the laboring sea. 
The reef-points rattled on the shivering sail ; 
At fits the sudden gust howl'd ominous. 
Anon with unremitting fury raged ; 
High roll'd the mighty billows, and the blast 
Swept from their sheeted sides the showery foam. 
Vain now were all the seamen's homeward hopes, 
Vain all their skill ! — we drove before the storm. 

'Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear 
Of tempests and the dangers of the deep, 



MADOC IN WALES. 



335 



And pause at times, and feel that we are safe ; 
Then listen to the perilous tale again, 
And with an eager and suspended soul. 
Woo terror to delight us. — But to hear 
The roaring of the raging elements, — 
To know all human skill, all human strength, 
Avail not, — to look round, and only see 
The mountain wave incumbent with its weight 
Of bursting waters o'er the reeling bark, — 
Oh God, this is indeed a dreadful thing ! 
And he who hath endured the horror once 
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm 
Howl round his home, but he remembers it, 
And thinks upon the suffering mariner. 

Onward we drove : with unabating force 
The tempest raged ; night added to the storm 
New horrors, and the morn arose o'erspread 
With heavier clouds. The weary mariners 
Call'd on Saint Cyric's aid ; and I, too, placed 
My hope on Heaven, relaxing not the while 
Our human efforts. Ye who dwell at home, 
Ye do not know the terrors of the main ! 
When the winds blow, ye walk along the shore. 
And as the curling billows leap and toss, 
Fable that Ocean's mermaid Shepherdess 
Drives her white flocks afield, and warns in time 
The wary fisherman. Gwenhidwy warned 
When we had no retreat ! My secret heart 
Almost had fail'd me. — Were the Elements 
Confounded in perpetual conflict here. 
Sea, Air, and Heaven .? Or were we perishing 
Where at their source the Floods, forever thus, 
Beneath the nearer influence of the Moon, 
Labor'd in these mad workings .^ Did the Waters 
Here on their outmost circle meet the Void, 
The verge and brink of Chaos ? Or this Earth, — 
Was it indeed a living thing, — its breath 
The ebb and flow of Ocean .' and had we 
Reached the storm rampart of its Sanctuar}', 
The insuperable boundary, raised to guard 
Its mysteries from the eye of man profane ? 

Three dreadful nights and days we drove along ; 
The fourth, the welcome rain came rattling down ; 
The wind had fallen, and through tlie broken cloud 
Appeared the bright, dilating blue of heaven. 
Imbolden'd now, I call'd the mariners : — 
Vain were it should we bend a homeward course. 
Driven by the storm so far : they saw our barks, 
For service of that long and perilous w^ay, 
Disabled, and our food belike to fail. 
Silent they heard, reluctant in assent ; 
Anon, they shouted joyfully. — 1 look'd 
And saw a bird slow sailing overhead. 
His long, white pinions by the sunbeam edged. 
As though with burnish' d silver ; — never yet 
Heard 1 so sweet a music as his cry ! 

Yet three days more, and hope more eager now. 
Sure of the signs of land, — weed-shoals, and birds 
Who flock'd the main, and gentle airs which 

breathed, 
Or seemed to breathe fresh fragrance from the shore. 
On the last evening, a long, shadowy line 



Skirted the sea ; — how fast the night closed in ! 
1 stood upon the deck, and watch'd till dawn. 
But who can tell what feelings fill'd my heart, 
When, like a cloud, the distant land arose 
Gray from the ocean, — when we left the ship, 
And cleft, with rapid oars, the shallow wave, 
And stood triumphant on another world ! 



LINCOYA. 



Madoc had paused awhile; but every eye 

Still watch'd his lips, and every voice was hush'd. 

Soon as I leap'd ashore, pursues the Lord 

Of Ocean, prostrate on my face 1 fell, 

Kiss'd the dear earth, and pray'd with thankful 

tears. 
Hard by a brook was flowing ; — never yet, 
Even from the gold-tipp'd horn of victory, 
With harp and song, amid my father's hall, 
Pledged I so sweet a draught, as lying there, 
Beside that streamlet's brink ! — to feel the ground, 
To quaff the cool, clear water, to inhale 
The breeze of land, while fears and dangers past 
Recurr'd and heighten'd joy, as summer storms 
Make the fresh evening lovelier ! 

To the sliore 
The natives throng'd ; astonish'd, they beheld 
Our winged barks, and gazed with wonderment 
On the strange garb, the bearded countenance, 
And the white skin, in all unlike themselves. 
1 see with what inquiring eyes you ask, 
Wliat men were they .'' Of dark-brown color, tinged 
With sunny redness; wild of eye ; their brows 
So smooth, as never yet anxiety 
Nor busy thought had made a furrow tliere ; 
Beardless, and each to each of lineaments 
So like, they seem'd but one great family. 
Their loins were loosely cinctured, all beside 
Bare to the sun and wind; and thus their limbs, 
Unmanacled, display'd the truest forms 
Of strength and beauty. Fearless sure they were, 
And, while they eyed us, grasp'd their spears, as if. 
Like Britain's injiired but unconquer'd sons. 
They too had known how perilous it was 
To let a stranger, if he came in arms, 
Set foot upon their land. 

But soon the guise 
Of men nor purporting nor fearing ill 
Gain'd confidence ; their wild, distrustful looks 
Assumed a milder meaning ; over one 
I cast my mantle, on another's head 
The velvet bonnet placed, and all was joy. 
We now besought for food ; at once they read 
Our gestures ; but I cast a hopeless eye 
On hills and thickets, woods, and marshy plains, 
A waste of rank luxuriance all around. 
Thus musing, to a lake I follow'd them. 
Left when the rivers to their summer course 
Withdrew; they scatter'd on its water drugs 
Of such strange potency, that soon the shoals, 
Coop'd there by Nature prodigally kind. 



336 



MADOC IN WALES, 



Floated inebriate. As I gazed, a deer 

Sprung from the bordering thicket ; the true shaft 

Scarce with the distant victim's blood had stain'd 

Its point, when instantly he dropp'd and died, 

Such deadly juice imbued-it; yet on this 

We made our meal unharm'd ) and 1 perceived 

The wisest leech that ever in our world 

Cull'd herbs of hidden virtue, was to these 

A child in knowledge. 

Sorrowing we beheld 
The night come on; but soon did night display 
More wonders than it veil'd : innumerous tribes 
From the wood-cover swarm'd, and darkness made 
Their beauties visible ; one while they stream'd 
A bright blue radiance upon flowers which closed 
Their gorgeous colors from the eye of day ; 
Now, motionless and dark, eluded search. 
Self-shrouded; and anon, starring the sky. 
Rose like a shower of fire. 

Our friendly hosts 
Now led us to the hut, our that night's home, 
A rude and spacious dwelling : twisted boughs. 
And canes, and withies formed the walls and roof; 
And from the unhewn trunks v^hich pillar'd it. 
Low nets of interwoven reeds were hung. 
With shouts of honor here they gather'd round me, 
Ungarmented my limbs, and in a net 
With softest feathers lined, a pleasant couch. 
They laid and left me. 

To our ships return'd, 
After soft sojourn here, we coasted on. 
Insatiate of the wonders and the charms 
Of earth, and air, and sea. Thy summer woods 
Are lovely, O my mother isle I the birch 
Light bending on thy banks, thy elmy vales. 
Thy venerable oaks ! — But there, what forms 
Of beauty clothed the inlands and the shore ! 
All these in stateliest growth, and mixt with these 
Dark spreading cedar, and the cypress tall. 
Its pointed summit waving to the wind 
Like a long beacon flame ; and loveliest 
Amid a thousand strange and lovely shapes. 
The lofty palm, that with its nuts supplied 
Beverage and food; they edged the shore, and 

crown'd 
The far-off highland summits, their straig^lit stems 
Bare, without leaf or bough, erect and smooth. 
Their tresses nodding like a crested helm, 
The plumage of the grove. 

Will ye believe 
The wonders of the ocean .? how its shoals 
Sprang from the wave, like flashing light, — took 

wing, 
And, twinkling with a silver glitterance, 
Flew through the air and sunshine .'' yet were these 
To sight less wondrous than the tribe who swam. 
Following like fowlers with uplifted eye 
Their falling quarrv • — language cannot paint 
Their splendid tints ; though in blue ocean seen, 
Blue, darkly, deeply, beautifully blue. 
In all its rich variety of shades. 
Suffused with glowing gold. 

Heaven, too, had there 
Its wonders: — from a deep, black, heavy cloud. 
What shall I say .? — a shoot, — a trunk, — an arm 



Came down : — yea ! like a Demon's arm, it seized 

The waters ; Ocean smoked beneath its touch, 

And rose like dust before the whirlwind's force. 

But we sail'd onward over tranquil seas, 

Wafted by airs so exquisitely mild, 

That even to breathe became an act of will, 

And sense, and pleasure. Not a cloud, by day, 

With purple islanded the dark-blue deep ; 

By night the quiet billows heaved and glanced 

Under the moon, — that heavenly moon ! so bright, 

That many a midnight have I paced the deck, 

Forgetful of the hours of due repose ; 

Yea, till the Sun, in his full majesty. 

Went forth, like God beholding his own works. 

Once, when a chief was feasting us on shore, 
A captive served the food : I mark'd the youth, 
For he had features of a gentler race ; 
And oftentimes his eye was fix'd on me, 
With looks of more than wonder. We return'd 
At evening to our ships ; at night a voice 
Came from the sea, the intelligible voice 
Of earnest supplication : he had swum 
To trust our mercy ; up the side he sprang, 
And look'd among the crew, and singling me, 
Fell at my feet. Such friendly tokenings 
As our short commerce with the native tribes 
Had taught, I proffer'd, and sincerity 
Gave force and meaning to the half-learnt forms. 
For one we needed who might speak for us ; 
And well I liked the youth, — the open line's 
Which character'd his face, the fearless heart, 
Which gave at once and won full confidence. 
So that night at my feet Lincoya slept. 

When I display'd whate'er might gratify, 
Whate'er surprise, with most delight he view'd 
Our arms, the iron helm, the pliant mail. 
The buckler strong to save ; and then he shook 
The lance, and grasp'd the sword, and turn'd to me 
With vehement words and gestures, every limb 
Working with one strong passion ; and he placed 
The falchion in my hand, and gave the shield, 
And pointed south and west, that I should go 
To conquer and protect ; anon he wept 
Aloud, and clasp'd my knees, and falling, fain 
He would have kiss'd my feet. Went we to shore .'' 
Then would he labor restlessly to show 
A better place lay onward ; and in the sand 
To south and west he drew the line of coast, 
And figured how a mighty river there 
Ran to the sea. The land bent westward soon, 
And, thus confirm'd, we voyaged on to seek 
The river inlet, following at the will 
Of our new friend : and we learnt after him, 
Well pleased and proud to teach, what this was 

call'd. 
What that, with no unprofitable pains. 
Nor light the joy I felt at hearing first 
The pleasant accents of my native tongue, 
Albeit in broken words and tones uncouth. 
Come from these foreign lips. 

At length we came 
Where the great river, amid shoals, and banks. 
And islands, growth of its own gathering spoils, 



MADOC IN WALES. 



337 



Through many a branching channel, wide and full, 
Rusli'd to the main. The gale was strong} and safe, 
Amid the uproar of conflicting tides, 
Our gallant vessels rode. A stream as broad 
And turbid, when it leaves the Land of Hills, 
Old Severn rolls ; but banks so fair as these 
Old Severn views not in his Land of Hills, 
Nor even where his turbid waters swell, 
And sully the salt sea. 

So we sail'd on 
By shores now cover'd with impervious woods, 
Now stretching wide and low, a reedy waste. 
And now through vales where earth profusely 

pour'd 
Her treasures, gather'd from the first of days. 
Sometimes a savage tribe would welcome us. 
By wonder from their lethargy of life 
Awaken'd ; then again we voyaged on 
Through tracts all desolate, for days and days, 
League after league, one green and fertile mead, 
That fed a thousand herds. 

A different scene 
Rose on our view, of mount on mountain piled, 
Which when I see again in memory. 
Star-gazing Idris's stupendous seat [haunts. 

Seems dwarf'd, and Snowdon, with its eagle 
Shrinks, and is dwindled like a Saxon hill. 

Here, with Cadwallon and a chosen band, 
1 left the ships. Lincoya guided us 
A toilsome way among the heights ; at dusk 
We reach'd the village skirts ; he bade us halt. 
And raised his voice ; the elders of the land 
Came forth, and led us to an ample hut. 
Which in the centre of their dwellings stood, 
The Stranger's House. They eyed us wondering ; 
Yet not for wonder ceased tliey to observe 
Their hospitable rites ; from hut to hut 
The tidings ran that strangers were arrived, 
Fatigued, and hungry, and athirst ; anon. 
Each from his means supplying us, came food 
And beverage, such as cheers the weary man. 



VL 



ERILLYAB. 

At morning their high-priest, Ayayaca, 
Came with our guide : the venerable man 
With reverential awe accosted us, 
For we, he ween'd, were children of a race 
Mightier than they, and wiser, and by Heaven 
Beloved and favor'd more : he came to give 
Fit welcome, and he led us to the Queen. 
The fate of war had reft her of her realm ; 
Yet with affection, and habitual awe, 
And old remembrances, which gave their love 
A deeper and religious character, 
Fallen as she was, and humbled as they were. 
Her faithful people still, in all they could, 
Obey'd Erillyab. She, too, in her mind 
Those recollections cherish'd, and such thoughts 
As, though no hope allay'd their bitterness, 
43 



Gave to her eye a spirit and a strength. 
And pride to features which belike had borne, 
Had they been fashion'd by a happier fate. 
Meaning more gentle and more womanly, 
Yet not more worthy of esteem and love. 
She sat upon the threshold of her hut ; 
Fo/ in the palace where her sires had reign'd 
The conqueror dwelt. Her son was at her side, 
A boy now near to manhood ; by the door. 
Bare of its bark, the head and branches shorn. 
Stood a young tree with many a weapon hung. 
Her husband's war-pole, and his monument 
There had his quiver moulder'd, his stone-axe 
Had there grown green with moss, his bow-string 
Sung as it cut the wind. [there 

She welcom'd us 
With a proud sorrow in her mien ; fresh fruits 
Were spread before us, and her gestures said 
That when he lived whose hand was wont to wield 
Those weapons, — that in better days, — that ere 
She let the tresses of her widowhood [us 

Grow wild, — she could have given to guests like 
A worthier welcome. Soon a man approach'd. 
Hooded with sable, his half-naked limbs 
Smear'd black : the people at his sight drew round. 
The women Avail'd and wept, the children turn'd 
And hid their faces on their mothers' knees. 
He to the Queen address'd his speech, then look'd 
Around the children, and laid hands on two. 
Of different sexes, but of age alike. 
Some six years each, who athis touch shriek'd out. 
But then Lincoya rose, and to my feet 
Led them, and told me that the conquerors claim'd 
These innocents for tribute ; that the Priest 
Would lay them on the altar of his god. 
Pluck out tlicir little hearts in sacrifice. 
And with his brotherhood, in impious rites. 
Feast on their flesh ! — I shudder'd, and my hand 
Instinctively unsheathed tlie avenging sword. 
As he with passionate and eloquent signs, 
Eye-speaking earnestness, and quivering lips. 
Besought me to preserve himself, and those 
Who now fell suppliant round me, — youths and 

maids, 
Gray-headed men, and mothers with their babes. 

I caught the little victims up, I kiss'd 
Their innocent cheeks, I raised my eyes to neaven, 
I call'd upon Almighty God to hear 
And bless the vow I made ; in our own tongue 
Was that sv^^orn promise of protection pledged — 
Impetuous feeling made no pause for thought. 
Heaven heard the vow ; the suppliant multitude 
Saw what was stirring in my heart ; the Priest, 
With eye inflamed and rapid answer, raised 
His menacing hand ; the tone, the bitter smile, 
Interpreting his threat. 

Meanwhile the Queen, 
With watchful eye and steady countenance, 
Had listen' d ; now she rose, and to the Priest 
Address'd her speech. Low was her voice and 
As one who spake with effort to subdue [calm, 
Sorrow that struggled still ; but while she spake, . 
Her features kindled to more majesty. 
Her eye became more animate, her voice 



338 



MADOC IN WALES 



Rose to the height of feeling ; on her son 
She call'd, and from her husband's monument 
His battle-axe she took ; and 1 could see, 
That when she gave the boy his father's arms, 
She call'd his father's spirit to look on 
And bless them to his vengeance. 

Silently 
The tribe stood listening as Erillyab spake ; 
The very Priest was awed : once he essayed 
To answer ; his tongue fail'd him, and his lip 
Grew pale and fell. He to his countrymen, 
Of rage, and shame, and wonder full, return'd, 
Bearing no victims, for their shrines accurs'd, 
But tidings that the Hoamen had cast oif 
Their vassalage, roused to desperate revolt 
By men in hue, and speech, and garment strange, 
Who, in their folly, dared defy the power 
Of Aztlan. 

When the King of Aztlan heard 
The unlock' d-for tale, ere yet he roused his strength. 
Or pitying our rash valor, or perhaps 
Curious to see the man so bravely rash. 
He sent to bid me to his court. Surprised, 
I should have given to him no credulous faith. 
But fearlessly Erillyab bade me trust 
Her honorable foe. Unarm'd I went, 
Lincoya with me to exchange our speech 
So as he could, of safety first assured ; 
For to their devilish idols he had been 
A victim doomed, and, from the bloody rites 
Flying, been carried captive far away. 

From early morning till the midnoon hour 
We travell'd in the mountains ; then a plain 
Open'd below, and rose upon the sight. 
Like boundless ocean from a hill-top seen. 
A beautiful and populous plain it was ; 
Fair woods were there, and fertilizing streams. 
And pastures spreading wide, and villages 
In fruitful groves embower'd, and stately towns. 
And many a single dwelling specking it, 
As though for many a year the land had been 
The land of peace. Below us, where the base 
Of the great mountain to the level sloped, 
A broad, blue lake extended far and wide 
Its waters, dark beneath the light of noon. 
There Aztlan stood upon the farther shore ; 
Amid the shade of trees its dwellings rose. 
Their level roofs with turrets set around. 
And battlements all burnish' d white, which shone 
Like silver in the sunshine. 1 beheld 
The imperial city, her far-circling walls, 
Her garden groves and stately palaces. 
Her temple's mountain-size, her thousand roofs ; 
And when I saw her might and majesty. 
My mind misgave me then. 

We reach'd the shore ; 
A floating islet waited for me there. 
The beautiful work of man. I set my feet 
Upon green-growing herbs and flowers, and sat 
Embower'd in odorous shrubs ; four long, light boats, 
Yoked to the garden, with accordant song. 
And dip and dash of oar in harmony. 
Bore me across the lake. 

Then in a car 



Aloft by human bearers was I borne ; 
And through the city gate, and through long lines 
Of marshall'd multitudes who throng'd the way, 
We reach'd the palace court. Four priests were 

there ; 
Each held a burning censer in his hand, 
And strew'd the precious gum as I drew nigh, 
And held the steaming fragrance forth to me, 
Honoring me like a god. They led me in, 
Where, on his throne, the royal Azteca 
Coanocotzin sat. Stranger, said he. 
Welcome ; and be this coming to thy weal ! 
A desperate warfare doth thy courage court ; 
But thou shalt see the people and the power 
Whom thy deluded zeal would call to arms ; 
So may the knowledge make thee timely wise. 
The valiant love the valiant. — Come with me ! 
So saying, he rose ; we went together forth 
To the Great Temple. 'Twas a huge, square hill, 
Or rather like a rock it seemed, hewn out 
And squared by patient labor. Never yet 
Did our forefathers, o'er beloved chief 
Fallen in his glory, heap a monument 
Of that prodigious bulk, though every shield 
Was laden for his grave, and every hand 
Toil'd unremitting at the willing work 
From morn till eve, all the long summer day. 

The ascent was lengthen'd with provoking art, 
By steps which led but to a wearying path 
Round the whole structure ; then another flight, 
Another road around, and thus a third. 
And yet a fourth, before we reach'd the height. 
Lo, now, Coanocotzin cried, thou seest 
The cities of this widely-peopled plain ; 
And wert thou on yon farthest temple-top. 
Yet as far onward wouldst thou see the land 
Well husbanded like this, and full of men. 
They tell me that two floating palaces 
Brought thee and all thy people ; — when I sound 
The Tambour of the God, ten Cities hear 
Its voice, and answer to the call in arms. 

In truth, I felt my weakness, and the view 
Had wakened no unreasonable fear. 
But that a nearer sight had stirr'd my blood; 
For on the summit where we stood, four Towers 
Were piled with human skulls, and all around. 
Long files of human heads were strung to parch 
And whiten in the sun. What then I felt 
Was more than natural courage — 'twas a trust 
In more than mortal strength — a faith in God — 
Yea, inspiration from him ! — I exclaimed. 
Not though ten Cities ten times told obey'd 
The King of Aztlan's bidding, should I fear 
The power of man ! 

Art thou then more than man.'' 
He answered ; and I saw his tawny cheek 
Lose its life-color as the fear arose ; 
Nor did 1 undeceive him from that fear. 
For sooth I knew not how to answer him. 
And therefore let it work. So not a word 
Spake he, till we again had reach'd the court, 
And I, too, v/ent in silent thoughtfulness : 
But then when, save Lincoya, there was none 



MADOC IN WALES. 



339 



To hear our speech, again did he renew 

The query, — Stranger ! art thou more than man, 

That thou shouldst set the power of man at nought ? 

Then I rephed. Two floating Palaces 
Bore me and all my people o'er the seas. 
When we departed from our mother-land. 
The Moon was newly born ; we saw her wax 
And wane, and witnessed her new birth again ; 
And all that while, alike by day and night. 
We travell'd through the sea, and caught the winds. 
And made them bear us forward. We must meet 
In battle, if the Hoamen are not freed 
From your accursed tribute, — thou and I, 
My people and thy countless multitudes. 
Your arrows shall fall from us as the hail 
Leaps on a rock, — and when ye smite with swords. 
Not blood, but fire, shall follow from the stroke. 
Yet think not thou that we are more than men ! 
Our knowledge is our power, and God our strength, 
God, whose almighty will created thee, 
And me, and all that hath the breath of life. 
He is our strength ; — for in His name I speak, — 
And when 1 tell thee that thou shalt not shed 
The life of man in bloody sacrifice. 
It is His holy bidding which I speak : 
And if thou wilt not listen and obey. 
When I shall meet thee in the battle-field, 
It is His holy cause for whicli I fight, 
And I shall have His power to vanquish thee ! 

And thinkest thou our Gods are feeble ? cried 
The King of Aztlan; thinkest thou they lack 
Power to defend their altars, and to keep 
The kingdom which they gave us strength to win .' 
The Gods of thirty nations have opposed 
Their irresistible might, and they lie now 
Conquer'd, and caged, and fetter'd at their feet. 
That we who serve them are no coward race, 
Let prove the ample realm we won in arms : — 
And I their leader am not of the sons 
Of the feeble ! As he spake, he reached a mace. 
The trunk and knotted root of some young tree. 
Such as old Albion and his monster-brood 
From the oak-forest for their weapons pluck'd, 
When father Brute and Corineus set foot 
On the Wliite Island first. Lo this, quoth he, 
My club ! and he threw back his robe ; and this 
The arm that wields it ! — 'Twas my father's once : 
Erillyab's husband. King Tepollomi, 
He felt its weight. — Did I not show thee him .'' 
He lights me at my evening banquet. There, 
In very deed, the dead Tepollomi 
Stood up against the wall, by devilish art 
Preserv'd ; and from his black and shrivell'd hand 
The steady lamp hung down. 

My spirit rose 
At that abomination ; I exclaim'd, 
Thou art of noble nature, and full fain 
Would I in friendship plight my hand with thine ; 
But till that body in the grave be laid, 
Till thy polluted altars be made pure. 
There is no peace between us. May my God, 
Who, though thou know'st him not, is also thine, 
And after death will be thy dreadful Judge, 



May it please Him to visit thee, and shed 

His mercy on thy soul ! — But if thy heart 

Be harden'd to the proof, come when thou wilt ! 

I know thy power, and thou shalt then know mine. 



VII. 



THE BATTLE. 

Now, then, to meet the war ! Erillyab's call 
Roused all her people to revenge their wrongs ; 
And at Lincoya's voice, the mountain tribes 
Arose and broke their bondage. I, meantime, 
Took counsel with Cadwallon and his sire. 
And told them of the numbers we must meet. 
And what advantage from the mountain-straits 
I thought, as in the Saxon wars, to win. 
Thou saw'st their weapons then, Cadwallon said ; 
Are they like these rude works of ignorance. 
Bone-headed shafts, and spears of wood, and 

shields 
Strong only for such strife .'' 

We had to cope 
With wiser enemies, and abler arm'd. 
What for the sword they wielded was a staff 
Set thick with stones athwart; you would have 

deem'd 
The uncoutli shape was cumbrous ; but a hand 
Expert, and practised to its use, could drive 
The sharpen'd flints with deadly impulse down. 
Their mail, if mail it may be call'd, was woven 
Of vegetable down, like finest flax, 
Bleach'd to the whiteness of the new-fallen snow, 
To every bend and motion flexible. 
Light as a warrior's summer-garb in peace ; 
Yet in that lightest, softest habergeon, 
Harmless the sharp stone arrow-head would hang. 
Otliers, of higher office, were array 'd 
In feathery breastplates of more gorgeous hue 
Than the gay plumage of the mountain cock. 
Or pheasant's glittering pride. But what were 

these. 
Or what the thin gold hauberk, when opposed 
To arms like ours in battle .^ What the mail 
Of wood fire-harden'd, or the Vv'ooden helm, 
Against the iron arrows of the South, 
Against our northern spears, or battle-axe. 
Or good sword, wielded by a British hand .? 

Then, quoth Cadwallon, at the wooden helm, 
Of these weak arms the weakest, let the sword 
Hew, and the spear be thrust. The mountaineers, 
So long inured to crouch beneath their yoke. 
We will not trust in battle ; from the heights 
They with their arrows may annoy the foe ; 
And when our closer strife has won the fray. 
Then let them loose for havock. 

O my son, 
Exclaimed the blind old man, thou counsellest ill ! 
Blood will have blood, revenge beget revenge, 
Evil must come of evil. We shall win, 
Certes, a cheap and easy victory 
In the first field ; their arrows from our arms 



340 



MADOC IN WALES. 



Will fall, and on the hauberk and the helm 

The flint-edge blunt and break ; while through 

their limbs, 
Naked, or vainly fenced, the griding steel 
Shall shear its mortal way. But what are we 
Against a nation ? Other hosts will rise 
In endless warfare, with perpetual fights 
Dwindling our all-too-few ; or multitudes 
Will wear and weary us, till we sink subdued 
By the very toil of conquest. Ye are strong ; 
But he who puts his trust in mortal strength. 
Leans on a broken reed. First prove your power ; 
Be in the battle terrible, but spare 
The fallen, and follow not the flying foe : 
Then may ye win a nobler victory, 
So dealing with the captives as to fill 
Their hearts with wonder, gratitude, and awe. 
That love shall mingle with their fear, and fear 
'Stablish the love, else wavering. Let them see, 
That as more pure and gentle is your faith. 
Yourselves are gentler, purer. Ye shall be 
As gods among them, if ye thus obey 
God's precepts. 

Soon the mountain tribes, in arms, 
Rose at Lincoya's call ; a numerous host, 
More than in numbers, in the memory 
Of long oppression, and revengeful hope, 
A formidable foe. I station'd them 
Where, at the entrance of the rocky straits, 
Secure themselves, their arrows might command 
The coming army. On the plain below 
We took our stand, between the mountain-base 
And the green margin of the waters. Soon 
Their long array came on. Oh, what a pomp. 
And pride, and pageantry of war was there ! 
Not half so gaudied, for their May-day mirth. 
All wreathed and ribanded, our youths and maids. 
As these stern Aztecas in war attire ! 
The golden glitterance, and the feather mail. 
More gay than glittering gold ; and round the 

helm 
A coronal of high, upstanding plumes, 
Green as the spring grass in a sunny shower ; 
Or scarlet bright, as in the wintry wood 
The cluster 'd holly ; or of purple tint, — 
Whereto shall that be liken'd .'' to what gem 
Indiadem'd, — what flower, — what insect's wing ? 
With war-songs and wild music they came on ; 
We, the while kneeling, raised with one accord 
The hymn of supplication. 

Front to front, 
And now the embattled armies stood : a band 
Of priests, all sable-garmented, advanced ; 
They piled a heap of sedge before our host, 
And warn'd us, — Sons of Ocean ! from the land 
Of Aztlan, while ye may, depart in peace ! 
Before the fire shall be extinguish'd, hence I 
Or, even as yon dry sedge amid the flame, 
So ye shall be consumed. — The arid heap 
They kindled, and the rapid flame ran up, 
And blazed, and died away. Then from his bow, 
With steady hand, their chosen archer loosed 
The Arrow of the Omen. To its mark 
The shaft of divination fled ; it smote 
Cadwallon's plated breast ; the brittle point 



Rebounded. He, contemptuous of their faith, 
Stoop'd for the shaft, and while with zealous speed 
To the rescue they rushed onward, snapping it 
Asunder, toss'd the fragments back in scorn. 

Fierce was their onset ; never in the field 
Encounter'd I with braver enemies. 
Nor marvel ye, nor think it to their shame, 
If soon they stagger'd, and gave way, and fled, 
So many from so few ; they saw their darts 
Recoil, their lances shiver, and their swords 
Fall ineffectual, blunted with the blow. 
Think ye no shame of Aztlan that they fled. 
When the bowmen of Deheubarth plied so well 
Their shafts with fatal aim ; through the thin gold, 
Or feather-mail, while Gwyneth's deep-driven 

spears 
Pierced to the bone and vitals ; when they saw 
The falchion, flashing late so lightning-like, 
Quench'd in their own life-blood. Our moun- 
taineers 
Shower'd from the heights, meantime, an arrowy 

storm. 
Themselves secure ; and we who bore the brunt 
Of battle, iron men, impassable. 
Stood in our strength unbroken. Marvel not 
If then the brave felt fear, already impress'd 
That day by ominous thoughts to fear akin ; 
For so it chanced, high Heaven ordaining so, 
The King, who should have led his people forth, 
At the army-head, as they began their march. 
Was with sore sickness stricken ; and the stroke 
Came like the act and arm of very God, 
So suddenly, and in that point of time. 

A gallant man was he, who, in his stead. 
That day commanded Aztlan ; his long hair, 
Tufted with many a cotton lock, proclaim'd 
Of princely prowess many a feat achieved 
In many a field of fame. Oft had he led 
The Aztecas, with happy fortune, forth ; 
Yet could not now Yuhidthiton inspire 
His host with hope : he, not the less, that day, 
True to his old renown, and in the hour 
Of rout and ruin, with collected mind. 
Sounded his signals shrill, and in the voice 
Of loud reproach, and anger, and brave shame, 
Call'd on the people. — But when nought avail'd 
Seizing the standard from the timid hand 
Which held it in dismay, alone he turn'd. 
For honorable death resolved, and praise 
That would not die. Thereat the braver chiefs 
Rallied ; anew their signals rung around ; 
And Aztlan, seeing how we spared her flight, 
Took heart, and roll'd the tide of battle back. 
But when Cadwallon from the chieftain's grasp 
Had cut the standard-staff" away, and stunn'd 
And stretch'd him at his mercy on the field ; 
Then fled the enemy in utter rout. 
Broken and quell'd at heart. One chief alone 
Bestrode the body of Yuhidthiton ; 
Bareheaded did young Malinal bestride 
His brother's body, wiping from his brow. 
With the shield-hand, the blinding blood away, 
And dealing franCicly, with broken sword, 



MADOC IN WALES. 



34j 



Obstinate wrath, the last resisting foe. 

Him, in his own despite, we seized and saved. 

Then, in the moment of our victory. 
We purified our hands from blood, and knelt, 
And pour'd to Heaven the grateful prayer of praise, 
And raised the choral psalm. Triumphant thus 
To the hills we went our way ; the mountaineers 
With joy, and dissonant song, and antic dance ; 
The captives sullenly, deeming that they went 
To meet the certain death of sacrifice, 
Yet stern and undismay'd. We bade them know 
Ours was a law of mercy and of love ; 
We heal'd their wounds, and set the prisoners free. 
Bear ye, quoth I, my bidding to your King ; 
Say to him. Did the Stranger speak to tliee 
The words of truth, and hath he proved his power ? 
Thus saith the Lord of Ocean, in the name 
Of God, Almighty, Universal God, 
Thy Judge and mine, whose battles I have fought, 
Whose bidding I obey, whose will I speak ; 
Shed thou no more in impious sacrifice 
The life of man ; restore unto the grave 
The dead Tepollomi ; set this people free, 
And peace shall be between us. 

On the morrow 
Came messengers from Aztlan, in reply. 
Coanocotzin with sore malady 
Hath, by the Gods, been stricken : will the Lord 
Of Ocean visit his sick bed.' — He told 
Of wrath, and as he said, the vengeance came : 
Let him bring healing now, and 'stablish peace. 



vm. 

THE PEACE. 

Again, and now with better hope, I sought 
The city of the King : there went with me 
lolo, old lolo, he who knows 
The virtue of all herbs of mount, or vale. 
Or greenwood shade, or quiet brooklet's bed ; 
Whatever lore of science, or of song, 
Sages and Bards of old have handed down. 
Aztlan that day pour'd forth her swarming sons. 
To wait my coming. Will he ask his God 
To stay the hand of anger .'' was the cry, 
The general cry, — and will he save the King.'' 
Coanocotzin too had nursed that thought, 
And the strong hope upheld him : he put forth 
His hand, and raised a quick and anxious eye, — 
Is it not peace and mercy.? — thou art come 
To pardon and to save ! 

1 answer'd him — 
That power, O King of Aztlan, is not mine ! 
Such help as human cunning can bestow, 
Such human help I bring; but health and life 
Are in the hand of God, who at his will 
Gives or withdraws ; and what he wills is best. 
Then old lolo took his arm, and felt 
The symptom, and he bade him have good hope, 
For life was strong within him. So it proved ; 
The drugs of subtle virtue did their work ; 



They quell'd the venom of the malady. 
And from the frame expell'd it, — that a sleep 
Fell on the King, a sweet and natural sleep, 
And from its healing he awoke rcfresh'd, 
Though weak, and joyful as a man who felt 
The peril past away. 

Ere long we spake 
Of concord, and how best to knit the bonds 
Of lasting friendship. When we won this land, 
Coanocotzin said, these fertile vales 
Were not, as now, with fruitful groves embower'd, 
Nor rich with towns and populous villages, 
Abounding, as thou seest, with life and joy : 
Our fathers found bleak heath, and desert moor, 
Wild woodland, and savannahs wide and w^aste, 
Rude country of rude dwellers. From our arms 
They to the mountain fastnesses retired. 
And long with obstinate and harassing w^ar 
Provoked us, hoping not for victory. 
Yet mad for vengeance : till Tepollomi 
Fell by my father's hand ; and with their King, 
The strength and flower of all their youth cut off, 
All in one desolating day, they took 
The yoke upon their necks. What wouldest thou 
That to these Hoamen I should now concede ? 
Lord of the Ocean, speak ! 

Let them be free ! 
Quoth I. I come not from my native isle 
To wage the war of conquest, and cast out 
Your people from the land which time and toil 
Have rightly made their own. The land is wide ; 
There is enough for all. So they be freed 
From that accursed tribute, and ye shed 
The life of man no more in sacrifice, 
In the most holy name of God I say. 
Let there be peace between us ! 

Thou hast won 
Their liberty, the King replied ; henceforth, 
Free as they are, if they provoke the war, 
Reluctantly will Aztlan raise her arm. 
Be thou the peace-preserver. To what else 
Thou say'st, instructed by calamity, 
I lend a humble ear ; but to destroy 
The worship of my fathers, or abate 
Or change one point, lies not within reach 
And scope of kingly power. Speak thou hereon 
With those whom we hold holy, with the sons 
Of the Temple, they who commune with the Gods j 
Awe them, for they awe me. So w^e resolved 
That when the bones of King Tepollomi 
Had had their funeral honors, they and I 
Should by the green-lake side, before the King, 
And in the presence of the people, hold 
A solemn talk. 

Then to the mountain-huts, 
The bearer of good tidings, I return'd, 
Leading the honorable train who bore 
The relics of the King; not parch'd and black, 
As I had seen the unnatural corpse stand up, 
In ghastly mockery of the attitude 
And act of life ; — his bones had now been blanch'd 
With decent reverence. Soon the mountaineers 
Saw the white deer-skin shroud; the rumor 

spread ; 
They gather'd round, and followed in our train. 



342 



MADOC IN WALES. 



Before Erlllyab's hut the bearers laid 

Their burden down. She, cahn of countenance, 

And with dry eye, albeit her hand the while 

Shook like an aguish limb, unrolled the shroud. 

The multitude stood gazing silently, 

The young and old alike all awed and hush'd 

Under the holy feeling, — and the hush 

Was awful ; that huge multitude so still, 

That we could hear distinct the mountain-stream 

Roll down its rocky channel far away ; 

And this was all ; sole ceremony this. 

The sight of death and silence, — till at length, 

In the ready grave his bones were laid to rest. 

'Twas in her hut and home, yea, underneath 

The marriage bed, the bed of widowhood. 

Her husbarid's grave was dug ; on softest fur 

The bones were laid, with fur were covered o'er. 

Then heap'd with bark and boughs, and, last of all. 

Earth was to earth trod down. 

And now the day 
Appointed for our talk of peace was come. 
On the green margin of the lake we met. 
Elders, and Priests, and Chiefs ; the multitude 
Around the Circle of the Council stood. 
Then, in the midst, Coanocotzin rose, 
And thus the King began : Pabas, and Chiefs 
Of Aztlan, hither ye are come to learn 
The law of peace. The Lord of Ocean saith. 
The Tribes whom he hath gathered underneath 
The wings of his protection, shall be free ; 
And in the name of his great God he saith, 
That ye shall never shed in sacrifice 
The blood of man. Are ye content ? that so 
We may together here, in happy hour, 
Bury the sword. 

Hereat a Paba rose, 
And answer'd for his brethren: — He hath won 
The Hoamen's freedom, that their blood no more 
Shall on our altars flow ; for this the Lord 
Of Ocean fought, and Aztlan yielded it 
In battle. But if we forego the rites 
Of our forefathers, if we wrong the Gods, 
Who give us timely sun and timely showers, 
Their wrath will be upon us ; they will shut 
Their ears to prayer, and turn away the eyes 
Which watch for our well-doing, and withhold 
The hands dispensing our prosperity. 

Cynetha then arose, between his son 
And me supported, rose the blind old man. 
Ye wrong us, men of Aztlan, if ye deem 
We bid ye wrong the Gods ; accurs'd were he 
Who would obey such bidding, — more accurs'd 
The wretch who should enjoin impiety. 
It is the will of God which we make known. 
Your God and ours. Know ye not Him who laid 
The deep foundations of the earth, and built 
The arch of heaven, and kindled yonder sun. 
And breathed into the woods, and waves, and sky. 
The power of life ^ 

We know Him, they replied. 
The great For-Ever One, the God of Gods, 
Ipalnemoani, He by whom we live ! 
And we too, quoth Ayayaca, we know 
And worship the Great Spirit, who in clouds 



And storms, in mountain caves, and by the fall 
Of waters, in the woodland solitude, 
And in the night and silence of the sky, 
Doth make his being felt. We also know, 
And fear, and worship the Beloved One. 

Our God, replied Cynetha, is the same, 
The Universal Father. He to the first 
Made his will known; but when men multiplied, 
The Evil Spirits darken'd them, and sin 
And misery came into the world, and men 
Forsook the way of truth, and gave to stocks 
And stones the incommunicable name. 
Yet with one chosen, one peculiar Race, 
The knowledge of their Father and their God 
Remain'd, from sire to son transmitted down. 
While the bewildered Nations of the earth 
Wander'd in fogs, and were in darkness lost, 
The light abode with them ; and when at times 
They sinn'd, and went astray, the Lord hath put 
A voice into the mouths of holy men, 
Raising up witnesses unto himself. 
That so the saving knowledge of his name 
Might never fail; nor the glad promise, given 
To our first parent, that at length his sons, 
From error, sin, and wretchedness redeem'd, 
Should form one happy family of love. 
Nor ever hath that light, howe'er bedimm'd. 
Wholly been quenched ; still in the heart of man 
A feeling and an instinct it exists. 
His very nature's stamp and privilege, 
Yea, of his life the life. I tell ye not, 

Aztecas ' of things unknown before ; 

1 do but waken up a living sense 

That sleeps within ye ! Do ye love the Gods 

Who call for blood ? Doth the poor sacrifice 

Go with a willing step, to lay his life 

Upon their altars.'' — Good must come of good, 

Evil of evil; if the fruit be death, 

The poison springeth from the sap and root, 

And the whole tree is deadly ; if the rites 

Be evil, they who claim them are not good, 

Not to be worshipp'd then ; for to obey 

The evil will is evil. Aztecas ! 

From the For-Ever, the Beloved One, 

The Universal, Only God, I speak, 

Your God and mine, our Father and our Judge. 

Hear ye his law, — hear ye the perfect law 

Of love, " Do ye to others, as ye would 

That they should do to you ! " He bids us meet 

To praise his name, in thankfulness and joy; 

He bids us, in our sorrow, pray to him, 

The Comforter; love him, for he is good; 

Fear him, for he is just; obey his will, 

For who can bear his anger ? 

While he spake, 
They stood with open mouth, and motionless sight, 
Watching his countenance, as though the voice 
Were of a God ; for sure it seem'd that less 
Than inspiration could not have infused 
That eloquent passion in a blind man's face. 
And when he ceased, all eyes at once were turn'd 
Upon the Pabas, waiting their reply, 
If that to that acknowledged argument 
Reply could be deviled. But they themselves, 



MADOC IN WALES. 



343 



Stricken by the truth, were silent 5 and theylook'd 
Toward their chief and mouth-piece, the High 

Priest 
Tezozomoc; he, too, was pale and mute, 
And when he gather' d up his strength to speak, 
Speech fail'd him, his lip falter'd, and his eye 
Fell utterly abash'd, and put to shame. 
But in the Chiefs, and in the multitude. 
And in the King of Aztlan, better thoughts 
Were working ; for the Spirit of the Lord 
That day was moving in the heart of man. 
Coanocotzin rose : Pabas, and Chiefs, 
And men of Aztlan, ye have heard a talk 
Of peace and love, and there is no reply. 
Are ye content with what the Wise Man saith ? 
And will ye worship God in that good way 
Which God himself ordains ? If it be so, 
Together here will we in happy hour 
Bury the sword. 

Tezozomoc replied. 
This thing is new, and in the land till now 
Unheard : — what marvel, therefore, if we find 
No ready answer .'' Let our Lord the Kmg 
Do that which seemeth best. 

Yuhidthiton, 
Chief of the Chiefs of Aztlan, next arose. 
Of all her numerous sons, could Aztlan boast 
No mightier arm in battle, nor whose voice 
To more attentive silence hush'd the hall 
Of council. When the Wise Man spake, quoth he, 
I ask'd of mine own heart if it were so. 
And, as he said, the living instinct there 
Answer'd, and own'd the truth. In happy hour, 
O King of Aztlan, did the Ocean Lord 
Through the great waters hither wend his way ; 
For sure he is the friend of God and man. 

With that an uproar of assent arose 
From the whole people, a tumultuous shout 
Of universal joy and glad acclaim. 
But when Coanocotzin raised his hand, 
That he might speak, the clamor and the buzz 
Ceased, and the multitude, in tiptoe hope, 
Attent and still, await the final voice. 
Then said the Sovereign, Hear, O Aztecas, 
Your own united will ! From this day forth 
No life upon the altar shall be shed. 
No blood shall flow in sacrifice ; the rites 
Shall all be pure, such as the blind Old Man, 
Whom God hath taught, will teach. This ye have 

will'd; 
And therefore it shall be ! 

The King hath said ! 
Like thunder the collected voice replied : 
Let it be so ! 

Lord of the Ocean, then 
Pursued the King of Aztlan, we will now 
Lay the war-weapon in the grave, and join 
In right-hand friendship. By our custom, blood 
Should sanctify and bind the solemn act ; 
But by what oath and ceremony thou 
Shalt proffer, by the same will Aztlan swear. 
Nor oath, nor ceremony, I replied, 
O King, is needful. To his own good word 
The good and honorable man will act ; 



Oaths will not curb the wicked. Here we stand 
In the broad day-light ; the For-Ever one, 
The Every- Where beholds us. In his sight 
We join our hands in peace : if e'er again 
Should these right hands be raised in enmity, 
Upon the offender will his judgment fall. 

The grave was dug ; Coanocotzin laid 
His weapon in the earth; Erillyab's son, 
Young Amalahta, for the Hoamen, laid 
His hatchet there ; and there I laid the sword. 

Here let me end. What follow'd was the work 
Of peace, no theme for story; how we fix'd 
Our sojourn in the hills, and sow'd our fields, 
And, day by day, saw all things prospering. 
Thence have I come, Goervyl, to announce 
The tidings of my happy enterprise; 
There I return, to take thee to our home. 
I love my native land ; with as true love 
As ever yet did warm a British heart, 
Love I the green fields of the beautiful Isle, 
My father's heritage I But far away. 
Where nature's booner hand has bless'd the earth, 
My lot hath been assign'd ; beyond the seas 
Madoc hath found his home ; beyond the seas 
A country for his children hath he chosen, 
A land wherein their portion may be peace. 



IX. 



EMMA. 

But while Aberfraw echoed to the sounds 

Of merriment and music, Madoc's heart 

Mourn'd for his brethren. Therefore, when no eai 

Was nigh, he sought the King, and said to him, 

To-morrow, for Mathraval I set forth ; 

Longer I must not linger here, to pass 

The easy hours in feast and revelry, 

Forgetful of my people far away. 

I go to tell the tidings of success, 

And seek new comrades. What if it should chance 

That, for this enterprise, our brethren. 

Foregoing all their hopes and fortunes here, 

Would join my banner.-* — Let me send abroad 

Their summons, O my brother ! so, secure, 

You may forgive the past, and once again 

Will peace and concord bless our father's house. 

Hereafter will be time enow for this. 
The King replied ; thy easy nature sees not, 
How, if the traitors for thy banner send 
Their bidding round, in open war against me 
Their own would soon be spread. I charge thee, 

Madoc, 
Neither to see nor aid these fugitives. 
The shame of Owen's blood. 

Sullen he spake, 
And turn'd away ; nor further commune now 
Did Madoc seek, nor had he more endured ; 
For bitter thoughts were rising in his heart, 
And anguish, kindling anger. In such mood 



344 



MADOC IN WALES. 



He to his sister's chamber took his way. 

She sat with Emma, with the gentle Queen, 

For Emma had ah-eady learnt to love 

The gentle maid. Goervyl saw what thoughts 

Troubled her brother's brow. Madoc, she cried, 

Thou hast been with the King, been rashly plead- 

For Ririd, and for Rodri ! — He replied, [ing 

I did but ask him little, — did but say, 

Belike our brethren would go forth with me, 

To voluntary exile ; then, methought. 

His fear and jealousy might well have ceased, 

And all be safe. 

And did the King refuse ? 
Quoth Emma ; I will plead for them, quoth she. 
With dutiful warmth and zeal, will plead for them ; 
And surely David will not say me nay. 

O sister ! cried Goervyl, tempt him not ! 
Sister, you know him not ! Alas, to touch 
That perilous theme is, even in Madoc here, 
A perilous folly. Sister, tempt him not ! 
You do not know the King ! 

But then a fea 
Fled to the cheek of Emma, and her eye. 
Quickening with wonder, turn'd toward the Prince, 
As if expecting that his manly mind 
Would mould Goervyl's meaning to a shape 
Less fearful, would interpret and amend 
The words she hoped she did not hear aright. 
Emma was young ; she was a sacrifice 
To that cold king-craft, which, in marriage-vows 
Linking two hearts, unknowing each of each, 
Perverts the ordinance of God, and makes 
The holiest tie a mockery and a curse. 
Her eye was patient, and she spake in tones 
So sweet, and of so pensive gentleness. 
That the heart felt them. Madoc! she exclaimed, 
Why dost thou hate the Saxons .'' O my brother. 
If I have heard aright, the hour will come 
When the Plantagenet shall wish herself 
Among her nobler, happier countrymen, 
From these unnatural enmities escaped, [ven ! 

And from the vengeance they must call from Hea- 

Shame then suffused the Prince's countenance, 
Mindful how, drunk in anger, he had given 
His hatred loose. My sister Queen, quoth he, 
Marvel not you that with my mother's milk 
I suck'd that hatred in. Have they not been 
The scourge and the devouring sword of God, 
The curse and pestilence which he hath sent 
To root us from the land ? Alas, our crimes 
Have drawn this dolorous visitation down ! 
Our sun hath long been westering; and the night, 
And darkness, and extinction are at hand. 
We are a fallen people ! — From ourselves 
The desolation and the ruin come ; 
In our own vitals doth the poison work — 
The House that is divided in itself. 
How should it stand .'' — A blessing on you. Lady I 
But in this wretched family the strife 
Is rooted all too deep ; it is an old 
And cankered wound, — an eating, killing sore, 
For which there is no healing. — If the King 
Should ever speak liis fears, (and sure to you 



All his most inward thoughts he will make known,) 

Counsel him then to let his brethren share 

My enterprise, to send them forth with me 

To everlasting exile. — She hath told you 

Too hardly of the King ; I know him well ; 

He hath a stormy nature ; and what germs 

Of virtue would have budded in his heart. 

Cold winds have check'd, and blighting seasons 

nipp'd, 
Yet in his heart they live. — A blessing on you, 
That you may see their blossom and their fruit ! 



MATHRAVAL. 



Now for Mathraval went Prince Madoc forth ; 

O'er Menai's ebbing tide, up mountain-paths, 

Beside gray mountain-stream, and lonely lake, 

And through old Snowdon's forest-solitude, 

He held right on his solitary way. 

Nor paused he in that rocky vale, where oft 

Up the familiar path, with gladder pace, 

His steed had hastened to the well-known door, — 

That valley, o'er whose crags, and sprinkled trees, 

And winding stream, so oft his eye had loved 

To linger, gazing, as the eve grew dim, 

From Dolwyddelan's Tower; — alas ! from thence, 

As from his brother's monument, he turn'd 

A loathing eye, and through the rocky vale 

Sped on. From morn till noon, from noon till eve, 

He travelled on his way ; and when at morn 

Again the Ocean Chief bestrode his steed. 

The heights of Snowdon on his backward glance 

Hung like a cloud in heaven. O'er heath, and hill. 

And barren height he rode ; and darker now, 

In loftier majesty, thy mountain-seat, 

Star-loving Idris, rose. Nor turn'd he now 

Beside Kregennan, where his infant feet 

Had trod Ednywain's hall ; nor loitered he 

In the green vales of Powys, till he came 

Where Warnway rolls its waters underneath 

Ancient Mathraval's venerable walls, 

Cyveilioc's princely and paternal seat. 

But Madoc sprung not forward now to greet 
The chief he loved, for from Cyveilioc's hall 
The voice of harp and song commingled came ; 
It was that day the feast of victory there ; 
Around the Chieftain's board the warriors sat; 
The sword, and shield, and helmet, on the wall 
And round the pillars, were in peace hung up ; 
And, as the flashes of the central fire 
At fits arose, a dance of wavy light [late 

Play'd o'er the reddening steel. The Chiefs, who 
So well had wielded in the work of war 
Those weapons, sat around the board, to quaff 
The beverage of the brave, and hear their fame. 
Mathraval's Lord, the Poet and the Prince, 
Cyveilioc, stood before them, — in his pride ; 
His hands were on the harp, his eyes were closed, 
His head, as if in reverence to receive 
The inspiration, bent; anon, he raised 



MADOC IN WALES. 



345 



His glowing countenance and brighter eye, 
And swept with passionate hand the ringing liarp. 

I Fill high the Hirlas Horn ! to Grufydd bear 
Its frothy beverage, — from his crimson lance 
The invader fled ; — fill high the gold-tipp'd Horn ! 
' Heard ye in Maelor the step of war — 
The hastening shout — the onset? — Did ye hear 
The clash and clang of arms — the battle-din, 
Loud as the roar of Ocean, when the winds 
At midnight are abroad?— the yell of wounds — 
; The rage — the agony ? — (xive to him the Horn 
Whose spear was broken, and whose buckler pierced 
With many a shaft, yet not the less he fought 
And conquered; — therefore let Ednyved share 
The generous draught ; give him the long, blue 

Horn ! 
Pour out again, and fill again the spoil 
Of the wild bull, with silver wrought of yore ; 
And bear the golden lip to Tudyr's hand, 
Eagle of battle ! For Moreiddig fill 
The honorable Hirlas ! — Where are They ? 
Where are the noble Brethren? Wolves of war, 
They kept their border well, they did their part, 
Their fame is full, their lot is praise and song — 
A mournful song to me, a song of Avoe ! — 
Brave Brethren ! for their honor brim the cup. 
Which they shall quaff no more. 

We drove away 
The strangers from our land; profuse of life, 
Our warriors rush'd to battle, and the Sun 
Saw from his noontide fields their manly strife. 
Pour thou the flowing mead ! Cup-bearer, fill 
The Hirlas ! for hadst thou beheld the day 
Of Llidom, thou hadst known how well the Chiefs 
Deserve this honor now. Cyveilioc's shield 
I Were they in danger, when the Invader came ; 
! Be praise and liberty their lot on earth, 
And joy be theirs in heaven ! 

Here ceased the song ; 
Then from the threshold on the rush-strown floor 
Madoc advanced, Cyveilioc's eye was now 
To present forms awake, but even as still 
He felt his harp-chords throb with dying sounds ; 
The heat, and stir, and passion had not yet 
Subsided in his soul. Again lie struck 
The loud-toned harp — Pour from the silver vase, 
And brim the honorable Horn, and bear 
The drauglit of joy to Madoc, — he who first 
Explored the desert ways of Ocean, first 
Through the wide waste of sea and sky held on 
Undaunted, till upon another World 
The Lord and Conqueror of the Elements, 
He set his foot triumphant ! Fill for him 
The Hirlas 1 fill the honorable Horn ! 
This for Mathraval is a happy hour, 
When Madoc, her hereditary guest, 
Appears within her honor'd walls again, 
Madoc, the British Prince, the Ocean Lord, 
Who never for injustice rear'd his arm; 
Whose presence fills the heart of every foe 
With fear, the heart of every friend with joy ; 
Give him the Hirlas Horn ; fill, till the draught 
Of joy shall quiver o'er the golden brim ! 
In happy hour the hero hath return 'd ! 
44 



in happy hour the friend, the brother treads 
Cyveilioc's floor ! 

He sprung to greet his guest ; 
The cordial grasp of fellowship was given ; 
So in Mathraval there was double joy 
On that illustrious day ; they gave their guest 
The seat of honor, and they fill'd for him 
The Hirlas Horn. Cyveilioc and his Chiefs, 
All eagerly, with wonder-waiting eyes. 
Look to the Wanderer of the Water's tale. 
Nor mean the joy which kindled Madoc's brow, 
When as he told of daring enterprise 
Crown'd with deserved success. Intent they heard 
Of all the blessings of that happier clime ; 
And when the adventurer spake of soon return, 
Each on the other gazed, as if to say, 
Methinks it were a goodly lot to dwell 
In that fair land in peace. 

Then said the Prince 
Of Povv'ys, Madoc, at a happy time 
Thou hast toward Mathraval bent thy way ; 
For on the morrow, in the eye of light. 
Our bards will hold their congress. Seekest thou 
Comrades to share success ? proclaim abroad 
Thine invitation there, and it will spread 
Far as our fathers' ancient tongue is known. 

Thus at Mathraval went the Hirlas round; 
A happy day was that ! Of other years 
They talk'd, of common toils, and fields of war, 
Where they fought side by side ; of Corwen's scene 
Of glory, and of comrades now no more — 
Themes of delight, and grief which brought its joy. 
Thus they beguiled the pleasant hours, while night 
Waned fast away ; then late they laid them down, 
Each on his bed of rushes, stretch'd around 
The central fire. 

The Sun was newly risen 
When Madoc join'd his host, no longer now 
Clad, as the conquering chief of Maelor, 
In princely arms, but in his nobler robe, 
The sky-blue mantle of the Bard, arrayed. 
So for the place of meeting they set forth ; 
And now they reached Melangell's lonely church 
Amid a grove of evergreens it stood, 
A garden and a grove, where every grave 
Was deck'd with flowers, or with unfading plants 
O'ergrown, sad rue, and funeral rosemary. 
Here Madoc paused. The morn is young, quoth he ; 
A little while to old remembrance given 
Will not belate us. — Many a year hath fled, 
Cyveilioc, since you led me here, and told 
The legend of the Saint. Come ! — be not loath ! 
We will not loiter long. — So soon to mount 
The bark, which will forever bear me hence, 
I would not willingly pass by one spot 
Which thus recalls the thought of other times. 
Without a pilgrim's visit. 

Thus he spake. 
And drew Cyveilioc through the church-yard porch, 
To the rude image of Saint Monacel. 
Dost thou remember, Ov/en, said the Prince, 
When first I was thy guest in early youth. 
That once, as we had wandered here at eve, 
You told, how here a poor and hunted hare 



346 



MADOC IN WALES. 



Ran to the Virgin's feet, and look'd to her 

For hfe ? — 1 thought, when listening to the tale, 

She had a merciful heart, and that her face 

Must with a saintly gentleness have beam'd. 

When beasts could read its virtue. Here we sat 

Upon the jutting root of this old yeugh — 

Dear friend ! so pleasant didst thou make those 

days. 
That in my heart, long as my heart shall beat. 
Minutest recollections still will live, 
Still be the source of joy. 

As Madoc spake, 
His glancing eye fell on a monument, 
Around whose base the rosemary droop' d down. 
As yet not rooted well. Sculptured above, 
A warrior lay ; the shield was on his arm ; 
Madoc approach'd, and saw the blazonry, — 
A sudden chill ran through him, as he read. 
Here Yorwerth lies — it was his brother's grave. 

Cy veilioc took him by the hand : For this, 
Madoc, was 1 so loath to enter here ! 
He sought the sanctuary, but close upon him 
The murderers follow'd, and by yonder copse 
The stroke of death was given. All I could 
Was done ; — 1 saw him here consign' d to rest; 
Daily due masses for his soul are sung. 
And duly hath his grave been deck'd with flowers. 

So saying, from the place of death he led 
The silent Frince. But lately, he pursued, 
Llewelyn was my guest, thy favorite boy. 
For thy sake and his own, it was my hope 
That at Mathraval he would make his home ; 
He had not needed then a father's love. 
But he, 1 know not on what enterprise, 
Was brooding ever ; and those secret thoughts 
Drew him away. God prosper the brave boy ! 
It were a happy day for this poor land 
If e'er Llewelyn mount his rightful throne. 



XL 



THE GORSEDD. 



The place of meeting was a high hill-top, 

Nor bower'd with trees nor broken by the plough. 

Remote from human dwellings and the stir 

Of human life, and open to the breath 

And to the eye of Heaven. In days of old, 

There had the circling stones been planted; there. 

From earliest ages, the primeval lore, [down. 

Through Bard to Bard with reverence handed 

They whom to wonder, or the love of song, 

Or reverence of their fathers' ancient rites. 

Drew thither, stood without the ring of stones. 

Cyveilioc entered to the initiate Bards, 

Himself, albeit his hands were stained with war, 

Initiate ; for the Order, in the lapse 

Of years and in their nation's long decline 

From the first rigor of their purity 

Somewhat had fallen. The Masters of the Song 



Were clad in azure robes, for in that hue 
Deduced from Heaven, which o'er a sinful world 
Spread its eternal canopy serene. 
Meet emblem did the ancient Sages see 
Of unity, and peace, and spotless truth. 

Within the stones of Federation there, 
On the green turf, and under the blue sky, 
A noble band, the Bards of Britain stood, 
Their heads in reverence bare, and bare of foot. 
A deathless brotherhood ! Cyveilioc there, 
Lord of the Hirlas ; Lly ware there was seen, 
And old Cynddelow, to whose lofty song, 
So many a time amid his father's court 
Resigning up his soul, had Madoc given 
The flow of feeling loose. But Madoc's heart 
Was full ; old feelings and remembrances, 
And thoughts from which was no escape, arose : 
He was not there to whose sweet lay, so oft. 
With all a brother's fond delight, he loved 
To listen, — Hoel was not there ! — the hand 
That once so well, amid the triple chords, 
Moved in the rapid maze of harmony. 
It had no motion now ; the lips were dumb 
Which knew all tones of passion ; and that heart. 
That warm, ebullient heart, was cold and still, 
Upon its bed of clay. He look'd around, 
And there was no familiar countenance, 
None but Cynddelow's face, which he had learnt 
In childhood ; and old age hath set its mark. 
Making unsightly alteration there. 
Another generation had sprung up, 
And made him feel how fast the days of man 
Flow by, how soon their number is told out. 
He knew not then, that Llywarc's lay should give 
His future fame ; his spirit, on the past 
Brooding, beheld with no forefeeling joy 
The rising sons of song, who there essay'd 
Their eaglet flight. But there, among the youth 
In the green vesture of their earliest rank, 
Or with the aspirants clad in motley garb, 
Young Benvras stood ; and, one whose favored race 
Heaven with the hereditary power had blest. 
The old Gowalchmai's not degenerate child; 
And there another Einion ; gifted youths, 
And heirs of immortality on earth. 
Whose after-strains, through many a distant age, 
Cambria shall boast, and love the songs that tell 
The fame of Owen's house. 

There, in the eye 
Of light, and in the face of day, the rites 
Began. Upon the Stone of Covenant 
First, the sheathed sword was laid; the Master then 
Upraised his voice, and cried. Let them who seek 
The high degree and sacred privilege 
Of Bardic science, and of Cimbric lore, 
Here to the Bards of Britain make their claim ! 
Thus having said, the Master bade the youths 
Approach the place of peace, and merit there 
The Bard's most honorable name. With that. 
Heirs and transmitters of the ancient light. 
The youths advanced ; they heard the Cimbric lore, 
From earliest days preserved; they struck their' 

harps, 
And each in due succession raised the song. 



MADOC IN WALES. 



347 



Last of the aspirants, as of greener years, 
Young Caradoc advanced ; his lip as yet 
Scarce darken'd with its down, his flaxen locks 
Wreathed in contracting ringlets waving low ; 
Bright were his large blue eyes, and kindled now 
With that same passion that inflamed his cheek j 
Yet in his cheek there was the sickliness 
Which thought and feeling leave, wearing away 
The hue of youth. Inclining on his harp. 
He, while his comrades in probation song 
Approved their claim, stood hearkening, as it 
And yet like unintelligible sounds [seem'd, 

He heard the symphony and voice attuned ; 
Even in such feelings as, all undefined. 
Come with the flow of waters to the soul. 
Or with the motions of the moonlight sky. 
But when his bidding came, he, at the call 
Arising from that dreamy mood, advanced. 
Threw back his mantle, and began the lay. 

Where are the sons of Gavran.? where his tribe 
The faithful .? Following their beloved Chief, 
They the Green Islands of the Ocean sought ; 
Nor human tongue hath told, nor human ear, 
Since from the silver shores they went their way. 
Hath heard their fortunes. In his crystal Ark, 
Whither sail'd Merlin with his band of Bards, 
Old Merlin, master of the mystic lore ? 
Belike his crystal Ark, instinct with life. 
Obedient to the mighty Master, reach'd 
The land of the Departed; there, belike, 
They in the clime of immortality. 
Themselves immortal, drink the gales of bliss, 
Which o'er Flathinnis breathe eternal spring, 
Blending whatever odors make the gale 
Of evening sweet, whatever melody [halls. 

Charms the wood-traveller. In their high-roof "d 
There, with the Chiefs of other days, feel they 
The mingled joy pervade them.' — Or beneath 
The mid-sea waters, did that crystal Ark 
Down to the secret depths of Ocean plunge 
Its fated crew .' Dwell they in coral bowers 
With Mermaid loves, teaching their paramours 
The songs that stir the sea, or make the winds 
Hush, and the waves be still.' In fields of joy 
Have they their home, where central fires maintain 
Perpetual summer, and an emerald light 
Pervades the green translucent element .' 

Twice have the sons of Britain left her shores, 
As the fledged eaglets quit their native nest ; 
Twice over ocean have her fearless sons 
Forever sail'd away. Again they launch 
Their vessels to the deep. — Who mounts the bark .' 
The son of Owen, the beloved Prince, 
Who never for injustice rear'd his arm. 
Respect his enterprise, ye Ocean Waves ! 
Ye Winds of Heaven, waft Madoc on his way ! 
The Waves of Ocean, and the Winds of Heaven, 
Became his ministers, and Madoc found 
The World he sought. 

Who seeks the better land .' 
Who mounts the vessel for a world of peace .' 
He who hath felt the throb of pride, to hear 
Our old illustrious annals ; who was taught 



To lisp the fame of Arthur, to revere 
Great Caratach's unconquer'd soul, and call 
That gallant chief his countryman, who led 
The wrath of Britain from her chalky shores 
To drive the Roman robber. He who loves 
His country, and who feels his country's shame; 
Whose bones amid a land of servitude 
Could never rest in peace ; w^ho, if he saw 
His children slaves, would feel a pang in heaven, — 
He mounts the bark, to seek for liberty. 

Who seeks the better land ? The wretched one, 
Whose joys are blasted all, whose heart is sick. 
Who hath no hope, to whom all change is gain, 
To whom remember'd pleasures strike a pang 
That only guilt should know, — he mounts the bark, 
The Bard will mount the bark of banishment; 
The harp of Cambria shall in other lands 
Remind the Cambrian of his fathers' fame : — 
The Bard will seek the land of liberty. 
The World of peace — O Prince, receive the Bard ! 

He ceased the song. His cheek, now fever 
flush'd. 
Was turn'd to Madoc, and his asking eye 
Linger'd on him in hope ; nor linger'd long 
The look expectant; forward sprung the Prince, 
And gave to Caradoc the right-hand pledge, 
And for the comrade of his enterprise. 
With joyful welcome, hail'd the joyful Bard. 

Nor needed now the Searcher of the Sea 
Announce his enterprise, by Caradoc 
In song announced so well ; from man to man 
Tlie busy murmur spread, while from the Stone 
Of Covenant the sword was taken up, 
And from the Circle of the Ceremony 
The bards went forth, their meeting now fulfiU'd. 
The multitude, unheeding all beside. 
Of Madoc and his noble enterprise 
Held stirring converse on their homeward way, 
And spread abroad the tidings of a Land, 
Where Plenty dwelt with Liberty and Peace. 



XII. 



DINEVAWR. 



So in the court of Powys pleasantly. 

With hawk and hound afield, and harp in hall, 

The days went by ; till Madoc, for his heart 

Was with Cadwallon, and in early spring 

Must he set forth to join him over-sea. 

Took his constrain'd farewell. To Dinevawr 

He bent his way, w^hence many a time with Rhya 

Had he gone forth to smite the Saxon foe. 

The Son of Owen greets his father's friend 

With reverential joy ; nor did the Lord 

Of Dinevawr with cold or deaden'd heart 

Welcome the Prince he loved ; though not with joj 

Unmingled now, nor the proud consciousness 

Which in the man of tried and approved worth 

Could bid an equal hail. Henry had seen 



348 



MADOC IN WALES. 



The Lord of Dinevawr between his knees 
Vow homage j yea, the Lord of Dinevawr 
Had knelt in homage to that Saxon king, 
"Who set a price upon his father's head, 
That Saxon, on whose soul his mother's blood 
Cried out for vengeance. Madoc saw the shame 
Which Rhys would fain have hidden, and, in grief 
For the degenerate land, rejoiced at heart 
That now another country was his home. 

Musing on thoughts like these, did Madoc roam 
Alone along the Towy's winding shore. 
The beavers in its bank had hollow'd out 
Their social place of dwelling, and had damm'd 
The summer-current, with their perfect art 
Of instinct, erring not in means nor end. 
But as the floods of spring had broken down 
Their barrier, so its breaches unrepair'd 
Were left; and round the piles, which, deeper 

driven. 
Still held their place, the eddying waters whirl'd. 
Now in those habitations desolate 
One sole survivor dwelt : him Madoc saw, 
Laboring alone, beside his hermit house ; 
And in that mood of melancholy thought, — 
For in his boyhood he had loved to watch 
Their social work, and for he knew that man 
In bloody sport had well-nigh rooted out 
The poor community, — the ominous sight 
Became a grief and burden. Eve came on; 
The dry leaves rustled to the wind, and fell 
And floated on the stream ; there was no voice 
Save of the mournful rooks, who overhead 
Wing'd their long line ; for fragrance of sweet 

flowers, 
Only the odor of the autumnal leaves ; — 
All sights and sounds of sadness — And the place 
To that despondent mood was ministrant; — 
Among the hills of Gwyneth, and its wilds, 
And mountain glens, perforce he cherish'd still 
The hope of mountain liberty; they braced 
And knit the heart and arm of hardihood ; — 
But here, in these green meads, by these low slopes 
And hanging groves, attemper'd to the scene. 
His spirit yielded. As he loiter'd on. 
There came toward him one in peasant garb. 
And call'd his name ; — he started at the sound, 
For he had heeded not the man's approach ; 
And now that sudden and familiar voice 
Came on him, like a vision. So he stood 
Gazing, and knew him not in the dim light, 
Till he again cried, Madoc ! — then he woke, 
And knew the voice of Ririd, and sprang on, 
And fell upon his neck, and wept for joy 
And sorrow. 

O my brother ! Ririd cried, 
Long, very long it is since I have heard 
The voice of kindness ! — Let me go with thee ! 
I am a wanderer in my father's land, — 
Hoel he kill'd, and Yorwerth hath he slain ; 
Llewelyn hath not where to hide his head 
In his own kingdom ; Rodri is in chains ; — 
Let me go with thee, Madoc, to some land 
Where I may look upon the sun, nor dread 
The light that may betray me ; where at night 



I may not, like a hunted beast, rouse up, 
If the leaves rustle over me. 

The Lord 
Of Ocean struggled with his swelling heart. 
Let me go with thee ? — but thou didst not doubt 
Thy brother ? — Let thee go ? — with what a joy, 
Ririd, would I collect the remnant left, — 
The wretched remnant now of Owen's house, 
And mount the bark of willing banishment, 
And leave the tyrant to his Saxon friends, 
And to his Saxon yoke ! — I urged him thus, 
Curb'd down my angry spirit, and besought 
Only that I might bid our brethren come, 
And share my exile ; — and he spurn'd my prayer ! 
Thou hast a gentle pleader at his court; 
She may prevail ; till then abide thou here ; — 
But not in this, the garb of fear and guilt. 
Come thou to Dinevawr, — assume thyself; — 
The good old Rhys will bid thee welcome there. 
And the great Palace, like a sanctuary, 
Is safe. If then Queen Emma's plea should fail, 
My timely bidding hence shall summon thee. 
When I shall spread the sail. — Nay, hast thou 

learnt 
Suspicion.? — Rhys is noble, and no deed 
Of treachery ever sullied his fair fame ! 

Madoc then led his brother to the hall 
Of Rhys. I bring to thee a supplicant, 

King, he cried ; thou wert my father's friend i 
And till our barks be ready in the spring, 

1 know that here the persecuted son 
Of Owen will be safe. 

A welcome guest ! 
The old warrior cried ; by his good father's soul. 
He is a welcome guest at Dinevawr ! 
And rising as he spake, he pledged his hand 
In hospitality. — How now ! quoth he ; 
This raiment ill beseems the princely son 
Of Owen ! — Ririd at his v»rords was led 
Apart ; they wash'd his feet ; they gave to him 
Fine linen, as beseem'd his royal race, 
The tunic of soft texture woven well, 
The broider'd girdle, the broad mantle edged 
With fur and flowing low, the bonnet last, 
Form'd of some forest martin's costly spoils. 
The Lord of Dinevawr sat at the dice 
With Madoc, when he saw him, thus array'd. 
Returning to the hall. Ay ! this is well ! 
The noble Chief exclaim'd ; 'tis as of yore. 
When in Aberfraw, at his father's board. 
We sat together, after we had won 
Peace and rejoicing with our own right hands, 
By Corwen, where, commix'd with Saxon blood. 
Along its rocky channel the dark Dee 
Roll'd darker waters. — Would that all his house 
Had, in their day of trouble, thought of me, 
And honor'd me like this ! David respects 
Deheubarth's strength, nor would respect it less, 
When such protection leagued its cause with 
Heaven. 

I had forgot his messenger ! quoth he. 
Arising from the dice. Go, bid him here ! 
He came this morning at an ill-starr'd hour, 



MADOC IN WALES. 



349 



To Madoc he pursued ; my lazy grooms 
Had let the hounds play havock in my flock, 
And my old blood was chafed. I' faith, the King 
Hath chosen well his messenger : — he saw 
That, in such mood, I might have render'd him 
A hot and hasty answer, and hath waited, 
Perhaps to David's service and to mine, 
My better leisure. 

Now the Messenger 
Enter'd the hall ; Goagan of Powys-land, 
He of Caer-Einion was it, who was charged 
From Gwyneth to Deheubarth — a brave man, 
Of copious speech. He told the royal son 
Of Gryffidd, the descendant of the line 
Of Rhys-ab-Tudyr mawr, that he came there 
From David, son of Owen, of the stock 
Of kingly Cynan, I am sent, said he. 
With friendly greeting; and as I receive 
Welcome and honor, so, in David's name, 
Am I to thank the Lord of Dinevawr. 

Tell on ! quoth Rhys, the purport and the cause 
Of this appeal. 

Of late, some fugitives 
Came from the South to Mona, whom the King 
Received with generous welcome. Some there 

were 
Who blamed his royal goodness ; for they said, 
These were the subjects of a rival Prince, 
Who, peradventure, would with no such bounty 
Cherish a northern suppliant. This they urged, 
I know not if from memory of old feuds, 
Better forgotten, or in envy. Moved 
Hereby, King David swore he would not rest 
Till he had put the question to the proof. 
Whether with liberal honor the lord Rhys 
Would greet his messenger; but none was found 
Of all who had instill'd that evil doubt, 
Ready to bear the embassy : I heard it, 
And did my person tender, — for I knew 
The nature of Lord Rhys of Dinevawr. 

Well ! quoth the Chief, Goagan of Powys- 
land, 
This honorable welcome that thou seekest, 
Wherein may it consist ^ 

In giving me, 
Goagan of Powys-land replied, a horse 
Better than mine, to bear me home ; a suit 
Of seemly raiment, and ten marks in coin, 
With raiment and two marks for him who leads 
My horse's bridle. 

For his sake, said Rhys, 
Who sent thee, thou shalt have the noblest 

steed 
In all my studs. — I double thee the marks, 
And give the raiment threefold. More than 

this, — 
Say thou to David, that the guests who sit 
At board with me, and drink of my own cup, 
Are Madoc and Lord Ririd. Tell the King, 
That thus it is Lord Rhys of Dinevawr 
Delighteth to do honor to the sons 
Of Owen, of his old and honor'd friend. 



XIII. 



LLEWELYN. 



Farewell, my brother, cried the Ocean Chief; 
A little while farewell ! as through the gate 
Of Dinevawr he pass'd, to pass again 
That hospitable threshold never more. 
And thou too, O thou good old man, true friend 
Of Owen, and of Owen's house, farewell ! 
'Twill not be told me, Rhys, when thy gray haira 
Are to the grave gone down ; but oftentimes 
In the distant w^orld I shall remember thee, 
And think that, come thy summons when it may, 
Thou wilt not leave a braver man behind. 
Now God be with thee, Rhys ! 

The old Chief paused 
A moment ere he answer'd, as for pain ; 
Then shaking his hoar head, I never yet 
Gave thee this hand unwillingly before ! 
When for a guest I spread the board, my heart 
Will think on him, whom ever with most joy 
It leap'd to welcome : should I lift again 
The spear against the Saxon, — for old Rhyg 
Hath that within him yet, that could uplift 
The Cimbric spear, — I then shall wish his aid, 
Who oft has conquer'd with me : when I kneel 
In prayer to Heaven, an old man's prayer shall beg 
A blessing on thee ! 

Madoc answer'd not, 
But press'd his hand in silence, then sprang up 
And spurr'd his courser on. A weary way. 
Through forest and o'er fell. Prince Madoc rode ; 
And now he skirts the bay whose reckless waves 
Roll o'er the plain of Gwaelod : fair fields, 
And busy towns, and happy villages. 
They overv/helm'd in one disastrous day ; 
For they by their eternal siege had sapp'd 
The bulwark of the land, while Seithenyn 
Took of his charge no thought, till, in his sloth 
And riotous cups surprised, he saw the waves 
Roll like an army o'er the levell'd mound. 
A supplicant in other courts, he mourn'd 
His crime and ruin ; in another's court 
The kingly harp of Garanhir was heard, 
Wailing his kingdom wreck'd ; and many a Prince, 
Warn'd by the visitation, sought and gain'd 
A saintly crown — Tyneio, Merini, 
Boda, and Brenda, and Aelgyvarch, 
Gwynon, and Celynin, and Gwynodyl. 

To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound — 
Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil 
Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose, 
His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff; 
Her canvass swells before the breeze ; the sea 
Sings round her sparkling keel ; and soon the Lord 
Of Ocean treads the venerable shore. 

There was not, on that day, a speck to stain 
The azure heaven ; the blessed Sun alone, 
In unapproachable divinity, 
Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light. 
How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky, 



350 



MADOC IN WALES. 



The billows heave ! one glowhig green expanse, 
Save where along the bending line of shore 
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck 
Assumes its proudest tint of amtthyst, 
Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks 
Of Ocean are abroad; like floating foam. 
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves ; 
With long, protruded neck, the cormorants 
Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round 
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. 
It was a day that sent into the heart 
A summer feeling : even the insect swarms 
From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, 
To sport through one day of existence more ; 
The solitary primrose on the bank 
Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn 
Its bleak autumnal birth ; the Rocks, and Shores, 
The Forest, and the everlasting Hills, 
Smiled in that joyful sunshine,- — they partook 
The universal blessing. 

To this Isle, 
Where his forefathers were to dust consign'd, 
Did Madoc come for natural piety. 
Ordering a solemn service for their souls. 
Therefore for this the Church that day was dress'd : 
For this the Abbot, in his alb arrayed, 
At the high altar stood ; for this infused. 
Sweet incense from the waving thuribule 
Rose like a mist, and the gray brotherhood 
Chanted the solemn mass. And now on high 
The mighty Mystery had been elevate. 
And now around the graves the brethren 
In long array proceed : each in his hand. 
Tall as the staff" of some wayfaring man. 
Bears the brown taper, with their daylight flames 
Dimming the cheerful day. Before the train 
The Cross is borne, where, fashion'd to the life 
In shape, and size, and ghastly coloring. 
The awful Image hangs. Next, in its shrine 
Of gold and crystal, by the Abbot held. 
The mighty Mystery came ; on either hand 
Three Monks uphold above, on silver wands, 
The purple pall. With holy water next 
A father went, therewith from hyssop branch 
Sprinkling the graves : the while, with one accord. 
The solemn psalm of mercy all entoned. 

Pure was the faith of Madoc, though his mind 
To all this pomp and solemn circumstance 
Yielded a willing homage. But the place 
Was holy; — the dead air, which underneath 
Those arches never felt the healthy sun, 
Nor the free motion of the elements, 
Chilly and damp, infused associate awe : 
The sacred odors of the incense still 
Floated ; the daylight and the taper-flames 
Commingled, dimming each, and each bedimra'd; 
And as the slow procession paced along. 
Still to their hymn, as if in symphony, 
The regular foot-fall sounded : swelling now, 
Their voices, in one chorus, loud and deep. 
Rung through the echoing aisles; and when it 

ceased. 
The silence of that huge and sacred pile 
Came on the heart. What wonder if the Prince 



Yielded his homage there ? The influences 

Of that sweet autumn day made every sense 

Alive to every impulse, — and beneath 

The stones whereon he stood, his ancestors 

Were mouldering, dust to dust. Father ! quoth he, 

When now the rites were ended, — far away 

It hath been Madoc 's lot to pitch his tent 

On other shores ; there, in a foreign land, 

Far from my father's burial-place, must I 

Be laid to rest ; yet would I have my name 

Be held with theirs in memory. 1 beseech you, 

Have this a yearly rite for evermore. 

As I will leave endowment for the same, 

And let me be remember' d in the prayer. 

The day shall be a holy day with me. 

While I do live ; they who come after me, 

Will hold it holy ; it will be a bond 

Of love and brotherhood, when all beside 

Hath been dissolved ; and though wide ocean rolls 

Between my people and their mother Isle, 

This shall be their communion ; They shall send, 

Link'd in one sacred feeling at one hour. 

In the same language, the same prayer to Heaven, 

And, each remembering each in piety, 

Pray for the other's welfare. 

The old man 
Partook that feeling, and some pious tears 
Fell down his aged cheek. Kinsman and son. 
It shall be so ! said he ; and thou shalt be 
Remember'd in the prayer : nor then alone ; 
But till my sinking sands be quite run out, 
This feeble voice shall, from its solitude, 
Go up for thee to Heaven ! 

And now the bell 
Rung out its cheerful summons ; to the hall. 
In seemly order, pass the brotherhood : 
The serving-men wait with the ready ewer ; 
The place of honor to the Prince is given, 
The Abbot's right-hand guest ; the viands smoke. 
The horn of ale goes round : and now, the cates 
Removed, for days of festival reserved 
Comes choicer beverage, clary, hippocras, 
And mead mature, that to the goblet's brim 
Sparkles, and sings, and smiles. It was a day 
Of that allowable and temperate mirth 
Which leaves a joy for memory. Madoc told 
His tale ; and thus, with question and reply. 
And cheerful intercourse, from noon till nones 
The brethren sat ; and when the quire was done, 
Renew'd their converse till the vesper bell. 

But then the Porter called Prince Madoc out. 
To speak with one, he said, who from the land 
Had sought him and required his private ear. 
Madoc in the moonlight met him : in his hand 
The stripling held an oar, and on his back. 
Like a broad shield, the coracle Avas hung. 
Uncle I he cried, and with a gush of tears. 
Sprung to the glad embrace. 

O my brave boy ! 
Llewelyn ! my dear boy ! with stifled voice. 
And interrupted utterance, Madoc cried ; 
And many times he clasp'd him to his breast, 
And many times drew back and gazed upon him, 
Wiping the tears away which dimm'd the sight. 



MADOC IN WALES. 



351 



And told him how his heart had yearn'd for him, 
As with a father's love, and bade him now 
Forsake his lonely haunts, and come with him, 
And sail beyond the seas, and share his fate. 

No ! by my God ! the high-hearted youth replied, 
It never shall be said Llewelyn left 
His father's murderer on his father's throne ! 
I am the rightful king of this poor land. 
Go thou, and wisely go ; but I must stay. 
That I may save my people. Tell me. Uncle, 
The story of thy fortunes ; I can hear it 
Here in this lonely Isle, and at this hour. 
Securely. 

Nay, quoth Madoc, tell me first 
Where are thy haunts and coverts, and what hope 
Thou hast to bear thee up ? Why goest thou not 
To thy dear father's friend in Powys-land ? 
There at Mathraval would Cyveilioc give 
A kinsman's welcome; or at Dinevawr, 
The guest of honor shouldst thou be with Rhys ; 
And he belike from David might obtain 
Some recompense, though poor. 

What recompense ^ 
Exclaim'd Llewelyn ; what hath he to give. 
But life for life ? and what have I to claim 
But vengeance, and my father Yorwerth's throne r 
If with aught short of this my soul could rest, 
Would I not through the wide world follow thee. 
Dear Uncle ! and fare with thee, well or ill, 
And show to thine old age the tenderness 
My childhood found from thee ! — What hopes I 

have 
Let time display. Have thou no fear for me ! 
My bed is made within the ocean caves. 
Of sea- weeds, bleach'd by many a sun and shower ; 
I know the mountain dens, and every hold 
And fastness of the forest ; and I know, — 
What troubles him by day and in his dreams, — 
There's many an honest heart in Gwyneth yet ! 
But tell me thine adventure ; that will be 
A joy to think of. in long winter nights. 
When stormy billows make my lullaby. 

So as they walk'd along the moonlight shore. 
Did Madoc tell him all ; and still he strove. 
By dwelling on that noble end and aim, 
That of his actions was the heart and life, 
To win him to his wish. It touch'd the youth ; 
And when the Prince had ceased, he heaved a sigh, 
Long-drawn and deep, as if regret were there. 
No, no ! he cried, it must not be ! lo, yonder 
My native mountains, and how beautiful 
They rest in the moonlight ! I was nurs'd among 

them ; 
They saw my sports in childhood, they have seen 
My sorrows, they have saved me in the hour 
Of danger ; — I have vowed, that as they were 
My cradle, they shall be my monument I — 
But we shall meet again, and thou wilt find me. 
When next thou visitest thy native Isle, 
King in Aberfraw ' 

Never more, Llewelyn, 
Madoc replied, shall I behold the shores 
Of Britain, nor will ever tale of me 



Reach the Green Isle again. With fearful care 
1 choose my little company, and leave 
No traces of our path, where Violence, 
And bloody Zeal, and bloodier Avarice, 
Might find their blasting way. 

If it be so, — 
And wise is thy resolve — the youth replied, 
Thou wilt not know my fate ; — but this be sure, 
It shall not be inglorious. I have in me 
A hope from Heaven. Give me thy blessing, 
Uncle ! 

Llewelyn, kneeling on the sand, embraced 
His knees, with lifted head and streaming eyes 
Listening. He rose, and fell on Madoc's neck, 
And clasp'd him, with a silent agony, — 
Then launch'd his coracle, and took his way, 
A lonely traveller on the moonlight sea. 



XIV. 



LLAIAN. 



Now hath Prmce Madoc left the holy Isle, 
And homeward to Aberfraw, through the wilds 
Of Arvon, bent his course. A little way 
He turn'd aside, by natural impulses 
Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut. 
That lonely dwelling stood among the hills, 
By a gray mountain-stream; just elevate 
Above the winter torrents did it stand. 
Upon a craggy bank ; an orchard slope 
Arose behind, and joyous was the scene 
In early summer, when those antic trees 
Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax 
Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green. 
But save the flax-field and that orchard slope. 
All else was desolate ; and now it wore 
One sober hue ; the narrow vale, which wound 
Among the hills, was gray with rocks, that peer'd 
Above its shallow soil ; the mountain side 
Was loose with stones bestrown, which oftentimes 
Clattered adown the steep, beneath the foot 
Ofstraggiing goat dislodged ; or tower'd with crags, 
One day when winter's work hath loosen'd them. 
To thunder down. All things assorted well 
With that gray mountain hue ; the low stone lines, 
Which scarcely seem'd to be the work of man. 
The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn, 
The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees 
Gray with their fleecy moss and mistletoe, 
The white-bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash, 
Whose knotted roots were like the rifted rock, 
Through which they forced their way. Adown the 

vale. 
Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed, 
Roll'd the loud mountain-stream. 

When Madoc came, 
A little child was sporting by the brook. 
Floating the fallen leaves, that he might see them 
Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven 
Down the descent, now on the smoother stream 
Sail onward far a^va3^ But when he heard 



352 



MADOC IN WALES 



The horse's tramp, he raised his head and watch'd 
The Prince, who now dismounted and drew nigh. 
The little boy still fix'd his eyes on him. 
His bright blue eyes ; the wind just maved the curls 
That cluster'd round his brow ; and so he stood, 
His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze 
In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand, 
And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt 
There in the hut, when from that cottage-door 
A woman came, who, seeing Madoc, stopp'd 
With such a fear, — for she had cause for fear, — 
As when a bird, returning to her nest, 
Turns to a tree beside, if she behold 
Some prying boy too near the dear retreat. 
Howbeit, advancing soon, she now approach'd 
The approaching Prince, and timidly inquired, 
If on his wayfare he had lost the track, 
That thither he had strayed. Not so, replied 
The gentle Prince ; but having known this place, 
And its old habitants, I came once more 
To see the lonely hut among the hills. 
Hath it been long your dwelling .? 

Some few years. 
Here we have dwelt, quoth she, my child and I. 
Will it please you enter, and partake such fare 
As we can give .? Still timidly she spake. 
But gathering courage from the gentle mien 
Of him with whom she conversed. Madoc thank'd 
Her friendly proffer, and toward the hut 
They went, and in his arms he took the boy. 
Who is his father.'' said the Prince, but wish'd 
The word unutter'dj for thereat her cheek 
Was flush'd with sudden heat and manifest pain ; 
And she replied, He perish'd in the war. 

They enter'd now her home ; she spread the board, 
And set before her guest soft curds, and cheese 
Of curd-like whiteness, with no foreign dye 
Adulterate, and what fruits the orchard gave, 
And that old British beverage which the bees 
Had toil'd to purvey all the summer long. 
Three years, said Madoc, have gone by, since here 
I found a timely welcome, overworn [years ! 

With toil, and sorrow, and sickness — three long 
'Twas when the battle had been waged hard by, 
Upon the plain of Arvon. 

She grew pale, 
Suddenly pale ; and seeing that he mark'd 
The change, she told him, with a feeble voice, 
That was the fatal fight which widow 'd her. 

O Christ, cried Madoc, 'tis a grief to think 
How many a gallant Briton died that day, 
In that accursed strife ! I trod the field 
When all was over, — I beheld them heap'd — 
Ay, like ripe corn within the reaper's reach, 
Strown round the bloody spot where Hoel lay ; 
Brave as he was, himself cut down at last, 
Oppress'd by numbers, gash'd with wounds, yet 

still 
Clinching in his dead hand the broken sword ! — 
But you are moved, — you weep at what I tell. 
Forgive me, that, renewing my own grief, 
I should have waken'd yours ! Did you then know 
Prince Hoel ? 



She replied, Oh, no ! my lot 
Was humble, and my loss a humble one j 
Yet was it all to me ! They say, quoth she, — 
And, as she spake, she struggled to bring forth 
With painful voice the interrupted words, — 
They say. Prince Hoel's body was not found; 
But you, who saw him dead, perchance can tell 
Where he was laid, and by what friendly hand. 

Even where he fell, said Madoc, is his grave; 
For he who buried him was one whose faith 
Reck'd not of boughten prayers, nor passing bell. 
There is a hawthorn grows beside the place, 
A solitary tree, nipp'd by the winds. 
That it doth seem a fitting monument 
For one untimely slain. — But wherefore dwell we 
On this ungrateful theme .'' 

He took a harp 
Which stood beside, and passing o'er its chords, 
Made music. At the touch the child drew nigh, 
Pleased by the sound, and lean'd on Madoc's 

knee. 
And bade him play again. So Madoc play'd, 
For he had skill in minstrelsy, and raised 
His voice, and sung Prince Hoel's lay of love. 

I have harness'd thee, my Steed of shining gray, 
And thou shalt bear me to the dear white walls. 
I love the white walls by the verdant bank. 
That glitter in the sun, where Bashfulness 
Watches the silver sea-mew sail along. 
I love that glittering dwelling, where we hear 
The ever-sounding billows; for there dwells 
The shapely Maiden, fair as the sea-spray. 
Her cheek as lovely as the apple flower, 
Or summer evening's glow. I pine for her ; 
In crowded halls my spirit is with her ; 
Through the long, sleepless night I think on her ; 
And happiness is gone, and health is lost, 
And fled the flush of youth, and I am pale 
As the pale ocean on a sunless morn. 
I pine away for her, yet pity her, 
That she should spurn so true a love as mine. 

He ceased, and laid his hand upon the child, — 
And didst thou like the song ? The child replied, — 
Oh, yes ! it is a song my mother loves, 
And so I love it too. He stoop'd and kiss'd 
The boy, who still was leaning on his knee, 
Already grown familiar. I should like 
To take thee with me, quoth the Ocean Lord, 
Over the seas. 

Thou art Prince Madoc, then ! — 
The mother cried, thou art indeed the Prince ! 
That song — that look — and at his feet she fell, 
Crying — Oh take him, Madoc ! save the child ! 
Thy brother Hoel's orphan ! 

Long it was 
Ere that in either agitated heart 
The tumult could subside. One while the Prince 
Gazed on the child, tracing intently there 
His brother's lines ; and now he caught him up, 
And kiss'd his cheek, and gazed again till all 
Was dim and dizzy, — then blest God, and vow'd 
That he should never need a father's love. 



MADOC IN WALES, 



353 



At length, when copious tears had now relieved 
Her burden'd heart, and many a broken speech 
In tears had died away, O Prince, she cried. 
Long hath it been my dearest prayer to Heaven, 
That I might see thee once, and to thy love 
Commit this friendless boy ! For many a time. 
In phrase so fond did Hoel tell thy worth, 
That it hath waken'd misery in me 
To think I could not as a sister claim 
Thy love ! and therefore was it that till now 
Thou knevv'st me not; for I entreated him 
That he would never let thy virtuous eye 
Look on my guilt, and make me feel my shame. 
Madoc, I did not dare to see thee then. 
Thou wilt not scorn me now, — for I have now 
Forgiven myself; and, while I here perform'd 
A mother's duty in-this solitude. 
Have felt myself forgiven. 

With that she clasp 'd 
His hand, and bent her face on it, and wept. 
Anon collecting, she pursued, — My name 
Is Llaian : by the chance of war I fell 
Into his power, when all my family 
Had been cut off, all in one hour of blood. 
He saved me from the ruffian's hand, he sooth'd. 
With tenderest care, my sorrow. — You can tell 
How gentle he could be, and how his eyes, 
So full of life and kindliness, could win 
All hearts to love him. Madoc, I was young ; 
I had no living friend ; — and when I gave 
This infant to his arms, when with such joy 
He view'd it o'er and o'er again, and press'd 
A father's kiss upon its cheek, and turn'd 
To me, and made me feel more deeply yet 
A mother's deep delight, — oh I I was proud 
To think my child in after years should say, 
Prince Hoel was his father ! 

Thus I dwelt 
In the white dwelling by the verdant bank, — 
Though not without my melancholy hours, — 
Happy. The joy it was when 1 beheld 
His steed of shining gray come hastening on. 
Across the yellow sand ! — Alas ! ere long. 
King Owen died. I need not tell thee, Madoc, 
With what a deadly and forefeeling fear 
I heard how Hoel seized his father's throne, 
Nor with what ominous woe I welcomed him, 
In that last, little, miserable hour 
Ambition gave to love. 1 think his heart, 
Brave as it was, misgave him. When I spake 
Of David and my fears, he smiled upon me ; 
But 'twas a smile that came not from the heart, — 
A most ill-boding smile ! — O Madoc ! Madoc ! 
You know not with what misery I saw 
His parting steps, — with what a dreadful hope 
I watch'd for tidings ! — And at length it came, — 
Came like a thunderbolt ! — I sought the field ! 

Madoc, there were many widows there. 

But none with grief like mine ! 1 look'd around; 

1 dragg'd aside the bodies of the dead. 

To search for him, in vain ; — and then a hope 
Seized me, which it was agony to lose ! 

Night came. 1 did not heed the storm of night; 
But for the sake of this dear babe, I sought 
45 



Shelter in this lone hut : 'twas desolate ; 

And when my reason had return'd, I thought 

That here the child of Hoel might be safe, 

Till we could claim thy care. But thou, meantime, 

Didst go to roam the Ocean ; so I learn'd 

To bound my wishes here. The carkanet, 

The embroider'd girdle, and what other gauds 

Were once my vain adornments, soon were changed 

For things of profit, goats and bees, and this, 

The tuneful solace of my solitude. 

Madoc, the harp is as a friend to me ; 

I sing to it the songs which Hoel loved. 

And Hoel's own sweet lays ; it comforts me. 

And gives me joy in grief. 

Often 1 grieved, 
To think the son of Hoel should grow up 
In this unworthy state of poverty ; 
Till Time, who softens all regrets, had worn 
That vain regret away, and I became 
Humbly resign'd to God's unerring will. 
To him I look'd for healing, and he pour'd 
His balm into my wounds. I never form'd 
A prayer for more, — and lo ! the happiness 
Which he hath, of his mercy, sent me now ! 



XV. 



THE EXCOMMUNICATION. 

O.v Madoc's docile courser Llaian sits, 
Holding her joyful boy ; the Prince beside 
Paces afoot, and, like a gentle Squire, 
Leads her loose bridle ; from the saddle-bow 
His sliield and helmet hang, and with the lance. 
Staff-like, he stay'd his steps. Before the sun 
Had climb'd his southern eminence, they left 
The mountain-feet ; and hard by Bangor now. 
Travelling the plain before tliem they espy 
A lordly cavalcade, for so it seem'd. 
Of knights, with hawk in hand, and hounds in 

leash. 
Squires, pages, serving-men, and armed grooms. 
And many a sunipter-beast and laden wain, 
Far following in their rear. The bravery 
Of glittering bauldricks and of high-plumed crests, 
Embroider'd surcoats and emblazon'd shields, 
And lances whose long streamers play'd aloft, 
Made a rare pageant, as with sound of trump. 
Tambour and cittern, proudly they went on ; 
And ever, at the foot-fall of their steeds. 
The tinkling horse-bells, in rude symphony. 
Accorded with the joy. 

What have we here ? 
Quoth Madoc then to one who stood beside 
The threshold of his osier-woven hut. 
'Tis the great Saxon Prelate, he return'd. 
Come hither for some end, I wis not what, 
Only be sure no good ! — How stands the tide ? 
Said Madoc ; can we pass ? — 'Tis even at flood, 
The man made answer, and the Monastery 
Will have no hospitality to spare 
For one of Wales to-day. Be ye content 
To guest with us. 



354 



MADOC IN WALES, 



He took the Prince's sword : 
The daughter of the house brought water then, 
And wash'd the stranger's feet; the board was 

spread, 
And o'er the bowl they commun'd of the days 
Ere ever Saxon set his hateful foot 
Upon the beautiful Isle. 

As so they sat, 
The bells of the Cathedral rung abroad 
Unusual summons. What is this .'' exclaim'd 
Prince Madoc ; let us see ! — Forthwith they went, 
He and his host, their way. They found the rites 
Begun ; the mitred Baldwin, in his hand 
Holding a taper, at the altar stood. 
Let him be cursed ! — were the words which first 
Assail'd their ears, — living and dead, in limb 
And life, in soul and body, be he curs' d 
Here and hereafter ! Let him feel the curse 
At every moment, and in every act. 
By night and day, in waking and in sleep ! 
We cut him off frem Christian fellowship ; 
Of Christian sacraments we deprive his soul ; 
Of Christian burial we deprive his corpse ; 
And when that carrion to the Fiends is left 
fn unprotected earth, thus let his soul 
Be quench'd in hell ! 

He dasli'd upon the floor 
His taper down, and all the ministering Priests 
Extinguish'd each his light, to consummate 
The imprecation. 

Whom is it ye curse, 
Cried Madoc, with these horrors ? They replied. 
The contumacious Prince of Powys-land, 
Cyveilioc. 

What ! quoth Madoc, — and his eye 
Grew terrible, — who is he that sets his foot 
In Gwyneth, and with hellish forms like these 
Dare outrage here Mathraval's noble Lord.? 
We wage no war with women nor with Priests ; 
But if there be a knight amid your train. 
Who will stand forth, and speak before my face 
Dishonor of the Prince of Powys-land, 
Lo ! here stand I, Prince Madoc, who will make 
That slanderous wretch cry craven in the dust, 
And eat his lying words ! 

Be temperate ! 
Quoth one of Baldwin's Priests, who, Briton born, 
Had known Prince Madoc in his father's court ; 
It is our charge, throughout this Christian land, 
To call upon all Christian men to join 
The armies of the Lord, and take the cross ; 
That so, in battle with the Infidels, 
The palm of victory or of martyrdom, 
Glorious alike, may be their recompense. 
This holy badge, whether in godless scorn. 
Or for the natural blindness of his heart, 
Cyveilioc hath refused; thereby incurring 
The pain, which, not of our own impulse, we 
Inflict upon his soul, but at the will 
Of our most holy Father, from whose word 
Lies no appeal on earth. 

'Tis well for thee. 
Intemperate Prince ! said Baldwin, that our blood 
Flows with a calmer action than thine own ! 
Thy brother David hath put on the cross, 



To our most pious warfare piously 

Pledging his kingly sword. Do thou the like, 

And for this better object lay aside 

Thine other enterprise, which, lest it rob 

Judea of one single Christian arm, 

We do condemn as sinful. Follow thou 

The banner of the church to Palestine ; 

So shalt thou expiate this rash offence, 

Against the which we else should fulminate 

Our ire, did we not see in charity, 

And therefore rather pity than resent, 

The rudeness of this barbarous land. 

At that, 
Scorn tempering wrath, yet anger sharpening 

scorn, 
Madoc replied — Barbarians as we are. 
Lord Prelate, we received the law of Christ 
Many a long age before your pirate sires 
Had left their forest dens : nor are we now 
To learn that law from Norman or from Dane, 
Saxon, Jute, Angle, or whatever name 
Suit best your mongrel race ! Ye think, perchance 
That like your own poor, woman-hearted King, 
We, too, in Gwyneth are to take the yoke 
Of Rome upon our necks ; — but you may tell 
Your Pope, that when 1 sail upon the seas, 
I shall not strike a topsail for the breath 
Of all his maledictions ! 

Saying thus. 
He turn'd away, lest further speech might call 
Further reply, and kindle further wrath. 
More easy to avoid than to allay. 
Therefore he left the church ; and soon his mind 
To gentler mood was won, by social talk 
And the sweet prattle of that blue-eyed boy, 
Whom in his arms he fondled. 

But when now 
Evening had settled, to the door there came 
One of the brethren of the Monastery, 
Who called Prince Madoc forth. Apart they went, 
And in the low, suspicious voice of fear, 
Though none was nigh, the Monk began. Be calm, ■ 
Prince Madoc, while I speak, and patiently 1 

Hear to the end ! Thou know'st that, in his life, 
Becket did excommunicate thy sire 
For his unlawful marriage ; but the King, 
Feeling no sin in conscience, heeded not 
The inefficient censure. Now, when Baldwin 
Beheld his monument to-day, impell'd. 
As we do think, by anger against thee. 
He swore that, even as Owen in his deeds 
Disown'd the Church when living, even so 
The Church disown'd him dead, and that his corpse 
No longer should be suffer'd to pollute 
The Sanctuary. — Be patient, 1 beseech. 
And hear me out. Gerald, at this, who felt 
A natural horror, sought — as best he knew 
The haughty Primate's temper — to dissuade j 

By politic argument, and chiefly urged 
The quick and fiery nature of our nation, — 
How, at the sight of such indignity, ! 

They would arise in arms, and limb from limb 
Tear piecemeal him and all his company. 
So far did this prevail, that he will now 
Commit the deed in secret; and, this night, 



MADOC IN WALES. 



355 



Thy father's body from its resting-place, 

Madoc ! shall be torn, and cast aside 

In some unhailow'd pit, with foul disgrace 
And contumelious wrong. 

Sayest thou to-night ? 
Quoth Madoc. Ay, at midnight, he replied, 
Shall this impiety be perpetrated. 
Therefore hath Gerald, for the reverence 
He bears to Owen's royal memory. 
Sent thee the tidings. Now, be temperate 
In thy just anger, Prince ! and shed no blood. 
Thou know'st how dearly the Plantagenet 
Atones for Becket's death ; and be thou sure. 
Though thou thyself shouldst sail beyond the storm. 
That it would fall on Britain. 

While he spake, 
Madoc was still ; the feeling work'd too deep 
For speech or visible sign. At length he said, 
What if amid their midnight sacrilege 

1 should appear among them ? 

It were well ; 
The Monk replied, if, at a sight like that, 
Thou canst withhold thy hand. 

Oh, fear me not ! 
Good and true friend, said Madoc. I am calm, 
And calm as thou beholdest me will prove 
In word and action. Quick I am to feel 
Light ills, — perhaps o'er-hasty : summer gnats. 
Finding my cheek unguarded, may infix 
Their skin-deep stings, to vex and irritate ; 
But if the wolf or forest boar be nigh, 
I am awake to danger. Even so 
Bear 1 a mind of steel and adamant 
Against all greater wrongs. My heart hath now 
Received its impulse ; and thou shalt behold 
How in this strange and hideous circumstance 
I shall find profit — Only, my true friend, 
Let me have entrance. 

At the western porch, 
Between the complines and the matin-bell, — 
The Monk made answer : thou shalt find the door 
Ready. Thy single person will suffice; 
For Baldwin knows his danger, and the hour 
Of guilt or fear convicts him, both alike 
Opprobrious. Now, farewell ! 

Then Madoc took 
His host aside, and in his private ear 
Told him the purport, and wherein his help 
Was needed. Night came on ; the hearth was 

heap'd; 
The women went to rest. They twain, the while. 
Sat at the board, and while the untasted bowl 
Stood by them, watch'd the glass whose falling 

sands 
Told out the weary hours. The hour is come ; 
Prince Madoc helm'd his head, and from his neck 
He slung the bugle-horn ; they took their shields. 
And lance in hand went forth. And now arrived, 
The bolts give back before them, and the door 
Rolls on its heavy hinge. 

Beside the grave 
Stood Baldwin and the Prior, who, albeit 
Cambrian himself, in fear and awe obey'd 
The lordly Primate's will. They stood and watch'd 
Their ministers perform the irreverent work. 



And now with spade and mattock have they broken 

Into the house of death, and now have they 

From the stone coffin wrench 'd the iron cramps, 

When sudden interruption startled them. 

And clad in complete mail from head to foot. 

They saw the Prince come in. Their tapers 

Upon his visage, as he wore his helm [gleam'd 

Open ; and when in that pale countenance, — 

For the strong feeling blanch'd his cheek, — they 

His father's living lineaments, a fear [saw 

Like ague shook them. But anon that fit 

Of scared imagination to the sense 

Of other peril yielded, when they heard 

Prince Madoc's dreadful voice. Stay! he ex- 

claim'd, 
As now they would have fled ; — stir not a man, — 
Or if I once put breath into this horn, 
All Wales will hear, as if dead Owen call'd 
For vengeance from that grave. Stir not a man, 
Or not a man shall live ! The doors are watch'd, 
And ye are at my mercy ! 

But at that, 
Baldwin from the altar seized the crucifix. 
And held it forth to Madoc, and cried out, 
He w^ho strikes me, strikes Him; forbear, on pain 

Of endless 

Peace ! quoth Madoc, and profane not 
The holy Cross, with those polluted hands 
Of midnight sacrilege ! — Peace ! I harm thee 

not, — 
Be wise, and thou art safe. — For thee, thou know'st, 
Prior, that if thy treason were divulged, 
David would hang thee on thy steeple top. 
To feed the steeple daws. Obey and live ! 
Go, bring fine linen and a coffer meet 
To bear these relics ; and do ye, meanwhile. 
Proceed upon your work. 

They at his word 
Raised the stone cover, and display'd the dead, 
In royal grave-clothes habited, his arms 
Cross'd on the breast, with precious gums and spice 
Fragrant, and incorruptibly preserved. 
At Madoc's bidding, round the corpse they wrap 
The linen web, fold within fold involved ; 
They laid it in the coffer, and with cloth 
At head and foot filled every interval. 
And press'd it down compact ; they closed the lid, 
And Madoc with his signet seal'd it thrice. 
Then said he to his host. Bear thou at dawn 
This treasure to the ships. My father's bones 
Shall have their resting-place, v/here mine one day 
May moulder by their side. He shall be free 
In death, who living did so well maintain 
His and his country's freedom. As for ye, 
For your own safety, ye, I ween, will keep 
My secret safe. So saying, he went his way. 



XVI. 
DAVID. 



Now hath the Lord of Ocean once again 
Set foot in Mona. Llaian there receives 



356 



MADOC IN WALES. 



I 



Sisterly greeting from the royal maid, 
Who, while she tempers to the public eye 
Her welcome, safely to the boy indulged 
In fond endearments of instinctive love. 
When the first flow of joy was overpast, 
How went the equipment on, the Prince inquired. 
Nay, brother, quoth Goervyl, ask thou that 
Of Urien ; — it hath been his sole employ 
Daily from cock-crow until even-song. 
That he hath laid aside all other thoughts, 
Forgetful even of me ! She said and smiled 
Playful reproach upon the good old man, 
Who in such chiding as affection loves, 
Dallying with terms of wrong, return'd rebuke. 
There, Madoc, pointing to the shore, he cried, 
There are they moor'd ; six gallant barks, as trim 
And worthy of the sea as ever yet 
Gave canvass to the gale. The mariners 
Flock to thy banner, and the call hath roused 
Many a brave spirit. Soon as Spring shall serve, 
There need be no delay. 1 should depart 
Without one wish that lingers, could we bear 
Ririd from hence, and break poor Rodri's chains. 
Thy lion-hearted brother : — and that boy. 
If he were with us, Madoc ! that dear boy, 
Llewelyn : 

Sister, said the Prince at that, 
How sped the Queen .? 

Oh, Madoc ! she replied, 
A hard and unrelenting heart hath he. 
The gentle Emma told me she had fail'd, 
And that was all she told ; but in her eye 
1 could see sorrow struggling. She complains not, 
And yet, 1 know, in bitterness laments 
The hour which brought her as a victim here. 

Then I will seek the Monarch, Madoc cried; 
And forth he went. Cold welcome David gave. 
Such as might chill a suppliant ; but the Prince 
Fearless began. I found at Dinevawr 
Our brother Ririd, and he made his suit 
That he might follow me, a banish'd man. 
He waits thine answer at the court of Rhys, 
Now I beseech thee, David, say to him, 
His father's hall is open ! 

Then the King 
Replied, 1 told thee, Madoc, thy request 
Displeased me heretofore ; 1 warn'd thee, too, 
To shun the rebel ; yet my messenger 
Tells me, the guests at Dinevawr who sat 
At board with Rhys, and drank of his own cup, 
Were Madoc and Lord Ririd. — Was this well, 
This open disobedience to my will. 
And my express command .? 

Madoc subdued 
His rising wrath. If I should tell thee. Sire, 
He answered, by what chance it so fell out, 
I should of disobedience stand excused, 
Even were it here a crime. Yet think again, 
David, and let thy better mind prevail. 
I am his surety here ; he comes alone ; 
The strength of yonder armament is mine ; 
And when did I deceive thee ? — I did hope, 
For natural love and public decency. 
That ye would part in friendship — let that pass ! 



He may remain, and join me in the hour 
Of embarkation. But for thine own sake, 
Cast off these vile suspicions, and the fear 
That makes its danger ! Call to mind, my brother, 
The rampart that we were to Owen's throne ! 
Are there no moments when the thoughts and loves 
Of other days return.^ — Let Rodri loose; 
Restore him to his birth-right ! — Why wouldst thou 
Hold him in chains, when benefits would bind 
His noble spirit ? 

Leave me ! cried the King; 
Thou know'st the theme is hateful to my ear. 
I have the mastery now, and idle words, 
Madoc, shall never thrust me from the throne, 
Which this right arm in battle hardly won. 
There must he lie till nature set him free, 
And so deliver both. Trespass no more ! 

A little yet bear with me, Madoc cried. 
I leave this land forever : let me first 
Behold my brother Rodri, lest he think 
My summer love be withered, and in wrath 
Remember me hereafter. 

Leave me, Madoc ! 
Speedily, ere indulgence grow a fault, 
Exclaim'd the Monarch. Do not tempt my wrath '. 
Thou know'st me ! 

Ay ! the Ocean Prince replied, 
I know thee, David, and I pity thee, 
Thou poor, suspicious, miserable man ! 
Friend hast thou none except thy country's foe. 
That hateful Saxon, he whose bloody hand 
Pluck'd out thy brethren's eyes ; and for thy kin, 
Them hast thou made thy perilous enemies. 
What if the Lion Rodri were abroad .'' 
What if Llewelyn's banner were display'd.? 
The sword of England could not save thee then. 
Frown not, and menace not ! for what am I, 
That I should fear thine anger ? — And with that 
He turn'd indignant from the wrathful king. 



XVII. 
THE DEPARTURE. 

Winter hath pass'd away ; the vernal storms 
Have spent their rage, the ships are stored, and now 
To-morrow they depart. That day a Boy, 
Weary and foot-sore, to Aberfraw came, 
Who to Goervyl's chamber made his way. 
And caught the hem of her garment, and ex- 
claim'd, 
A boon, — a boon, — dear Lady ! Nor did he 
Wait more reply than that encouragement, 
Which her sweet eye and lovely smile bestow'd; 
I am a poor, unhappy, orphan boy, 
Born to fair promises and better hopes, 
But now forlorn. Take me to be your page ! — 
For blessed Mary's sake, refuse me not ! 
I have no friend on earth nor hope but this. 

The boy was fair; and though his eyes were 
swollen. 



MADOC IN WALES. 



357 



And cheek defiled with tears, and though his voice 
Came chok'd by grief, yet to that earnest eye 
And supplicating voice so musical, 
It had not sure been easy to refuse 
The boon he begg'd. I cannot grant thy suit, 
Goervyl cried, but I can aid it, boy ! — 
Go ask of Madoc ! — And herself arose. 
And led him where her brother on the shore 
That day the last embarkment oversaw. 
Mervyn then took his mantle by the skirt. 
And knelt and made his suit ; she too began 
To sue ; but Madoc smiling on the Maid, 
Won by the virtue of the countenance 
Which look'd for favor, lightly gave the yes. 

Where wert thou, Caradoc, when that fair boy 
Told his false tale ^ for hadst thou heard the voice. 
The gentle voice, so musically sweet. 
And seen that earnest eye, it would have heal'd 
Thy wounded heart, and thou hadst voyaged on, 
The happiest man that ever yet forsook 
His native country ! He, on board the bark, 
Lean'd o'er the vessel-side, and there he stood 
And gazed, almost unconsciovis that he gazed, 
Toward yon distant mountains where she dwelt, 
Senena, his beloved. Caradoc, 
Senena, thy beloved, is at hand ! 
Her golden locks are clipp'd, and her blue eye 
Is wandering through the throng in search of thee. 
For whose dear sake she hath forsaken all. 
You deem her false, that her frail constancy 
Shrunk from her father's anger, that she lives 
Another's victim bride ; but she hath fled 
From that unnatural anger ; hath escaped 
The unnatural union ; she is on the shore, 
Senena, blue-eyed Maid, a seemly boy. 
To share thy fortunes, to reward thy love. 
And to the land of peace to follow thee. 
Over the ocean waves. 

Now all is done. 
Stores, beeves, and flocks, and water all aboard ; 
The dry East blows, and not a sign of change 
Stains the clear firmament. The Sea Lord sat 
At the last banquet in his brother's court. 
And heard the song. It told of Owen's fame. 
When, with his Normen and assembled force 
Of Guienne and Gascony, and Anjou's strength. 
The Fleming's aid, and England's chosen troops, 
Along the ascent of Berwyn, many a day 
The Saxon vainly on his mountain foes 
Denounced his wrath ; for Mona's dragon sons. 
By wary patience bafiied long his force. 
Winning slow Famine to their aid, and help'd 
By the angry Elements, and Sickness sent 
From Heaven, and Fear that of its vigor robb'd 
The healthy arm ; — then in quick enterprise 
Fell on his weary and dishearten'd host. 
Till, with defeat, and loss, and obloquy, 
He fled with all his nations. Madoc gave 
His spirit to the song ; he felt the theme 
In every pulse ; the recollection came 
Revived and heighten' d to intenser pain, 
That in Aberfraw, in his father's hall, 
He never more should share the feast, nor hear 
The echoing harp again ! His heart was full ; 



And, yielding to its yearnings, in that mood 

Of awful feeling, he call'd forth the King, 

And led him from the palace-porch, and stretcli'd 

His hand toward the ocean, and exclaim'd, 

To-morrow over yon wide waves I go ; 

To-morrow, never to return, I leave 

My native land ! O David, O my brother, 

Turn not impatiently a reckless ear 

To that affectionate and natural voice 

Which thou wilt hear no more ! Release our 

brethren ; 
Recall the wanderers home ; and link them to thee 
By cordial confidence, by benefits 
Which bless the benefactor. Be not thou 
As is the black and melancholy yew 
That strikes into the grave its baleful roots, 
And prospers on the dead ! — The Saxon King, — 
Think not I wrong him now ; — an hour like this 
Hath soften"d all my harsher feelings down; 
Nor will I hate him for his sister's sake. 
Thy gentle Queen, — whom, that great God may 

bless. 
And, blessing her, bless thee and our dear country, 
Shall never be forgotten in my prayers ; 
But he is far away ; and should there come 
The evil hour upon thee, — if thy kin. 
Wearied by suffering, and driven desperate, 
Should lift the sword, or young Llewelyn raise 
His banner, and demand his father's throne, — 
Were it not trusting to a broken reed, 
To lean on England's aid? — I urge thee not 
For answer now ; but sometimes, O my brother ! 
Sometimes recall to mind my parting words, 
As 'twere the death-bed counsel of the friend 
Who loved thee best ! 

The affection of his voice, 
So mild and solemn, soften'd David's heart; 
He saw his brother's eyes, suffused with tears, 
Shine in the moonbeam as he spake ; the King 
Remembered his departure, and he felt 
Feelings which long from his disnatured breast 
Ambition had expell'd : he could almost 
Have follow'd their strong impulse. From the 

shore, 
Madoc with quick and agitated step 
Had sought his home ; the monarch went his way, 
Serious and slow, and laid him down that night 
With painful recollections, and such thoughts. 
As might, if Heaven had will'd it, have matured 
To penitence and peace. 

The day is come ; 
The adventurers in Saint Cybi's holy fane 
Hear the last mass, and, all assoil'd of sin. 
Partake the bread of Christian fellowship. 
Then, as the Priest his benediction gave. 
They knelt, in such an awful stillness hush'd, 
As with yet more oppression seem'd to load 
The burden'd heart. At times, and half sup- 

press'd. 
Womanly sobs were heard, and manly cheeks 
Were wet with silent tears. Now forth they go. 
And at the portal of the Church unfurl 
Prince Madoc's banner ; at that sight, a shoiit 
Burst from his followers, and the hills and rocks 
Thrice echoed their acclaim. 



358 



MADOC IN WALES. 



There lie the ships, 
Their sails all loose, their streamers rolling- out 
With sinuous flow and swell, like water-snakes, 
Curling aloft 5 the waves are gay with boats, 
Pinnace, and barge, and coracle, — the sea 
Swarms like the shore with life. Oh, what a sight 
Of beauty for the spirit unconcern'd, 
If heart there be which unconcern'd could view 
A sight like this ! — how yet more beautiful 
For him whose soul can feel and understand 
The solemn import ! Yonder they embark — 
Youth, beauty, valor, virtue, reverend age; 
Some led by love of noble enterprise, 
Others, who, desperate of their country's weal, 
Fly from the impending yoke ; all warm alike 
With confidence and high heroic hope, 
And all in one fraternal bond conjoin 'd 
By reverence to their Chief, the best beloved 
That ever yet on hopeful enterprise 
Led gallant army forth. He, even now 
Lord of himself, by faith in God and love 
To man, subdues the feeling of this hour, 
The bitterest of his being. 

At this time, 
Pale, and with feverish eye, the King came up, 
And led him somewhat from the throng apart, 
Saying, I sent at day-break to release 
Rodri from prison, meaning that with thee 
He should depart in peace ; but he was gone, 
This very night he had escaped ! — Perchance — 
As I do hope — it was thy doing, Madoc .'' 
Is he aboard the fleet ? 

I would he were ! 
Madoc replied; with what a lighten'd heart 
Then should I sail away ! Ririd is there 
Alone — alas ! that this was done so late ! 

Reproach me not ! half sullenly the King, 
Answering, exclaim'd ; Madoc, reproach me not ! 
Thou know'st how hardly I attain'd the throne ; 
And is it strange that I should guard with fear 
The precious prize .'' — Now — v^^hen I would have 

taken 
Thy counsel — be the evil on his head ! 
Blame me not now, my brother, lest sometimes 
I call again to mind thy parting words 
In sorrow ! 

God be with thee ! Madoc cried ; 
And if at times the harshness of a heart. 
Too prone to wrath, have wrong'd thee, let these 

tears 
Efface all faults. I leave thee, O my brother, 
With all a brother's feelings ! 

So he said. 
And grasp'd, with trembling tenderness, his hand. 
Then calm'd himself, and moved toward the boat. 
Emma, though tears would have their way and sighs 
Would swell, suppressing still all words of woe, 
Follow 'd Goervyl to the extremest shore. 
But then as on the plank the maid set foot, 
Did Emma, staying her by the hand, pluck out 
The crucifix, which next her heart she wore 
In reverence to its relic, and she cried, 
Yet, ere we part, change with me, dear Goervyl, — 
Dear sister, loved too well, or lost too soon ! — 



I shall betake me often to my prayers, 
Never in them, Goervyl, of thy name 
Unmindful ; — thou too wilt remember me 
Still in thine orisons; — but God forefend 
That ever misery should make thee find 
This Cross thy only comforter ! 

She said, 
And kiss'd the holy pledge, as each to each 
Transferr'd the mutual gift Nor could the Maid 
Answer, for agony, to that farewell ; 
She held Queen Emma to her breast, and close 
She clasp'd her with a strong, convulsive sob, 
Silently. Madoc too in silence went, 
But press'd a kiss on Emma's lips, and left 
His tears upon her cheek. With dizzy eyes 
Gazing she stood, nor saw the boat push off", — 
The dashing of the oars awaken 'd her; 
She wipes her tears away, to view once more 
Those dear, familiar faces; — they are dim 
In the distance : never shall her waking eye 
Behold them, till the hour of happiness. 
When death hath made her pure for perfect bliss ! 

Two hearts alone of all that company, 
Of all the thousands who beheld the scene, 
Partook unmingled joy. Dumb with delight, 
Young Hoel views the ships, and feels the boat 
Rock on the heaving waves ; and Llaian felt 
Comfort, — though sad, yet comfort, — that for her 
No eye was left to weep, nor heart to mourn. 

Hark ! 'tis the mariners, with voice attuned, 
Timing their toil ! and now, with gentle gales. 
Slow from the holy haven they depart. 



XVIIl. 



RODRI. 



Now hath the evening settled; the broad Moon 
Rolls through the rifted clouds. With gentle gales 
Slowly they glide along, when they behold 
A boat with press of sail and stress of oar 
Speed forward to the fleet; and now, arrived 
Beside the Chieftain's vessel, one inquires 
If Madoc be aboard. The answer given. 
Swift he ascended up the lofty side. 
With joyful wonder did the Ocean Lord 
Again behold Llewelyn ; but he gazed 
Doubtfully on his comrade's countenance, — 
A meagre man, severe of brow, his eye 
Stern. Thou dost view me, Madoc, he exclaim'd, 
As 'twere a stranger's face. I marvel not ! 
The long afflictions of my prison-house 
Have changed me. 

Rodri ! cried the Prince, and fell 
Upon his neck; — last night, subdued at length 
By my solicitations, did the King 
Send to deliver thee, that thou shouldst share 
My happy enterprise; — and thou art come, 
Even to my wish ! 

Nay, Madoc, nay, not so ' 
He answered, with a stern and bitter smile ; 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES 



359 



This gallant boy hath given me liberty, 
And I will pay him with his father's throne ; 
Ay, by my father's soul ! — Last night we fled 
The house of bondage, and in the sea-caves 
By day we lurk'd securely. Here I come, 
Only to see thee once before I die. 
And say farewell, — dear brother ! 

Would to God 
This purpose could be changed ! the Sea Lord 

cried; 
But thou art roused by wrongs, and who shall tame 
That lion heart? — This only, if your lot 
Fall favorable, will I beseech of ye, 
That to his Queen, the fair Plantagenet, 
All honorable humanity ye show. 
For her own virtue, and in gratitude, 
As she hath pleaded for you, and hath urged 
Her husband on your part, till it hath turn'd 
His wrath upon herself. Oh ! deal ye by her 
As by your dearest sister in distress, 
For even so dear is she to Madoc's heart : 
And now I know she from Aberfraw's tower 
Watcheth these specks upon the moonlight sea, 
And weeps for my departure, and for me 
Sends up her prayers to Heaven, nor thinks that 

now 
1 must make mine to man in her behalf! 

Quoth Rodri, Rest assured for her. I swear, 
By our dead mother, so to deal with her 
As thou thyself wouldst dictate, as herself 
Shall wish. 

The tears fell fast from Madoc's eyes ; 
O Britain ! O my country ! he exclaim 'd. 
For ever thus by civil strife convulsed, 
Thy children's blood flowing to satisfy 
Thy children's rage, how wilt thou still support 
The struggle with the Saxon ? 

Rodri cried, 
Our strife shall not be long. Mona will rise 
With joy, to welcome me, her rightful Lord ; 
And woe be to the King who rules by fear, 
When danger comes against him ! 

Fear not thou 
For Britain ! quoth Llewelyn ; for not yet 
The country of our fathers shall resign 
Her name among the nations. Though her Sun 
Slope from his eminence, the voice of man 
May yet arrest him on his downward way. 
My dreams by day, my visions in the night, 
Are of her welfare. I shall mount the throne, — 
Yes, Madoc ! and the Bard of years to come. 
Who harps of Arthur's and of Owen's deeds, 
Shall with the Worthies of his country rank 
Llewelyn's name. Dear Uncle, fare thee well ! — 
And I almost could wish I had been born 
Of humbler lot, that I might follow thee, 
Companion of this noble enterprise. 
Think of Llewelyn often, who will oft 
Remember thee in love ! 

For the last time 
He press'd his Uncle's hand, and Rodri gave 
The last farewell ; then went the twain their way. 

So over ocean through the moonlight waves, 



Prince Madoc sail'd with all his company. 
No nobler crew filled that heroic bark, 
Which bore the first adventurers of the deep 
To seek the Golden Fleece on barbarous shores ; 
Nor richlier fraught did that illustrious fleet 
Home to the Happy Island hold its way. 
When Amadis, with his prime chivalry, 
He of all chivalry himself the flower, 
Came from the rescue, proud of Roman spoils, 
And Oriana, freed from Roman thrall. 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 

Silent and thoughtful, and apart from all, 
Stood Madoc. — I. p. 327, col. 2. 

Long after these Hues had been written, I was pleased at 
finding tiie same feeling expressed in a very singular specimen 
of metrical autobiography : 

j1 JVuo, dcsprrgando as velas 

Ja se aproveita do vcnto ; 
jE de evidente. alcirria 

Os Portugurzes ja cheios 

Sobre o convcs estam todos ; 

J\ra terra se vam revendo 
Igrejas, Palacios, Quintas, 

De que tern conhechncnto, 

Daqul, dalli apontando 

Vam ledamente co dedo. 
Todos fall undo demostram 

Seus jiibilus manifestos ; 

Mas Vieira occupado 

Vai de hum notavel silencio 
Seu ezcessivo alvorogo 

Tumultuante, que dentro 

JVo peito sente, Ihe causa 

De sobresalto os effcitos. 
Quanta mais die chegando 

Vai ao suspirado termo, 

Mais se ihe augmenta o gostoso 

Susto no doce projecto. 

Vieira Lusitano. 



Mona, the dark island. — I. p. 328, col. ]. 
Ynys Dowyll, the dark island. 

Aherfraw. — I. p. 328, col. 1. 

The palace of Gwynedd, or North Wales, Rhodri Mawr, 
about the year 873, fixed the seat of government here, which 
had formerly been at Dyganwy, but latterly at Caer Seiont 
in Arvon, near the present town of Caernarvon. " It is 
strange," sa^^s Warrington, " that he should desert a country 
where every mountain was a natural fortress, and in times of 
such difficulty and danger, should make choice of a residence 
so exposed and defenceless." But this very danger may have 
been his motive. The Danes, who could make no impression 
upon England against the gre<it Alfred, had turned their arms 
upon Wales ; Mona was the part most open to their ravages, 
and it may have been an act as well of policy as of courage in 
the king to fix his abode there. He fell there, at length, in 
battle against the Saxons. A barn now stands upon the site 
of the palace, in which there are stones that, by their better 
workmanship, appear to have belonged to the original building. 



Richhj would the king 
Oift the red hand that rid him of that fear! 



I. p. 328, col. 1. 



" It was the manner of those days, that the murtherer only, 
and he that gave the death's wound, should fly, which was 



360 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES, 



called in Welsh Llavrrudd, which is a red hand, because he 
had blouded his hands. The accessories and abettors to the 
murtherers were never hearkened after." — Gwydir History. 



David ! King Owen's son — my father'' s son — 

He wed the Saxon — the Plantagenet ! — I. p. 328, col. 2. 

This marriage was, in fact, one of the means whereby Henry 
succeeded for a time in breaking the independent spirit of the 
Welsh. David immediately sent a thousand men to serve 
under his brother-in-law and liege lord in Normandy, and 
shortly after attended the parliament at Oxford upon his 
summons. 

He is the headstrong slave 
Of passions unsubdued. — I.p. 329, col. 1. 

Caradoc represents Davydd as a prince greatly disliked on 
account of his cruelty and untractable spirit, killing and 
putting out the eyes of those who were not subservient to his 
will, after the manner of the English ! — Cambrian Biography. 



Tlie guests were seated at the festal board. — II. p. 



col. 1. 



The order of the royal hall was established by law. 

" The men to whom the right of a seat in the hall belongs 
are fourteen, of whom four shall sit in the lower, and ten in 
the upper part of the hall. The king is the first ; he shall sit 
at the pillar, and next him the chancellor ; and after him the 
guest, and then the heir apparent, and then the master of the 
hawks. The foot-bearer shall sit by the dish opposite the 
king, and the mead-maker at the pillar behind him. The 
priest of the household shall be at another pillar, who shall 
bless the meat, and chant the pater noster. The crier shall 
strike the pillar above the king's head. Next him shall be 
the judge of the palace, and next to him the musician, to 
whom the right of the seat belongs. The smith of the palace 
shall be at the bottom, before the knees of the priest. The 
master of the palace shall sit in the lower hall, with his left 
hand towards the door, with the serving-men whom he shall 
choose, and the rest shall be at the other side of the door, and 
at his other hand the musician of the household. The master 
of the horse shall sit at the pillar opposite the king, and the 
master of the hounds at the pillar opposite the priest of the 
household." — Laws of Hoel Dha\ 



Keiriog — and Berwyn's after-strife. — II. p. 329, col. 2. 

" 1165. The king gathered another armie of chosen men, 
through all his dominions, as England, Normandy, Anjow, 
Gascoine, and Gwyen, sending for succours from Flanders 
and Brytain, and then returned towards North Wales, minding 
utterlie to destroy all that had life in the land ; and coming to 
Croes Oswalt, called Oswald's Tree, incamped there. On the 
contrarie side. Prince Owen and his brother Cadvvallader, with 
all the power of North Wales ; and the Lord Eees, with the 
power of South Wales; and Owen Cyveilioc and the sonnes 
of Madoc ap Meredyth, with the power of Povvyss, and the 
two sonnes of Madoc ap Ednerth, with the people betwixt 
Wye and Seavern, gathered themselves togither and came to 
Corwen in Edeyrneon, proposing to defend their country. 
But the king understanding that they were nigh, being won- 
derful desirous of battell, came to the river Ceireoc, and 
caused the woods to be hewn down. Whereupon a number 
of the Welshmen understanding the passage, unknown to 
their captains, met with the king's ward, where were placed 
the picked men of all the armie, and there began a bote 
skirmish, where diverse worthie men were slaine on either 
side ; but in the end the kmg wanne the passage, and came to 
the mountain of Berwyn, where he laid in campe certaine 
days, and so both the armies stood in awe of each other ; for 
the king kept the open plains, and was afraid to be intrapped 
in straits ; but the Welshmen watched for the advantage of 
the place, and kept the king so straitlie, that neither forage 
nor victuall might come to his camp, neither durst anie sol- 
diour stir abroad. And to augment their miseries there fell 



such raine, that the king's men could scant stand upon their f 
feete upon those slipperie hilles. In the end, the king was 
compelled to return home without his purpose, and that with 
great loss of men and munition, besides his charges. There- 
fore in a great choler he caused the pledges eies, whom he 
had received long before that, to be put out ; which were 
Rees and Cawdwalhon the sonnes of Owen, and Cynwric and i 
Meredith the sonnes of Rees, and other." — Powell. 

During the military expedition wiiich King Henry II. made 
in our days against South Wales, an old Welshman at Pen- 
caduir, who had faithfully adhered to him, being desired to 
give an opinion about the royal army, and whether he thought 
that of the rebels would make resistance, and what would be 
the final event of this war, replied : — " This Nation, O king, 
may now, as in former time, be harassed, and in a great meas- 
ure weakened and destroyed by you and other powers, and 
it will often prevail by its laudable exertions ; but it can never 
be totally subdued through wrath of man, unless the wrath of 
God shall concur. Nor do I think, that any other nation 
than this of Wales, or any other language whatever, may 
hereafter come to pass, shall in the day of severe examination 
before the Supreme Judge answer for this corner of the 
earth." — Hoare's Qiraldus. 



The fool that day, who, in his masque attire. 
Sported before King Henry. — II. p. 329, col. 2. 

" Brienston in Dorsetshire was held in grand sergeantry by 
a pretty odd jocular tenure ; viz. by finding a man to go 
before the king's army for forty days, when he should make 
war in Scotland, (some records say in Wales,) bareheaded and 
barefooted, in his shirt and linen drawers, holding in one 
hand a bow without a string, in another an arrow without 
feathers." — Gibson's Camden. 



Though I knew 
Tlie rebel's worth. — II. p. 330, col. 1. 

There is a good testimony to Hoel's military talents in the 
old history of Cambria, by Powell. "At this time Cadel, 
Meredyth, and Rees, the sons of Gruifyth ap Rees, ap Theodor, 
did lead their powers against the castle of Gwys ; whicli, after 
they saw they could not win, they sent for Howel the sonne of 
Owen, prince of North Wales to their succour, who for his 
prowesse in the field, and his discretion in consultation, was 
counted the flowre of chivalrie ; whose presence also was 
thought only sufi3.cient to overthrow anie hold." 



I hate the Saxon! — II. p. 330, col. 1. 
Of this name, Saxon, which the Welsh still use, Higden 
gives an odd etymology. " Men of that cowntree ben more 
lyghter and stronger on the see than other scommers or theeves 
of the see, and pursue theyr enemyes full harde, both by 
water and by londe, and ben called Saxones, of Saxum, that 
is, a stone, for they ben as hard as stones, and uneasy to fare 
with." — Polycronycon, i. 26. 



Seest thou never 
Those eyeless spectres by thy bridal bed ? — II. p. 330, col. 1. 

Henry, in his attempt upon Wales, 1165, "did justice on 
the sons of Rhys, and also on the sons and daughters of other 
noblemen that were his accomplices, very rigorously ; causing 
the eyes of the young striplings to be pecked out of their 
heads, and their noses to be cut off or slit ; and the eares of 
the young gentlewomen to be stuffed. But yet I find in 
other authors that in this journey King Henry did not greatly 
prevail against his enemies, but rather lost many of his men of 
war, both horsemen and footmen ; for by his severe proceeding 
against them he rather made them more eager to seek revenge, 
than quieted them in any tumult." — Holinshed. Among 
these unhappy hostages were some sons of Owen Gwynedh. 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



3G1 



The page. 
Who chafed his feet. —II. p 330, col. 1. 

" The foot-bearer shall hold the feet of the king ia his lap 
from the time when he reclines * at the board till he goes to 
rest, and he shall chafe them with a towel; and during all 
that time he shall watch that no hurt hap])en to the king. 
He shall eat of the same dish from wiiich the king takes his 
meat, having his back turned toward the fire. He shall light 
the first candle before the king at his meal." — Laws of Hoel 
Dha\ 



The officer proclaimed the sovereign will. — II. p. 330, col. 2. 

The crier to command silence was one of the royal house- 
hold ; first he performed this service by his voice, then by 
striking with the rod of his office the pillars above the king's 
head. A fine was due to him for every disturbance in the 
court. 

Tlie chief of Bards 
Then raised the ancient lay. — II. p. 330, col. 2. 

The lines which follow represent the Bardic system, as 
laid down in the following Triads of Bardism. 

"12. There are three Circles of Existence : the Circle of 
Infinity, where there is nothing but God, of living or dead, 
' and none but God can traverse it ; the Circle of Inchoation, 
where all things are by Nature derived from Death, — this 
Circle hath been traversed by man ; and the Circle of Hap- 
piness, where all things spring from Life, — this man shall 
i traverse in Heaven. 

i " 13. Animated Beings have three States of Existence : that 
of Inchoation in the Great Deep, or Lowest point of Ex- 
istence ; that of Liberty in the state of Humanity ; and that 
of Love, which is Happiness in Heaven. 

" 14. All animated Beings are subject to three Necessities ; 
beginning in the Great Deep ; Progression in the Circle of In- 
choation ; and Plenitude in the Circle of Hnppiness. Without 
' these things nothing can possibly exist but God. 

*' 15. Three things are necessary in the Circle of Incho- 
ation ; the least of all animation, and thence Beginning; the 
materials of all things, and thence Increase, which cannot take 
place in any other state ; the formation of all things out of 
the dead mass, and thence Discriminate Individuality. 

" 16. Three things cannot but exist towards all animated 
Beings from the nature of Divine Justice : Co-sufferance in 
the Circle of Inchoation, because without that none could 
attain to the perfect knowledge of any thing ; Co-participation 
in the Divine love ; and Co-ultimity from the nature of God's 
Power, and its attributes of Justice and Mercy. 

" 17. There are three necessary occasions of Inchoation : to 
collect the materials and properties of every nature ; to collect 
the knowledge of every thing ; and to collect power towards 
subduing the Adverse and the Devastative, and for the di- 
vestation of Evil. Without this traversing every mode of 
animated existence, no state of animation, or of any thing in 
nature, can attain to Plenitude." 



Till evil shall he known, 
And, being known as evil, cease to be. — II. p. 330, col. 2. 

" By the knowledge of three things will all Evil and Death 
be diminished and subdued : their nature, their cause, and 
their operation. This knowledge will be obtained in the Cir- 
cle of Happiness." — Triads of Bardism, Tr. 35. 

Death, 

The Enlarger. — II. p. 330, col. 2. 

Angau, the Welsh word for Death, signifies Enlargement. 

The eternal newness of eternal joy. — II. p. 330, col. 2, 
J^efoedd, the Welsh word for Heaven, signifies Renovation. 

• Accuhuerit is the word in Wotton's version. It is evident tliat the 
king must liave Iain ftt his meal, after tlie Roman fashion, or tliis petlif er 
could not have chafed his feet. 

46 



" The three Excellencies of changing the mode of Existence 
in the Circle of Happiness : Acquisition of Knowledge ; beau- 
tiful Variety ; and Repose, from not being able to endure 
uniform Infinity and uninterrupted Eternity. / 

" Three things none but God can do : endure the Eternities 
of the Circle of Infinity ; participate of every state of Ex- 
istence without changing; and reform and renovate every 
thing without the loss of it. 

"The three Plenitudes of Happiness: Participation of 
every nature, with a plenitude of One predominant; con- 
formity to every cast of genius and character, possessing su- 
perior excellence in One; the Love of all Beings and Existences, 
but chiefly concentred in one object, which is God : and in 
the predominant One of each of these will the Plenitude of 
Happiness consist." — Triads of Bardism, 40, 38, 45 



he struck the harp 

To Owen's praise. — II. p. 330, col. 2. 

" I will extol the generous Hero, descended from the race 
of Roderic, the bulwark of his country, a Prince eminent for 
his good qualities, the glory of Britain : Owen, the brave and 
expert in arms, that neither hoardeth nor covetcth riches. 

" Three fleets arrived, vessels of the main, three powerful 
fleets of the first nite, furiously to attack him on the sudden : 
one from Iwerddon,* the other full of well-armed Loch- 
lynians, making a grand appearance on the floods, the third 
from the transmarine Normans, which was attended with an 
immense though successless toil. 

" The dragons of Mona's sons were so brave in action, that 
there was a great tumult on their furious attack ; and before 
the prince himself there was vast confusion, havoc, conflict, 
honorable death, bloody battle, horrible consternation, and 
upon Tal Mavra, a thousand banners : there was an out- 
rageous carnage, and the rage of spears and hasty signs of 
violent indignation. Blood raised the tide of the Menai, and 
the crimson of human gore stained the brine. There were 
glittering cuirasses, and the agony of gasiiing wounds, and 
the mangled warriors prostrate before the chief, distinguished 
by his crimson lance. Loegria was put into confusion ; the 
contest and confusion was great, and the glory of our Prince's 
wide-wasting sword shall be celebrated in an hundred lan- 
guages to give him his merited praise." — Panegyric upon 
Oicen Gwyncdd, Prince of JVorth Wales, bij Gwalchmai the son 
of Melir, in the year J 157. — Evans's Specimens of Welsh 
Poetry. 



Dinevawr. — III. p. 331, col. 1. 

Dinas Vawr, the Great Palace, the residence of the Princes 
of Deheubarth, or South Wales. This also was erected by 
Rhodri Mavvr. 



Hoel — seized the throne. — III. p. 331, col. 1. 

I have taken some liberties here with the history. Hoel 
kept possession of the throne nearly two years ; he then went 
to Ireland to claim the property of his mother Pyvog, the 
daughter of an Irish chieftain ; in the mean time David 
seized the government. Hoel raised all the force he could 
to recover the crown, but after a severe conflict was wounded 
and defeated. He returned to Ireland with the remains of his 
army, which probably consisted chiefly of Irishmen, and there 
died of his wounds. — Cambrian Biography. 



. . . hast thou known the consummated crime. 
And heard Cynetha'sfatel — III. p. 332, col. 1. 

The history of Cynetha and his brothers is very honestly 
related in the Pentarchia. 

Cadwallonis erat primmvus jure Cynetha; 
Prohpudor! hunc oculis patruus privavit Oenus 
Testiculisque sinml, fundum dum raptat avitum ; 
HoiLcl ab irate suspensus rege Johanne, 
Et Leolinus, eum privarunt luminefr aires. 



362 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



•III. p. 333, col. 2, 



- This curious summary of Welsh history still remains un- 
printed. 



Yonder waters are not 
A boundless waste, a bourn impassable 

Pinitam cuique rei magnitudinem natura dederat, dedit et 
tnodiim : nihil infinitum est nisi Oceanus. Fertiles in Oceana 
jacere terras, ultraque Oceanum rursus alia littora, alium nasci 
orbem, nee usquam naturam rerum desinere, sed semper inde ubi 
desiisse videatur, novam exsurgere ; facile ista finguntur, quia 
Oceanus navigari non potest. — Ann. Seneca. Suasoria, 1. 



As thy fair uplands lessened on the view. — IV. p 333, col. 2. 

" Two of the names of Britain were derived from its hills. 
Clas Merddin, the high lands in the sea, and Clas Meiddin, 
the hilly lands or fields." — E. Williams's Poems. 



Seen,, low lying, through the haze of morn. — IV. p. 333, col. 2. 
What sailors call cape Fly-away. 



And speed was toiling in infinity, — IV. p. 334, col. 1. 

When Makea, the King of Rarotonga, who had never before 
been from his own island, made a voyage with Mr. Williams 
the Missionary, in a vessel named the Messenger of Peace, 
which Mr. Williams had built, they were three days and 
nights in returning, the wind being unfavorable and very 
boisterous. " On the second evening the King began to get 
anxious and restless, fearing (says Mr. Williams) that we had 
missed the island, and were sailing ' i te tareva kaua,' into 
wide gaping space." — Missionary Enterprises in the South Sea 
Islands, 153. 



Saint Cyric. — IV. p. 335, col. 1. 

The saint to whom sailors addressed themselves ; the St. 
Elmo of the Welsh. 

" It was usual for all, even females, who went from North 
Wales in pilgrimage to St. David's, to pass the dangerous 
strands and sail over the rough bays in slight coracles, without 
any one to guide or assist them ; so firmly were they con- 
vinced that that Saint and St. Cyric, the ruler of the waves, 
would protect them." — E. Williams's Poems. 



Owenhidwy. — lY. p. 335, col. 1. 

" A Mermaid. The white foamy waves are called her 
sheep ; the ninth wave her ram. The Welsh have two prov- 
erbs concerning her : Take the Mermaid's advice and save 
thyself J Take shelter when you see the Mermaid driving her 
flocks ashore." — E. Williams. 



Where at their source the Floods forever thus, 

Beneath the nearer influence of the Moon, 

Labored in these mad workings. — IV. p. 335, col. 1. 

" Everyche flood aryseth more in Oecean than in the grete see, 
that is for the hole togyder is myghtyer and stronger than 
one partye by hymself. Or for the hole Oecean is grete and 
large, and receyved more workynge of the mone than ony 
partye by hymselfe that is smaller and lasse, "— PoZj/cronicon, 
L. 1, c. 9. 



Did the Waters 
Here on their utmost circle meet the Void. — IV. p. 335, col. 1. 

" The see of Oecean beclyppeth all the erthe abowte as a 
garlonde, and by times cometh and goth, ebbying and flow- 
ynge, and flodeth in sees and casteth them up, and wyndes 
blowen therein." — PoZt/cronicoTi, L. 1, c. 9. 



Or this Earth, 
Was it indeed a living thing IV. p. 335, col. 1. 

" Physici autumant mundum animal esse, eumque ex variis 
elementorum corporibus conglobatum, moveri spiritu, regi mente ; 
qu(B utraque diffusa per membra omnia, mtemcB molis vigorem 
exerceant. Sicut ergo in corporibus nostris commercia sunt spi- 
ritalia, ita in profundis Oceani nares quasdam mmidi con- 
stitutas, per quas emissi anhelitus, vel reducti, modo efflent maria 
modo revocent.^' — Solinus, cap. 36. 

M. Gregoire enumerates among the heresies of the 18th cert- 
tury one which represented our globe as an animal ; the tides 
as occasioned by its respiration, and volcanic eruptions as the 
paroxysms of the diseases to which it was liable. — Histoire 
des Sectes, T. 1, xvii. 

"I suppose the waters," says Pietro Martire, " to be driven 
about the globe of the earth by the incessant moving and 
impulsion of the heavens, and not to be swallowed up and 
cast out again by the breathing of Demogorgon, as some have 
imagined, because they see the seas, by increase and decrease, 
to flow and reflow." — Dec. 3, c. 6. 



T7ie storm-rampart of its sanctuary. — IV. p. 335, col. I. 

"Iv' 6 TTOVTOjAeScov TTopcpvpea? Xiixvag 
NavTUis OVK 16' bSov vifiti, 

Ye^jLvov Tspixnva vaioiv 
Ovpavov, Tov ArXas £%e 
Kprjvai r' dpSpoaiai %£ojyra. 
Zavos peXaOpoiv irapa Koiraig, 

"\v^ a BtdJwpoj av'^CL 
7,aQia x^'^v eiiSaLfxoviav ^soTg. 

Euripides. Mppolytus, v. 741 — 748. 

Stat immotum mare, et quasi deficientis in suo fine natures 
pigra moles ; novm ac terribiles figurce ; magna etiam Oceana 
portenta, qum profunda ista vastitas nutrit; confusa lux alt& 
caligine, et interceptus tenebris dies ; ipsum vero grave et devium 
mare, et aut nulla, aut ignota sidera. — An. Seneca, Sua- 
soria, 1. 



gentle airs which breathed, 

Oi- seemed to breathe, fresh fragi-ance from the shore. 

IV. p. 335, col. 1. 

" Our first notice of the approach of land was the fragrant 
and aromatic smell of the continent of South America, or of 
the islands in its vicinity, which we sensibly perceived as a 
squall came from that quarter." — M'Kinnen's Tour through 
the British West Indies. 

Dogs always are sensible when land is near, before it can 
be seen. 



Low nets of interwoven reeds. — V. p. 



col. 1. 



" And for as much as I have made mention of their houses, 
it shall not be greatly from my purpose to describe in what 
manner they are builded : they are made round, like bells or 
round pavilions. Their frame is raysed of exceeding high 
trees, set close together, and fast rampaired in the ground, so 
standing aslope, and bending inward, that the toppes of the 
trees joyne together, and bear one against another, having also 
within the house certain strong and short proppes or posts, 
which susteyne the trees from falling. They cover them with 
the leaves of date trees and other trees strongly compact and 
hardened, wherewith they make them close from winde and 
weather. At the short posts or proppes, within the house, 
they tie ropes of the cotton of gossampine trees, or other ropes 
made of certain long and rough roots, much like unto the 
shrubbe called Spartum, whereof in old time they used to 
make bands for vines, and gables and ropes for shippes. These 
they tie overthwart the house from post to post ; on these 
they lay as it were certain mattresses made of the cotton of ; 
gossampine trees, which grow plentifully in these islandes. j 
This cotton the Spanyards call Algodon, and the Italians ! 
Bombasine, and thus they sleepe in hanging beddes." — 
PiETRO Martire. 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



363 



irUl ye believe 
The wonders of the ocean 7 how its skoals 
Sprang from the wave — V. p. 336, col. I. 

I have somewhere seen an anecdote of a sailor's mother, 
who believed all the strange lies which he told her for his 
amusement, but never could be persuaded to believe there 
could be in existence such a thing as a flying fish. A Spanish 
author, who wrote before the voyage of Columbus, describes 
these fish as having been seen on the coast of Flanders. " Haij 
alii unos pescados que vuelan sobre el agiia ; algunos dcllos atra- 
vesaban volando por enrima de las gaJeras, e aim algunos dcllos 
caian dentro." — Coronica de D. Pero Nino. 

A still earlier author mentions such a sight in the Straits as 
a miracle. " As they sailed from Algeziras, a fish came flying 
through the air, and fell upon the deck of the Infante's Galley, 
with which they had some fresh food that day ; and l)ecause 
r, who write tliis history, have never heard or seen of any like 
thing, I here recount it, because it appears to me a thing mar- 
vellous, and in my judgment out of the course of nature." — 
Gomes Eanives. 

" At Barbadoes the negroes, after the example of the Cha- 
raibs, take the flying fish very successfully in the dark ; they 
spread their nets before a light, and disturb the water at a 
small distance ; the fish, rising eagerly, fly towards the light, 
and are intercepted by the nets." — M'Kinnen. — These 
flying fishes, says the writer of Sir Thomas Roe's Voyage, arc 
like men professing two trades, and thrive at neither. 



Language cannot paint 
Their splendid tints! — V. p. 336, col. ]. 

Atkins, with some feeling, describes the Dolphin as a glori- 
ous-colored fish. A labored description of its beauty would not 
have conveyed so lively a sense of admiration. He adds, quite 
as naturally, that it is of dry taste, but makes good broth. — 
Voyage to Guinea in his Majesty's Ships the Swalluio and 
Weymouth. 

Herbert has given this fish a very extraordinary character, 
upon the authority of the ancients. 

" The dolphin is no bigger than a salmon, it glitters in the 
ocean with a variety of beautiful colors ; has few scales ; from 
its swiftness and spirit metonymically sirnamed the Prince 
and Arrow of the sea ; celebrated by many learned Pens in 
sundry Epithets ; Philanthropoi, for affecting men, and J\Iono- 
gamoi, for their turtle constancy ; generated they l)e of sperme, 
nourisht like men, imbrace, jom, and go 10 months great. In 
faciem versi dulces celebrant hymciiaios Drlphines, similes homi- 
nis complcxibus lusrent -. A careful husband over his gravid 
associate, detesting incest, abhorring bigamy, tenderly affect- 
ing Parents, whom, when 300 years old, they feed and defend 
against hungry fishes ; and when dead (to avoid the shark and 
like marine tyrants) carry them ashore, and there {\f Jlristotle, 
^lyan, and Pliny erre not) inhume and bedew their Sep- 
ulchres ; they were glad of our company, as it were affecting 
the sight and society of men, many hundred miles in an eager 
and unwearied pursuit, frisking about us ; and as a Poet 
observed, 

" Undiqne dant saltus, multaquc aspergine rorant 
Emerguntque iterum, redeuntque S2ib aquora rursus, 
Inque chori ludunt speciem lascivaque jactant 
Corpora, et acceptum patulis mare naribus efflant." 

Herbert's Travels. 



The Stranger^s House. — V. p. 337, col. 1. 

"There is in every village of the Susquehannah Indians a 
vacant dwelling called the Stranger's House. When a trav- 
eller arrives within hearing of a village, he stops and halloos, 
for it is deemed uncivil to enter abruptly. Two old men lead 
him to the house, and then go round to the inliabitants, telling 
them a stranger is arrived fatigued and hungry. They send 
them all they can spare, bring tobacco after they are refreshed, 
and then ask questions whence they come and whither they 

go." — FRANKLirt. 



a race 

Mightier than they, and wiser, and by Heaveii 
Beloved and favored more. — VI. p. 337, col. 1. 

" They are easily persuaded that the God that made Eng- 
lishmen is a greater God than theirs, because he hath so richly 
endowed the English above themselves. But when they hear 
that about ICOO years ago, England and the inhabitants there- 
of were like unto themselves, and since have received from 
God clothes, books, &c., they are greatly affected with a secret 
hope concerning themselves." — j3 Key into the Language of 
America, by Roger Williams, 1C43. 



Her husband's war-pole. — VI. p. 337, col. 2. 

" The war-pole is a small peeled tree painted red, the top 
and boughs cut off short. It is fixed in the ground opposite 
the door of the dead warrior, and all his implements of war 
are hung on the short boughs of it till they rot." — Adair. 

Tills author, who knew the manners of the North Ameri- 
can Indians well, though he formed a most wild theory to 
account for them, describes the rites of mourning. " The 
widow, through the long term of her weeds, is compelled to 
refrain from all public company and diversions, at the penalty 
of an adulteress, and likewise to go with flowing hair, without 
the privilege of oil to anoint it. The nearest kinsmen of the 
deceased husband keep a very watchful eye over her conduct 
in this respect. The place of interment is also calculated to 
wake the widow's grief, for he is entombed in the house under 
her bed; and if he was a war-leader, she is obliged, for the 
first moon, to sit in the day-time under his mourning war-pole, 
which is decked with all his martial trophies, and must be 
heard to cry with bewailing notes. But none of them are fond 
of that month's supposed religious duty, it chills, or sweats 
and wastes them so exceedingly, for they are allowed no shade 
or shelter." 



battlements ■ 

Like silver in tJie suiishiiie. — 



-that shone 

VI. p. 338, col. ]. 



So dnzzlingly white were the houses at Zempoalla, that one 
of the Spaniards gallopped back to Cortes to tell him the walls 
were of silver. — Berxal Diaz, 30. 

Torqnemada also says, " that the temple and palace courts 
at Mexico were so highly polished, that they actually shone 
like burnished gold or silver in the sun." — T. 1, p. 251. 

I have described Aztlan like the cities which the Spaniards 
found in New Spain. How large and how magnificent they 
were may be learned from the True History of the Conquest 
of Mexico, by Bernal Diaz. This delightful work lias been 
abridged into English by Mr. Keating, and if the reader has 
not seen it, he may thank me for recommending it to hk 
notice. 

Gomara's description of Zempoallan will show that cities, 
as splendid in their appearance as Aztlan, did exist among the 
native Americans. 

" They descried Zempoallan, which stoode a myle distant 
from them, all beset with fayre Orchardes and Gardens, verye 
pleasaunte to beholde : they used alwaycs to water them with 
sluices when they pleased. There proceeded out of the 
Towne many persons to beho'd and receyve so strange a peo- 
ple unto them. They came with smiling countenance, and 
presented unto them divers kinde of floures and sundry fruitea 
which none of our menne had heretofore scene. These people 
came without feare among the ordinance ; with this pompe, 
triumphe, and joy, they were received into the Citie, which 
seemed a beautifull Garden : for the trees were so greene and 
high that scarcely the houses appeared. 

" Sixe horsemen, which hadde gone before the army to dis- 
cover, returned backe as Cortez was entering into the Citie, 
saying that they had seene a great house and court, and that 
the walles were garnished with silver. Cortez commanded 
them to proceed on, willing them not to show any token of 
wonder of any thing that they should see. All the streetes 
were replenished with people, whiche stoode gaping and won- 
dering at the horses and straungers. And passing through a 
great market-place, they saw, on their right hand, a great 
walled house made of lyme and stone, with loupe holes and 



364 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



towers, whited with playster that shined lyke silver, being so 
well burnished and the sunne glistering upon it, and that was 
the thing that the Spaniards thought had beene walles of silver. 
I doe believe that with the imagination and great desire which 
they had of golde and silver, all that shined they deemed to be 
of the same metall." — Conquest of the Weast India. 

Cortes himself says of Cholula, that he counted above four 
hundred temple towers in that city ; and the city of Iztapala- 
pa, he says, contained from 12,000 to 15,000 inhabitants. — 
Carta de Relacion, 16, 20. 



A floating islet. — Yl. p. 338, col. 1. 

Islets of this kind, with dwelling huts upon them, were 
common upon the Lake of Mexico. They were moved at 
pleasure from bay to bay, as the inhabitants wanted sunshine 
or shelter. — Clavigero. 



Each held a burning censer in his hand, — VI. p. 338, col. 1. 

Tendilli, says the old translator of Gomara, according to 
their usance, did his reverence to the Captaine, burning frank- 
incense, and little strawes touched in bloud of his own bodie. 
And at Chiauiztlan, the Lord toke a little chafyngdishe in 
his hande, and cast into it a certaine gum, whyche savoured 
in sweete smel much like unto frankincense ; and with a cen- 
ser he smoked Cortez, with the ceremonye they use in theyr 
salutations to theyr Gods and nobilitie. So also the Tlascal- 
lan Embassadors burnt copal before Cortes, having thrice 
made obeisance, and they touched the ground with their 
hands and kissed the earth. 

The nexte day in the morning, the Spaniards came to Cho- 
lolla, and there came out near ten thousand Indians to re- 
cey ve him with their Captaynes in good order. Many of them 
presented unto him bread, foules and roses ; and every Cap- 
tayne as he approached, welcomed Cortes, and then stood 
aside, that the rest, in order, mighte come unto him ; and when 
he came entering into the citie, all the other citizens receyved 
him, marvelling to see such men and horses. 

After all this came out, all the religious menne, as Priests 
and Ministers to the idols, who were many and straunge to be- 
hold, and all were clothed in white, lyke unto surplices, and 
hemmed with common threede ; some brought instruments 
of musicke like unto Cornettes, others brought instruments 
made of bones ; others an instrument like a ketel covered with 
skin ; some brought chafing-dishes of coals, with perfumes ; 
others brought idols covered; and, finally, they al came sing- 
ing in their language, which was a terrible noyse, and drew 
neere Cortes and his company, sensing them with sweete 
smelles in their sensers. With this pomp of solemnitie, which 
truely was great, they brought him unto the cittie. — Conquest 
of the Weast India. 

Gage's account of Mexico is copied verbatim from this old 
translation, even, in some places, to the literal error of using 
the hard c instead of z, which the g with the cedilla represents. 



T7ie Great Temple. 



' Twas a huge, square hill. 
col. 2. 



VI. p. 338, 



The great Cu of Mexico, for thus these mounds were called, 
had 114 steps to the summit ; that of Tezcuco, 115; of Cho- 
lula, 120. Gold and jewels, and the different seeds of the 
country, and human blood, were thrown in the foundations. 
The Spaniards found great treasures when they levelled the 
Cu at Mexico, to make room for a church to Santiago. — Ber- 
NAL Diaz. 

The lines which follow describe its structure, as related by 
Clavigero and by the Spanish Conquerors. The Tower of 
Babel is usually painted with the same kind of circuitous 
ascent. 

The Tambour of the God. — VI. p. 338, col. 2. 

Gumilla (c. 36) describes a prodigious drum used as a signal 
to assemble the people in time of danger, by some of the 
Orinoco tribes, especially by the Cavcrres, to whom the in- 



vention is ascribed. It is a hollowed piece of wood, in thick- 
ness about an inch, in girth as much as two men can clasp, in 
length about eleven or twelve feet. This is suspended by a 
withe at each end from a sort of gallows. On the upper sur- 
face are three apertures like those in a fiddle, and in the bot- 
tom of the instrument, immediately under the middle of the 
middle aperture, which is shaped like a half-moon, a flint 
about two pounds in weight is fastened with gum. This is 
said to be necessary to the sound. Both ends of this long 
tube are carefully closed, and it is beaten on the middle aper- 
ture with a pellet which is covered with a sort of gum^called 
Currucay. Gumilla positively affirms, and on his own knowl- 
edge, that its sound may be heard four leagues round. This 
is scarcely possible. I doubt whether the loudest gong can 
be heard four miles, and it is not possible that wood can be 
made as sonorous as metal. 



Ten Cities hear 
Its voice. — VI. p. 338, col. 2. 

" There, in the great Cu, they had an exceeding large 
drum ; and when they beat it, the sound was such and so dis- 
mal, that it was like an instrument of hell, and was heard for 
more than two leagues round. They said that the cover of 
that drum was made of the skin of huge serpents." — Bernal 
Diaz. 

After Cortes had been defeated, he always heard this drum 
when they were offering up the reeking hearts of his men. 
The account in Bernal Diaz, of their midnight sacrifice, per- 
formed by torch-light, and in the sight of the Spanish army, is 
truly terrific. 

Four Towers 
Were piled with human skulls. — VI. p. 338, col. 2. 

These skull-built temples are delineated in Picart's great 
work ; I suppose he copied them from De Bry. They are de- 
scribed by all the historians of Mexico. Human heads have 
often been thus employed. Tavernier and Hanway had seen 
pyramids of them in Persia erected as trophies. The Casa 
dos Ossos at Evora gave me an idea of what these Mexican 
temples must have been. It is built of skulls and thigh-bones 
in alternate layers, and two whole bodies, dried and shrivelled, 
are hung up against the walls, like armor in an old baron's 
hall. 

He lights me at my evening banquet. — VI. p. 339, col. 1. 

The King of Chalco having treacherously taken and slain 
two sons of the King of Tetzcuco, had their bodies dried, and 
placed as candelabras in his palace, to hold the lights. — Tor- 
qUEMADA, i. 151. 

This same king wore round his neck a chain of human hearts 
set in gold — the hearts of the bravest men whom he had slain, 
or taken, and sacrificed. — lb. 152. 

The more usual custom was to stuff the skin of the royal, or 
noble prisoner, and suspend it as a trophy in the palace, or the 
house of the priest. Gomara's account of this custom is a 
dreadful picture of the most barbarous superstition which 
ever yet disgraced mankind. " On the last day of the first 
month, a hundred slaves were sacrificed : this done, they 
pluckt off the skinnes of a certaine number of them, the which 
skinnes so many ancient persons put, incontinent, upon their 
naked bodies, all fresh and bloudy as they were fleane from the 
dead carcases. And being open in the backe parte and shoul- 
ders, they used to lace them, in such sort that they came fitte 
uponn the bodies of those that ware them : and being in this 
order attired, they came to daunce among many others. In 
Mexico the King himself did put on one of these skinnes, being 
of a principall captive, and daunced among the other disguised 
persons, to exhalte and honour the feast ; and an infinite num- 
ber followed him, to behold his terrible gesture ; although 
some hold opinion, that they followed him to contemplate his 
greate devotion. After the sacrifice ended, the owner of the 
slaves did carry their bodies home to their houses, to make 
of their fleshe a solemne feaste to all their friendes, leaving 
their heads and heartes to the Priests, as their dutie and offer- 
ing : and the skinnes were filled with cotton wool, or strawe, 



NOTES TO MADOC liN WALES 



3G5 



to be hung in the temple and kyng's palayce for a mcmorie." 
— Conquest o the Weast India. 

After the Injra Yupangui had successfully defended Cuzco 
against the Chancas, he had all of thein who were slam 
skinned, and their skins stuffed and placed in various attitudes, 
some heating tambours, others blowing flutes, &,c., in a large 
building which he erected as a monument for those who had 
fallen in defending the city. — IIerrera, 5, 3, 12. 



Oh, what a pomp, 
.And pride, and pageantry of war. — VII. 



340, col. 1. 



Gomara thus describes the TIascallan army : " They were 
trimme fellowes, and wel armed, according to their use, 
although they were paynted so, that their faces shewed like 
divels, with great tuffes of feathers and triumphed gallantry. 
They had also slinges, staves, speares, swordes, bowes, and 
arrowes, skullns, splintes, gantlettes, all of wood, gilte, or else 
covered with feathers, or leather ; their corslets were made of 
cotton woole, their targettes and bucklers, gallant and strong, 
made of woode covered with leather, and trimmed with laton 
und feathers ; theyr swordes were staves, with an edge of 
flint stone cunningly joyned into the stafl^e, which would cutte 
very well, and make a sore wounde. Their instruments of 
warre were hunters' homes, and drummes, called attabals, 
made like a caldron, and covered with vellum." — Conquest of 
the Weast India. 

In the inventory of the treasure which Grijalva brought 
from his expedition are, a whole harness of furniture for an 
armed man, of gold, thin beaten ; another whole armor of 
wood, with leaves of gold, garnished with little black stones ; 
four pieces of armor of wood, made for the knees, and cov- 
ered with golden leaf. And among the presents designed for 
the king, were five targets of feathers and silver, and 24 of 
feathers and gold, set with pearls, both curious and gallant to 
behold. 



Theypileda heap of sedge before our host. — VII. p. 340, col. 1. 

When the Spaniards discovered Campeche, the Indians 
heaped up a pile of dry sedge, and ranged themselves in troops. 
Ten Priests then came from a temple with censers and copal, 
wherewith they incensed the strangers ; and then told them 
by signs to depart, before that pile, which they were about 
to kindle, should be burnt out. The pile was immediately 
lighted ; the Priest withdrew without another word or motion, 
and the people began to whistle and sound their shells. The 
Spaniards were weak, and many of them wounded, and they 
prudently retired in peace.— Bernal Diaz, 3. 

At the sacring of the Popes, when the new-elected Pope 
passeth (as the manner is) before St. Gregory's chapel, the 
Master of the Ceremonies goeth before him, bearing two dry 
reeds, at the end of the one a burning wax candle tied, and 
at the end of the other a handful! of flax, the which he setteth 
on fire, saying, with a loud voice, Pater Sancte, sic transit 
gloria mundi. — Camerarius. 



against the first enemies that they meete ; and if with that 
arrowe they do eyther kill or hurte, it is a token that they 
shall have the victorie ; and if it neyther kill nor hurte, then 
they assuredly believe that they shall lose the field." — Con- 
quest of the Weast India. 



The Arrow of the Omen. — VII. p. 340, col. I. 

The Tlaxcaltecas had two arrows, which they regarded with 
great reverence, and used to augur the event of a battle. 
Two of their bravest Chiefs were to shoot them at the enemy, 
and recover them or die. If the arrow struck and wounded, 
it was held an omen that the fight would be prosperous ; but 
if they neither struck, nor drew blood, the army retired. — 
Torquemada, i. 34. 

This is more particularly noticed by Gomara. " In the 
warres the Tlascallans use their standerde to be carried be- 
hynde the army ; but when the battyle is to be fought, they 
place the standerde where all the hoste may see it ; and he 
that commeth not incontinent to hys ancient, payeth a penaltie. 
Their standerde hath two crossebow arrowes set thereon, 
whiche they esteeme as the relikes of their ancestors. Thys 
standerde two olde soldiers, and valiant menne, being of the 
chiefest Captaynes, have the charge to carrie ; in the which 
standerde, an abusion of southsaying, eyther of losse or vic- 
tory, is noted. In this order they shote one of these arrowes 



The bowmen of Deheubarth . . . 
Owyneth^s spears. — VII. p. 340, col. 2. 

" Sunt autem his in partibus {Ardudwy) lancce longissimcs : 
sicut enim arcu prevalet Sudwallia, sic lanceis prcevalet Venc- 
dotia, adco ut ictum hie lancea cominv^ datum ferrea loricm 
tricatura minime sustineat.'" — Giraldus CAMBREifsis. 

Thus also Trevisa, in his lame rhymes : 

The south hete Demecia, 

And the other Venodocia 

The first shoteth and arowes beres. 

That other dealeth all with spere. 

Polycronicon. 



Tlie white deer-sldn shroud. — VIII. p. 341, col. 2. 

" The Indians use the same ceremonies to the bones of their 
dead, as if they were covered with their former skin, flesh, 
and ligaments. It is but a few days since I saw some return 
with the bones of nine of their people, who had been two 
months before killed by the enemy. They were tied in white 
deer-skins separately, and when carried by the door of one of 
the houses of their family, they were laid down opposite to it, 
till the female relations convened, with flowing hair, and wept 
over them about half an hour. Then they carried them home 
to their friendly magazines of mortality, wept over them 
again, and then buried them with the usual solemnities. The 
chieftains carried twelve short sticks tied together in the form 
of a quadrangle, so that each square consisted of three. The 
sticks were only peeled, without any painting; but there 
were swan feathers tied to each corner. They called that 
frame the White Circle, and placed it over the door while the 
women were weeping over the bones." — Adair. 



On softest fur 
Tlie bones were laid. — VIII. p. 342, col. 1. 

When the body is in the grave, they take care to cover it in 
such a manner, that the earth does not touch it. It lies as in 
a little cave, lined with skins, much neater, and better adorned, 
than their cabins. — Charlevoix. 

Adair was present at one of their funerals. " They laid 
the corpse in his tomb in a sitting posture, with his feet 
towards the east, his head anointed with bear's oil, and his 
face painted red ; but not streaked with black, because that is 
a constant emblem of war and death. He was drest in his 
finest apparel, having his gun and pouch, and trusty hiccory 
bow, with a young panther's skin full of arrows, alongside of 
him, and every other useful thing he had been possessed of, 
that when he rises again they may serve him in that track of 
land which pleased him best before he went to take his long 
sleep. His tomb was firm and clean inside ; they covered it 
with thick logs so as to bear several tiers of cypress bark, and 
such a quantity of clay, as would confine the putrid smell, and 
be on a level with the rest of the floor. They often sleep over 
these tombs ; which, w-ith the loud wailing of the women at 
the dusk of the evening, and dawn of the day, on benches 
close by the tombs, must awake the memory of their relations 
very often ; and if they were killed by an enemy, it helps to 
irritate, and set on such revengeful tempers to retaliate blood 
for blood." 



' Twas in her hut and home, yea, underneath 

The marriage bed, the bed of widowhood, 

Her husband's grave was dug. — VIII. p. 342, col. 1. 

" The Mosqueto Indians, when they die, are buried in their 
houses, and the very spot they lay over when alive, and have 
their hatchet, harpoon lances, with musheJaio, and other neces- 



866 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES, 



saries, buried with them 5 but if the defunct leaves behind him 
a gun, some friend preserves that from the earth, that would 
Boon damnify the powder, and so render it unserviceable in that 
strange journey. His boat, or dorea, they cut in pieces, and 
lay over his grave, with all the rest of his household goods, if 
he hath any more. If the deceased leave behind him no chil- 
dren, brothers, or parents, the cousins, or other his relations, 
cut up, or destroy his plantations, lest any living should, as 
they esteem it, rob the dead." — The Mosqueto Indian and his 
Oolden River, by M. W. Lintot and Osborn's Collection. 



Pabas.— Yin. p. 342, col. 1. 

Papa is the word which Bernal Diaz uses when he speaks of 
the Mexican priests ; and in this he is followed by Purchas. 
The appellation in Torquemada is Q.uaquil. I am not certain 
that Bernal Diaz did not mean to call them Popes, and that 
Purchas has not mistaken his meaning. An easy alteration 
made it more suitable for English verse, than the more accu- 
rate word would have been. 

I perceive by Herrera (3, 2, 15) that the word is Mexican, 
and that the Devil was the author of it, in imitation of the 
Church. 



Ipalnemoani, by whom we live. — VIII. p. 442, col. 1. 

The Mexicans had some idea, though a very imperfect one, 
of a supreme, absolute, and independent being. They repre- 
sented him in no external form, because they believed him to 
be invisible ; and they named him only by the common appel- 
lation of God, or in their language Teotl ; a word resembling 
still more in its meaning than its pronunciation, the 6£oj of 
the Greeks. But they applied to him certain epithets, which 
were highly expressive of the grandeur and power which they 
conceived him to possess ; Ipalnemoani, " He by whom we 
live : " and Tloque JVahuaque, " He who has all in himself." 
— Clavigero. 

Torquemada has a very characteristic remark upon these 
appellations: — "Although," says he, "these blinded men 
went astray in the knowledge of God, and adored the Devil 
in his stead, they did not err ia the names which they gave 
him, those being truly and properly his own ; the Devil using 
this cunning with them, that they should apply to him these, 
which, by nature and divine right, are God's ; his most holy 
Majesty permitting this on account of the enormity and shame- 
fulness of their depraved customs, and the multitude of their 
iniquities." — L. vi. c. 8. 



The Great Spirit, who in clouas 
And storms, in mountain caves, and by the falls 
Of waters, in the woodland solitude. 
Doth m&ke his being felt. — VIII. p. 442, col. 2. 

^ About thirty miles below the falls of St. Anthony, is a 
remarkable cave, of an amazing depth. The Indians term it 
Wakon-teebe ; that is, the dwelling of the Great Spirit. The 
entrance into it is about ten feet wide ; the arch within is near 
fifteen feet high, and about thirty feet broad. The bottom of 
it consists of fine clean sand. About twenty feet from the 
entrance begins a lake, the v/ater of which is transparent, and 
extends to an unsearchable distance ; for the darkness of the 
cave prevents all attempts to acquire a knowledge of it. I 
threw a small pebble towards the interior parts of it, with my 
utmost strength ; I could hear that it fell into the water, and, 
Eotwithstanding it was of so small a size, it caused an aston- 
ishing and horrible noise, that reverberated through all those 
gloomy regions. I found in this cave many Indian hiero- 
glyphics, which appeared very ancient, for time had nearly 
covered them with moss. They were cut in a rude manner 
upon the inside of the walls, which were composed of a stone 
so extremely soft, that it «iight easily be penetrated with a 
knife : a stone every where to be found near the Mississippi. 
The cave ia only accessible by ascending a narrow, steep pas- 
sage, that lies near the brink of the river." — Carver. 

" The Prince had no sooner gained the point that over- 
looks this wonderful cascade (the falls of St, Anthony) than 
he began with an audible voice to address the Great Spirit, 



one of whose places of residence he supposed this to be. He 
told him he had come a long way to pay his adorations to 
him, and now would make him the best offerings in his power. 
He accordingly first threw his pipe into the stream ; then the 
roll that contained his tobacco ; after these, the bracelets he 
wore on his arms and wrists ; next, an ornament that encircled 
his neck, composed of beads and wires ; and at last, the ear- 
rings from his ears : in short, he presented to his God every 
part of his dress that was valuable ; during this he frequently 
smote his breast with great violence, threw his arms about, 
and appeared to be much agitated. 

" All this while he continued his adorations, and at length 
concluded them with fervent petitions that the Great Spirit 
would constantly afford us his protection on our travels, giving 
us a bright sun, a blue sky, and clear, untroubled waters ; nor 
would he leave the place till we had smoked together with my 
pipe in honor of the Great Spirit." — Carver. 



7746 Spirit of the Lord 
Tliat day was moving in the heart of man. — VIII. p. 343, col. 1. 

There is a passage in Bede which well illustrates the dif- 
ferent feelings whereby barbarians are induced to accept a new 
religion. 

"Edwin of Northumbria had summoned his chiefs and 
counsellors to advise with him concerning his intended con- 
version. The first person who delivered his opinion was 
Coifi, the Chief Priest of the Idols. ' For this which is 
preached to us,' said he, ' do you, O King, see to it, what it 
may be. I will freely confess to you what I have learnt, that 
the religion which we have held till now has no virtue in it. 
No one of your subjects has devoted himself to the worship of 
our Gods more earnestly than I, and yet many there are who 
have received greater bounties and greater favors from your 
hand, and have prospered better in all their undertakings and 
desires. Now, if our Gods could have done any thing, they 
would rather have assisted me than them.' To this another 
of the nobles added, ' The present life of man upon earth, 
when compared with the future, has appeared to me, O King, 
like as when you and your Chiefs and servants have been 
seated at your supper, in winter time, the hearth blazing in 
the centre, and the viands smoking, while without it is storm, 
or rain, or snow, and a sparrow flies through the hall, entering 
at one door and passing out at another ; while he is within, 
in that little minute he does not feel the weather, but after 
that instant of calm, he returns again to winter as from winter 
he came, and is gone. Such and so transitory is the life of 
man, and of what follows it or what preceded it we are alto- 
gether ignorant. Wherefore, if this new doctrine should bring 
any thing more certain, it well deserves to be followed.' " — 
Lib. 2, c. 13. 

John Wesley has preserved a very interesting dialogue be- 
tween himself and the Chicasaws. 

" Q. Do you believe there is One above, who is over all 
things ? — Paustoobee answered. We believe there are four 
Beloved Things above, the Clouds, the Sun, the Clear Sky, 
and He that lives in the Clear Sky 

" Q. Do you believe there is but one that lives in the 
Clear Sky ? 

" ./?. We believe there are Two with him ; three in all. 

" Q. Do you think He made the Sun and the other Be- 
loved Things ? 

"./?. We cannot tell. Who hath seen? 

" Q. Do you think He made you.'' 

"./3. We think He made all men at first. 

" Q. How did He make them at first .' 

" A. Out of the ground. 

" Q. Do you believe He loves you? 

" A. I do not know. I cannot see him. 

<' Q. But has He not often saved your life ? 

" A. He has. Many bullets have gone on this side, and 
many on that side, but he would never let them hurt me. 
And many bullets have gone into these young men, and yet 
they are alive. 

" Q. Then cannot He save you from your enemies now? 

" A. Yes, but we know not if he will. We have now so 
many enemies round about us, that I think of nothing but 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



367 



death ; and if I am to die, I sliall die, and I will die like a 
man. But if He will have me to live, I shall live. Though I 
had ever so many enemies, He can destroy them all. 

" Q. How do you know that ? 

" A. From what I have seen. When our enemies came 
against us before, then the Beloved Clouds came for us ; and 
often much rain and sometimes hail has come upon them, and 
that in a very hot day. And I saw when many French and 
Choctaws, and other nations came against one of our towns, 
and the ground made a noise under them, and the Beloved 
Ones in the air behind them, and they were afraid, and went 
away, and left their meat and their drink, and their guns. I 
tell no lie, all these saw it, too. 

" Q. Have you heard such noises at other times? 

"./?. Yes, often j before and after almost every battle. 

" Q. What sort of noises were they ? 

" A. Like the noise of drums, and guns, and shouting. 

" Q. Have you heard any such lately ? 

" A. Yes ; four days atler our last battle with the French. 

" Q. Then you heard nothing before it ? 

" A. The night before, I dreamed I heard many drums up 
there, and many trumpets there, and much stamping of feet 
and shouting. Till then, I thought we should all die ; but 
then I tliought the Beloved Ones were come to help us. And 
the next day I heard above a hundred guns go oft' before the 
fight began, and I said. When the Sun is there, the Beloved 
Ones will help us, and we shall conquer our enemies j and we 
did so. 

" Q. Do you often think and talk of the Beloved Ones ? 

" A. We think of them always, wherever we are. We 
talk of them and to them, at home and abroad, in peace and 
in war, before and after we fight, and indeed whenever and 
wherever we meet together. 

" Q. Where do you think your souls go, after death ? 

'■'■A. We believe the souls of red men walk up and down 
near the place where they died, or where tiieir bodies lie, for 
we have often heard cries and noises near the place where any 
prisoners had been burnt. 

" Q. Where do the souls of white men go after death ? 

'■'■A, We cannot tell ; we have not seen. 

" Q. Our belief is, that the souls of bad men only walk up 
and down ; but the souls of good men go up. 

'■'■A. I believe so, too j but I told you the talk of the 
nation. 

" Mr. Andretcs. They said, at the burying, they knew 
what you was doing. You was speaking to the Beloved Ones 
above to take up the soul of the young woman. 

" Q. We have a book that tells us many things of the 
Beloved Ones above ; would you be glad to know them ? 

"A. We have no time now, but to figlit. If we should 
ever be at peace, we should be glad to know. 

" Q. Do you expect ever to know wliat the white men 
know ? 

'■'■ Mr. Andrews. They told Mr. O., they believe the time 
will come when the red and white men will be one. 

" Q. What do the French teach you ? 

" A. The French Black Kings (the Priests) never go out. 
We see you go about : we like that ; that is good. 

" Q. How came your nation by the knowledge they have ? 

" ^. As soon as ever the ground was sound and fit to stand 
upon, it came to us, and has been with us ever since. But 
we are young men, our old men know more ; but all of them 
do not know. There are but a few whom the Beloved One 
chooses from a child, and is in them, and takes care of them, 
and teaches them. They know these things, and our old men 
practise, therefore they know : but I do not practise, therefore 
I know little." — Wesley's Journal, No. I. 39. 



Dolwyddelan. — X. p. 344, col. 2. 

•' Dolwyddelan is situated in a rocky valley which is 
sprinkled with stunted trees, and watered by the Lleder. 
The boundaries are rude and barren mountains, and among 
others, the great bending mountain, Seabod, often conspicuous 
from most distant places. The castle is placed on a high rock, 
precipitous on one side, and insulated : it consists of two 
square towers, one 40 feet by 25, the other, 32 by 20 ; each 
Lad formerly three floors. The materials of this fortress are 



the shattery stone of the country ; yet well squared, the 
masonry good, and the mortar hard ; the castle yard lay be- 
tween the towers." — Pennant's Snowdon. 

The rudeness and barrenness of the surrounding mountains 
I can well testify, having been bewildered and benighted upon 
them. 

" In the beginning of Edward the Fourth his reign, Dol- 
wyddelan was inhabited by Howell ap Evan ap Rhys Geliiin, 
a base son, captain of the country, and an outlaw. Against 
this man, David ap Jenkin rose and contended with him for the 
sovereignty of the country, and being superior to him in the 
end, he drew a draught for him, and took him in his bed at 
Penanonen with his concubine, performing by craft what he 
could not by force ; for after many bickerings between Howell 
and David, David being too weak was fayne to fly the country 
and to goe to Ireland, where he was a year or thereabouts ; in 
the end he returned, in a summer time, having himself and 
all his followers clad in greene ; which, being come into the 
country, he dispersed here and there among his friends, lurk- 
ing by day and walking by night, for fear of his adversaries ; 
and such of the country as happened to have a sight of him 
and of his followers, said they were fayrics, and so ran away." 

— GwrOIR HlSTOKY. 



JVur tvrn''d he now 
Beside Kre^ennan, where his infant feet 
Had trod Ednywaui>s hall. — X. p. 344, col. 2. 
At some distance beyond, the two pools, called Llynian 
Cragenan, in the neighborhood of Cader Idris, near the river 
Kregennan, I saw the remains of Llys Bradwen, the Court or 
Palace of Ednowain, chief of one of the fifteen tribes of North 
Wales, either in the reign of GruflTydd ap Cynan, or soon after. 
The relics are about thirty yards square : the entrance about 
seven feet wide, with a large, upright stone on each side, by way 
of door-case ; the walls, with large stones, uncemented by any 
mortar ; in short, the structure of this paJace shows the very 
low state of arcliitecture in those times ; it may be paralleled 
only by the artless fabric ol a cattle-house." — Pennant's 
Snowdon. 



Tlie Hirlas. — X. p. 345, col. 1. 

Mr. Owen, to whose indefatigable industry Cymbric liter- 
ature is so much indebted, has favored me with a literal ver- 
sion of this remarkable poem. 

When the dawn uprose, a shout was given ; 
Foes were sending a luckless destiny. 
Mangled w ith ruddy wounds, our men, after heavy toil, 
were seen scattered about the wall of the Vale of Maelor. 
I chased away the strangers inured to contention, 
dauntless in tlie conflict, with red stained weapons. 
Who insults the brave, let him beware his presence i 
the result of molesting him is a source of affliction. 

Pour out, thou cup-hearer, thus yielding pleasure, 
the horn in the hand of Rhys, in the hall of the director of 

bounty, 
the hall of Owen, that has ever been maintained on spoil, 
the feasting of a thousand, thou mayest hear ; open are the 

gates. 
Cup-bearer ! I am sad and silent : has he not left me .-' 
Reach thou the horn for mutual drinking ; 
Full of sorrow am t for the leader of the hue of the ninth 

wave ; * 
long and blue its characteristic, gold its cover : 
so bring it forth with Bragod, a liquor of exalted pledge, 
into the hand of the froward Gwgan, to requite his deed. 
The whelps of Goronwy are mighty in the path of wrath, 
aptly springing whelps, confident their feet, 
men who claim a reward in every difficulty ; 
men in the shout greatly valued, of mighty deliverance. 



* The ninth wave is an expression much used by the Welsh Poets. It 
occurs in the Hoienau of Myrddin. "I will prophesy before the ninth 
wave." — Arch. p. 135. So in the eulogy on Eva. " Eva, of the hue of 
the spraying foam before the ninth wave." — Arch. p. 217. 



368 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



The Shepherd of Havern {Severn) it elates the soul to hear 

them 
Bounding the Horns of mead that greatly rouse desire. 

Pour out thou the Horn covered with a yellow top, 
honorably drunk with over-frothing mead ; 
and if thou seekest life to one year's close, 
diminish not its respect, since it is not meet; 
And bear to Grufydd, the crimson-lanced foe, 
wine with pellucid glass around it ; 
the dragon of Arwstli, safeguard of the borders, 
the dragon of Owen, the generous, of the race of Cynvyn, 
a dragon from his beginning, and never scared by a conflict 
of triumphant slaughter, or afflicting chase. 
Men of combat departed for the acquirement of fame, 
armed sons of the banquet with gleaming weapons ; 
they requited well their mead, like Belyn's men of yore j 
fairly did they toil while a single man was left. 

Pour out thou the Horn, for it is my purpose 
that its potent sway may incite a sprightly conversation, 
in the right hand of our leader of devastation, 
gleaming beneath the broad, light shield ; 
in the hand of Ednyved, the lion of his land irreproachable ; 
all dexterous in the push of spears, shivered away his shield. 
The tumult hurries on the two fearless of nature ; 
they would break as a whirlwind over a fair retreat, 
with opposing fronts in the combat of battle, 
where the face of the gold-bespangled shield they would 

quickly break. 
Thoroughly stained, their shafts, after head-cleaving blows, 
Thoroughly active in defending the glory-bounded Garthran, 
and there was heard in Maelor a great and sudden outcry, 
with horrid scream of men in agony of wounds, 
and thronging round the carnage they interwove their paths. 
As it was in Bangor round the fire of spears, 
when two sovereigns over horns made discord, 
when there was the banquet of Morac Morvran. 

Pour thou out the Horn, for I am contemplating 
where they defend both their mead and their country. 
Selyc the undaunted, of the station of Gwygyr, 
look to it, who insults him of eagle heart ! 
And IMadoc's only son, the geneious Tudyr of high renown, 
and the claim of the wolf, a slayer with gleaming shafts. 
Two heroic ones, two lions in their onset, 
two of cruel energy, the two sons of Ynyr; 
two, unrestrained in the day of battle their onward course, 
of irresistible progress and of matchless feat. 
The stroke of the fierce lions fiercely cut through warriors 
of battle-leading forms, red their ashen thrusters 
of violence, bending in pursuit with ruthless glory. 
The shivering of their two shields may be likened 
to the loud-voiced wind, over the green-sea brink 
checking the incessant waves ; so seemed the scene of Tal- 
garth. 

Pour out, thou Cup-bearer, seek not death, 
the Florn with honor in festivals. 

The long blue bugle of high privilege, with ancient silver 
that covers it, with opposite lips, 
and bear to Tudyr, eagle of conflicts, 
a prime beverage of the blusliing wine. 
If there come not in of mead the best of all 
the liquor from tlie bowl, tliy head is forfeit 
to the hand of Moreiddig the encourager of songs ; 
may they become old in fame before their cold depositure ! 
Brothers blameless ! of highly soaring minds, 
of dauntless vigor earning your deserts, 
warriors who for me have achieved services, 
not old with unsightliness, but old in dexterity, 
toilers, impellers, leaders that are wolves 
of the cruel foremost rank, with gory limbs. 
Brave captains of the men of Mocnant, a Powysian land, 
both possess the prowess of the brave ; 
the deliverers in every need, ruddy are their weapons, 
securely they would keep their bounds from tumult, 
praise is their meed, they who are so blest. — 
Cry of death was it ? be the two to me then changed ! 



Oh my Christ ! how sad am I from these wounds ! 
By the loss of Moreiddig greatly is his absence felt. 

Pour thou out the Horn, for they do not sigh for me ! 
the Ilirlas, cheeringly in the hand of Morgant, 
a man who deserves the homage of peculiar praise. 
Like poison to the happy is the track of his spear, 
a matter accursed is the abiding his blade, 
smooth its two sides, keen its edges. 

Pour out, thou Cup-bearer, from a silver vessel 
the solemn festive boon with due respect. 
On the plain of Great Gwestun I saw the raw throbbing. 
To baffle Goronwy were a task for a hundred men ; 
the warriors a mutual purpose did accomplish there, 
supporters of the battle, heedless of life. 
The exalted chief did meet the dispersed ones of slaughter, 
a governor was slain, burnt was a fort on the flood mark of 

the sea ; 
a magnanimous prisoner they fetched away, 
Mairyc son of Grufydd, the theme of prophetic song: 
Were they not all bathed in sweat when they returned, 
for full of sunshine were the extended hill and dale ? 

Pour thou out the Horn to the mutually toiling ones, 
the whelps of Owen with connected spears in united leap j 
they would pour abroad in a noted spot 
a store where the glittering irons go rebounding; 
Madoc and Meiler, men nurtured in depredation, 
for iniquity the stemming opponents, 
the instructors for tumult of a shield-bearing host, 
and fro ward conductors of subjects trained for conflicts. 
It is heard how from the feast of mead went the chief of Ca- 

traeth ; 
upright their purpose with keen-edged weapons ; 
the train of Mynyddoc, for their being consigned to sleep, 
obtained their recording, leaders of a wretched fray ! 
None achieved what my warriors did in the hard toil of 

Maelor, — 
the release of a prisoner belongs to the harmonious eulogy. 

Pour out, thou Cup-bearer, sweet mead distilled 

of spear-impelling spirit in the sweating toil, 

from bugle horns proudly overlaid with gold 

to requite the pledge of their lives. 

Of the various distresses that chieftains endure 

no one knows but God and he who speaks. 

A man who will not pay, will not pledge, will abide no law, 

Daniel the auxiliary chief, so fair of loyalty. 

Cup-bearer, great the deed that claims to be honored, 

of men refraining not from death if they find not hospitality. 

Cup-bearer, a choicest treat of mead must be served us to- 
gether, 

an ardent fire bright, a light of ardently bright tapers. 

Cup-bearer, thou mightest have seen a house of wrath in 
Lledwn land, 

a sullenly subjected prey that shall be highly praised. 

Cup-bearer, I cannot be continued here : nor avoid a separa- 
tion ; 

Be it in Paradise that we be received ; 

with the Supreme of Kings long be our abode, 

where there is to be seen the secure course of truth. 

The passage in the poem would have stood very differently 
had I seen this literal version before it was printed. I had 
written from the faithless paraphrase of Evans, in which every 
thing characteristic or beautiful is lost. 

Few persons who read this song can possibly doubt its au- 
thenticity. They who chose to consider the Welsh poems as 
spurious had never examined them. Their groundless and 
impudent incredulity, however, has been of service to litera- 
ture, as it occasioned Mr. Turner to write his Vindication, 
which has settled the question forever. 



Saint Monacel. — X. p. 345, col. 2. 
« In Pennant-Melangle church was the tomb of St. Mona- 
cella, who, protecting a hare from the pursuit of Brocwell 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



369 



Yscytlibrog, Prince of Powis, he gave her land to found a 
religious house, of which she became first Abbess. Her hard 
bed is shown in the cleft of a neighboring rock, her tomb was 
in a little chapel, now the vestry, and her image is still to be 
seen in the churchyard, where id also that of Edward, eldest 
son of Owen Gwynedh, who was set aside from the succession 
on account of a broken nose, and flying here for safety, was 
slain not far ofl^, at a place called Bwlch Croes lorwerth. On 
his shield is inscribed, Htcjacct Etward." — Gough's Camden. 
Mr. Gough has certainly been mistaken concerning one of 
these monuments, if not both. What he supposed to be the 
Image of St. Monacel is the monumental stone of some female 
of distinction, the figure being recumbent, with the hands 
joined, and the feet resting upon some animal. And the letters 
vviiich he read for Etward, are plainly Et Mado. 



The place of meeting was a high hill-top. — XI. p. 346, col. 1. 

The Bardic meetings, or Oorseddau, were held in the open 
air, on a conspicuous place, while the sun was above the 
horizon ; for they were to perform every thing in the eye of 
light, and in the face of the sun. The place was set apart by 
forming a Circle of Stones, with a large stone in the middle, 
beside which the presiding Bard stood. This was termed 
Ci/Ig Cyngrair, or the Circle of Federation, and the middle 
stone Maen Llog, the Stone of Covenant. 

Mr. Owen's very curious introduction to his translation of 
Llywarc Hen has supplied me with materials for the account 
of the Oorsedd, introduced in the poem. That it might be as 
accurate as possible, he himself and Edward Williams the 
Bard did me the favor of examining it. To their knowledge, 
and to that of Mr. Turner, the historian of the Anglo-Saxons, 
and to the liberality and friendliness with which they have 
ever been willing to assist me therewith, I am greatly and 
variously indebted. 

The Bard at these meetings wore the distinguisliing dress 
of his order — a robe of sky blue, as an emblem of truth, being 
unicolored, and also as a type, that, amid the storms of the 
moral world, he must assume the serenity of the unclouded 
sky. The dress of the Ovydd, the third order, or first into 
which the candidate could be admitted, was green. The 
Awenyddion, the Disciples, wore a variegated dress of blue, 
green, and white, the three Bardic colors, wiiite being the 
dress of the Druids, who were the second order. The hards 
stood within the circle, bareheaded and barefooted, and the 
ceremony opened by sheathing a sword and laying it on the 
Stone of Covenant. The Bardic traditions were then recited. 



Himself, albeit his hands were staui'd with war, 
Initiate ; for the Order, in the lapse 
Of years, and in their nation's long decline. 
From the first rigor of their purity 
Somewhat had fallen. — XI. p. 346, col. 1. 

" By the principles of the Order a Bard was nover to bear 
arms, nor in any other manner to become a party in any dis- 
pute, either political or religious ; nor was a naked weapon 
ever to be held in his presence, for under the title of Bardd 
Ynys Prydain, Bard of the Isle of Britain, he was recognized 
as the sacred Herald of Peace. He could pass unmolested 
from one country to another, where his character was known ; 
and whenever he appeared in his unicolored robe, attention 
was given to him on all occasions ; if it was even between 
armies in the heat of action, both parties would instantly 
desist." — Owen's Llywarc Hen. 

Six of the elder Bards are enumerated in the Triads as 
having borne arms in violation of their Order; but in these 
latter days the perversion had become more frequent. Meiler, 
the Bard of Grufydd ab Cynan, distinguished himself in war; 
Cynddelw, Brydydd Major, the Great Bard, was eminent for 
his val«r, and Gwalchmai boasts in one of his poems that he 
had defended the Marches against the Saxons. — Warrington. 



The Bard's most honorable name XI. p. 346, col. 2. 

No people seem to have understood the poetical character 
80 well as the Welsh ; witness their Triads. 
47 



" The three primary requisites of poetical Genius ; an eye 
that can see Nature, a heart that can foel Nature, and a reso- 
lution that dares follow Nature. 

" The three foundations of Genius ; the gift of God, man's 
exertion, and the events of life. 

"The three indispensables of Genius ; understanding, feel- 
ing, and perseverance. 

" The three things which constitute a poet ; genius, knowl- 
edge, and impulse. 

" The three things that enrich Genius ; contentment of 
mind, the cherishing of good thoughts, and exercising the 
memory." — E. Williams's Poems. Owen's Llywarc Hen. 



Cimbric lore. — XI. p. 346, col. 2. 
" The Welsh have always called themselves Cymry, of 
which the strictly literal meaning is Aborigines. There can 
be no doubt that it is the same word as the Cimbri of the 
ancients; they call their language Cymraeg, the Primitive 
Tongue." — E. Williams's Poems. 



Where are the sons of Oavran 7 where his tribe. 
The faithful? — XI. p. 347, col. 1. 

" Gavran, the son of Aeddan Vradog ab Dyvnwal Hen, a 
chieftain of distinguished celebrity in the latter part of the 
fifth century. Gavran, Cadwallon, and Gwenddolau were tlie 
heads of the three faithful tribes of Britain. The family of 
Gavran obtained that title by accompanying him to sea to dis- 
cover some islands, which, by a traditionary memorial, were 
known by the name of Owcrdonnau Llion, or the green Islands 
of the Ocean. This expedition was not heard of afterwards, 
and the situation of those islands became lost to the Britons. 
This event, the voyage of Mcrddin Emrys with the twelve 
Bards, and the expedition of Madoc, were called the three 
losses by disappearance." — Cumbrian Biography. 

Of these Islands, or Green Sjwts of the Floods, there are 
some singular sujjerstitions. They are the abode of the 
Tylwyth Teg, or the Fair Family, the souls of the virtuous 
Druids, who, not having been Christians, cannot enter the 
Christian heaven, but enjoy this heaven of their own. They, 
however, discover a love of mischief, neither becoming happy 
spirits, nor consistent with their original character ; for they 
love to visit the earth, and, seizing a man, inquire whether he 
will travel above wind, mid wind, or below wind ; above wind 
is a giddy and terrible passage ; below wind is through bush 
and brake; the middle is a safe course. But the spell of se- 
curity is, to catch hold of the grass, for these beings have not 
power to destroy a blade of grass. In their better moods they 
come over and carry the Welsh in their boats. He who visits 
these islands imagines on his return that he has been absent 
only a few hours, when, in truth, whole centuries have passed 
away. 

If you take a turf from St. David's church-yard, and stand 
upon it on the sea-shore, you behold these islands. A man 
once, who had thus obtained sight of them, immediately put to 
sea to find them ; but they disappeared, and his search was in 
vain. He returned, looked at tliem again from the enchanted 
turf, again set sail, and failed again. The third time he took 
the turf into his vessel, and stood upon it till he reached them. 

" The inhabitants of Arran More, the largest of the south 
isles of Arran, on the coast of Galway, are persuaded that in 
a clear day they can see Hy Brasail, the Enchanted Island, 
from the coast, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish." — Cullcctanca 
de Rebus Hibernicis. Beauford's Ancient Topography of 
Ireland. 

General Vallancey relates a different history of this supersti- 
tion. " The old Irish," he says, " say, that great part oflre- 
land was swallowed up by the sea, and that the sunken part 
often rises, and is frequently to be seen on the horizon from 
the Northern coast. On the North-west of the island they call 
this enchanted country Tir Hudi, or the city of Hud, believ- 
ing that the city stands there which once possessed all the 
riches of the world, and that its key lies buried under some 
druidical monument. When Mr. Burton, in 1765, went in 
search of the Ogham monument, called Conane's Tomb, on 
Callan mountain, the people could not be convinced that the 
search was made after an inscription, but insisted that he was 



370 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



seeking after an Enchanted Key that lay buried with the 
Hero, and which, when found, would restore the Enchanted 
City to its former splendor, and convert the moory heights of 
Callan mountain into rich and fruitful plains. They expect 
great riches whenever this city is discovered." 

This enchanted country is called O Breasil, or Brazil, 
which, according to General Vallancey's interpretation, signi- 
fies the Royal Island. He says it is evidently the lost city of 
Arabian Story, visited by their fabulous prophet Houd, — the 
City and Paradise of Irem ! He compares this tradition with 
the remarks of Whitehurst on the Giant's Causeway, and sus- 
pects that it refers to the lost Atlantis, which Whitehurst 
thinks perhaps existed there. 

Is that remarkable phenomenon, known in Sicily by the 
name of Morgaine le Fay's works, ever witnessed on the coast 
of Ireland ? If so, the superstition is explained by an actual 
apparition. I had not, when this note was written, seen 
Mr. Latham's account of a similar phenomenon at Hastings, 
(Phil. Trans. 1798,) which completely establishes what 1 had 
here conjectured. Mr. Nicholson, in his remarks on it, says 
the same thing has been seen from Broadstairs, and that these 
appearances are much more frequent and general than has 
usually been supposed. 

In his crystal ^rk, 
Whither saiVd Merlin with his band of Bards, 
Old Merlin, master of the mystic lore 7 — XI. p. 347, col. 1. 

The name of Merlin has been so canonized by Ariosto and 
our diviner Spenser, that it would have been a heresy in 
poetry to have altered it to its genuine orthography. 

Merddin was the bard ofEmrys Wledig, the Ambrosius of 
Saxon history, by whose command he erected Stonehenge, 
in memory of the Plot of the Long Knives, when, by the 
treachery of Gwrytheyrn, or Vortigern, and the Saxons, three 
hundred British chiefs were massacred. He built it on the 
site of a former Circle. The structure itself affords proof 
that it cannot have been raised much earlier, inasmuch as it 
deviates from the original principle of Bardic circles, where 
no appearance of art was to be admitted. Those of Avebury, 
Stanton-Drew, Keswick, &c. exemplify this. It is called by 
the Welsh Owaith Emrys, the work of Ambrosius. Drayton's 
reproach, therefore, is ill founded. 

Ill did those mighty men to trust thee with their story. 

Thou hast forgot their names, who reared thee for their glory. 

The Welsh traditions say that Merddin made a House of 
Glass, in which he went to sea, accompanied by the Nine 
Cylveirdd Bards, and was never heard of more. This was one 
of the Three disappearances from the isle of Britain. Merd- 
din is also one of the Three principal Christian Bards of 
Britain; Merddin Wyllt and Taliesin are the other two. — 
Cambrian Biography. 

A diving House of Glass is also introduced in the Spanish 
Romance of Alexander, written about the middle of the 13th 
century, by Joan Lorenzo Segura de Astorga. 

Unas facianas suelen les genies retraer, 
JVon yaz en escrito, i es grave de creer ; 
Si es verdat a non, yo non he y que veer, 
Pero no lo quiero en olvido poner. 

Dicen que por saber quefacen los pescados, 
Como viven los chicos entre los mas granados, 
Fiio Cuba de vidrio con puntos bien cerrados, 
Metios en ella dentro con dos de sus criados. 

Estos furon catados de todos los meiores, 
Por tal que non oviessen dona los traedores, 
Ca que el o que ellos avrien aguardadores, 
J^onfarien d sus guisas los malos revoltores. 

Fu de bona betume la cuba aguisada, 
Fu con bonas cadenas bien presa ^ calzada, 
Fu con priegos firmes d las naves pregada, 
Que fonder non sepodiesse e estodiesse colgada. 

Mando que quinze dias lo dexassen hy durar. 
Las naves con todesto pensassen de tost andar, 
Assaz podrie en esto saber e mesurar, 
Metria en escrito los secretos del mar. 



La cubafuefecha en quel Rey acia, 
Ji los unos pesaba, d los otros placia : 
Bien cuidaban algunos que nunca ende saldria. 
Mas destaiado era que en mar non vioriria. 

Andabal bon Rey en su casa cerrada, 
Seia grant corazon en angosta posada; 
Veia toda la mar de pescados poblada, 
JVo es bestia nel sieglo que non f us y trobada. 

JVon vive en el mundo nenguna creatura 
Que non cria la mar semejante Jigura ; 
Traen enemizades entre si por natura, 
Losfuertes a losflacos danles mala ventura. 

Estonce via el Rey en aquellas andadas 
Como echan los unos a los otros celadas 
Dicen que ende furon presas e sossacadas, 
Furon desent aca por el sieglo 



Tanto se acogien al Rey los pescados 
Como si los ovies el Rey por subiugados, 
Venienfasta la cuba todos cabezcolgados, 
Tremian todos antel como mozos moiades. 

Juraba .Alexandre per lo su diestro llado, 
Que nunca f lira domes meior accompannado ; 
De los pueblos del mar tovose por pagado, 
Contaba que avie grant emperio ganado. 

Otrafaciana via en essos pobladores, 
Vio que los maiores comien d los menores, 
Los chicos d los grandes tenienos por sennores, 
Maltraen los masfuertes d los que son menores. 



Diz el Rey, soberbia es en todolos lugares, 
Forcia es enna tierra e dentro ennos mares : 
Las aves essso mismo non se catan por pares, 
Dios confunda tal vicio que tien tantos lugares. 

JVacio entre los angelos e Jizo muchos caer, 
Arramolos Dios per la tierra, e dioles grant podcr. 
La mesnada non puede sti derecho aver 
Ascondio la cabeza, non osaba parecer. 

Quien mas puede mas face, non de bien, mas de mal, 
Quien mas d aver mas quier, ^ morre por ganal ; 
JVon veeria de su grado nenguno so igual ; 
nenguno no es d Dios leal. 



Las aves e las bestias, los omes, los pescados, 
Todos son entre si a bandos derramados ; 
De vicio e de soberbia son todos entregados, 
Losflacos de losfuertes andan desafiados. 

Se como sabel Rey bien todesto osmar, 
Quisiesse assimismo d derechas iulgar, 
Bien debie un poco su lengua refrenar. 
Que en tantfieras grandias non quisiesse andar. 

De su gradol Rey mas oviera estado 
Mas a sus criazones faciesles pesado ; 
Temiendo la ocasion que suel venir privado, 
Sacaronlo bien ante del termino passado. 

The sweet flow of language and metre in so early a poem is 
very remarkable ; but no modern language can boast of monu- 
ments so early and so valuable as the Spanish. To attempt to 
versify this passage would be laborious and unprofitable. Its 
import is, that Alexander being desirous to see how the Fish 
lived, and in what manner the great Fish behaved to the little 
ones, ordered a vessel of glass to be made, and fastened with 
long chains to his ships, that it might not sink too deep. He 
entered it with two chosen servants, leaving orders that the 
ships should continue their course, and draw him up at the end 
of fifteen days. The vessel had been made perfectly water- 
tight. He descended, and found the fish as curious to see him 
as he had been to see the fish. They crowded round his 
machine, and trembled before him as if he had been their con 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES 



371 



queror, so that lie thought he hud acquired another empire. 
Hut Altixandor perceived the same system of tyranny in the 
water as on the land, the great eat the little, and the little 
eat the less ; upon which tyranny he made sundry moral ob- 
servations, which would have come with more propriety from 
any other person than from himself. However, he ohacrved 
the various devices which were used for catching fish, and 
which, in conse(|uence of this discovery, have been used in 
the world ever since. His people were afraid some accident 
might happen, and drew him up long before the fifteen days 
were expired. 

The Poet himself does not believe this story. " People say 
so," he says, " but it is not in writing, and it is a thing ditR- 
cult to believe. It is not my business to examine whether it 
be true or not, but I do not choose to pass it over unnoticed." 
The same story was pointed out to me by Mr. Coleridge in 
one of the oldest German poems ; and what is more remarka- 
ble, it is mentioned by one of the old Welsh Bards. — Da- 
viKs's Celtic Researches, p. 19G. Jests, and the fictions of 
romance and superstition, seem to have travelled every where. 



Flathinnis. — Xl. p. 347, col. 1. 

Flath-innis, the Noble Island, lies surrounded with tempests 
in the Western Ocean. I fear the account of this Paradise is 
but apocryphal, as it rests upon the evidence of Macpherson, 
and has every internal mark of a modern fiction. 

In former days there lived in Skerr * a magician f of high 
renown. The blast of wind waited for his commands at the 
gate ; he rode the tempest, and the troubled wave oflTered 
itself as a pillow for his repose. His eye followed the sun 
by day ; his thoughts travelled from star to star in tiie season 
of night ; he thirsted after things unseen ; he sighed over tiie 
narrow circle which surrounded his days ; he often sat in 
silence beneath the sound of his groves : and he blamed the 
careless billows that rolled between him and the Green Isle 
of the West. 

One day as the Magician of Skerr sat thoughtful upon a 
rock, a storm arose on the sea : a cloud under whose scjually 
skirts the foaming waters complained, rushed suddenly into 
the bay, and from its dark womb at once issued forth a l)oat, 
with its white sails bent to the wind, and hung around with a 
hundred moving oars. But it was destitute of mariners, itself 
seeming to live and move. An unusual terror seized the aged 
magician ; he heard a voice, though he saw no human form. 
"Arise! behold the boat of the heroes! arise, and sec the 
Green Isle of those who have passed away ! " 

He felt a strange force on his limbs ; he saw no person ; but 
he moved to the boat ; immediately the wind changed ; in tlie 
bosom of the cloud he sailed away. Seven days gleamed 
faintly round him, seven nights added their gloom to his dark- 
ness : his ears were stunned with shrill voices ; tiie dull mur- 
murs of winds passed him on either side ; he slept not, but his 
eyes were not heavy ; he ate not, but he was not hungry : on 
tiie eighth day the waves swelled into mountains ; the boat 
was rocked violently from side to side; the daikness thick- 
ened around him, when a thousand voices at once cried aloud, 
The Isle ! the Isle ! The billows opened wide before him ; 
the calm land of the departed rushed in light on his eyes. 

It was not a light that dazzled, but a pure, distinguishing, 
and placid light, which called forth every object to view in 
their most perfect form. The isle spread large before him, 
like a pleasing dream of the soul, where distance fades not on 
the sight, where nearness fatigues not the eye. It had its 
gently-sloping hills of green, nor did they wholly want their 
clouds ; but the clouds were bright and transparent, and each 
involved in its bosom the source of a stream, — a beauteous 
stream, which, wandering down the steep, was like the faint 
notes of the half-touched harp to the distant ear. The valleys 
were open and free to the ocean ; trees loaded with leaves, 
which scarcely waved to the light breeze, were scattered on 
the green declivities and rising ground : the rude winds walked 
not on the mountain ; no storm took its course through the 
eky. All was calm and bright ; the pure sun of Autumn 
shone from his blue sky on the fields ; he hastened not to the 

* Skerr signifies, in general, a rock in tlie ocean, 
t A magician is called Druidh in the Gaelic, 



west for repose, nor was he seen to rise from the East : he 
sits in his mid-day height, and looks obliquely on the Noble 
Isle. 

In each valley is its slow-moving stream ; the pure waters 
swell over the bank, yet abstain from the fields ; the showers 
disturb them not, nor are they lessened by the heat of the 
sun. On the rising hill are the halls of the departed — the 
high-roofed dwelling of the heroes of old. 

The departed, according to the Tale, retained, in the midst 
of their happiness, a warm affection for their country and 
living friends. They sometimes visited the first; and by the 
latter, as the Bard expresses it, they were transiently seen in 
thehour of peril, and especially on the near approach of death ; 
it was then that at midnight the death devoted, to use the 
words of the Tale, were suddenly awakened by a strange 
knocking at their gates ; it was then that they heard the indis- 
tinct voice of their departed friends calling them away to the 
Noble Isle; "a sudden joy rusiied in upon their minds, and 
that pleasing melancholy which looks forward to happiness in 
a distant land. — Macpherson's Introduction to the History of 
Qreat Britain. 

" The softer sex, among the Celts;," he adds, " passed with 
their friends to the fortunate isles ; their beauty increased with 
the change, and, to use the words of the Bard, they were 
ruddy lights in the Island of Joy." 



^nd an emerald light 
Pervades the green translucent element. — XI. p. 347, col. 1. 

I have sujiplied Merlin with light when he arrived at his 
world of Mermankind, but not for his submarine voyage ; let 
Paracelsus do this. 

" Urim and Thummim were the Philosopher's Stone, and it 
was this which gave light in the Ark. 

" For God commanded Noah to make a clear light in the 
Ark, which some take for a window. But since the Text 
saith. Day and night shall vo more cease; it seems it did then 
cease, and therefore there could be no exterior light. 

" The Rabbis say, that the Hebrew word Zohar, which the 
Chaldces translate Nelier, is only to be found in this place. 
Other Hebrew doctors believe it to have been a precious 
stone hung up in the Ark, which gave light to all living 
creatures therein. This the greatest carbuncle could not do, 
nor any precious stone which is only natural. But the Uni- 
versal Spirit, fixed in a transi>arcnt body, shines like the sun 
in glory, and this was the light which God commanded Noah 
to make." — Paracelsus' Urim and Thummim. 



Rhys ab Orufydd ab Rhys. — XII. p. 347, col. 2. 

Was one of the bravest, wisest, most liberal, and most cele- 
brated of the princes of South Wales He is thus praised in 
the Pentarchia : — 

Quis queat heroem calamo describere tantum, 
Quantus ut ipse fait, modo civibus Hectoris instar, 
Fortis in hostiles modo turmas instar Achillis. 
Ultus avos patricB fere sexaginta per annas, 
Quotfusas acies, quot castra recrpta, quot urbes, 
Spes patrice, columen pacts, lux urbis et orbis, 
Gentis honos, decus armorum, fulmenque duelli. 
Quo ncque pace prior, nequefortior alter in amis. 

In Hearne's Collection of Curious Discourses, are these fu- 
neral verses upon Lord Rhys, as preserved by Camden : — 

J^obile Cambrensis cecidit diadema decoris, 

Hoc est Rhesus obiit, Cambria tota gemit. 
Subtrahitur, sed non moritur, quia semper habetur 

Ipsius egregium nomen in orbe novuvi. 
Hie tegitur, sed detegitur, quia fama per ennis 

JVon sinit illustrem voce latere ducem. 
Eicessit probitate modum, sensu probitatevi, 

Eloquio sensum, moribus eloquium. 

Rhys ap Gryflith, say the Chronicles, was no less remark- 
able in courage, than in the stature and lineaments of his body, 
wherein he exceeded most men. — Royal Tribes. 



372 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES. 



Beavers. — XII. p. 348, col. 1. 

When Giraldu3 Cambrensis wrote, that is, at the time 
whereof the poem treats, the only Beavers remaining in 
Wales or England were in the Towy. Inter universos Cam- 
bricc, sen etiam Loegrimfluvios, solus hie {Tdvi) castores habet. 

The Beaver is mentioned also in the laws of Hoel Dha, and 
one of those dark, deep resting-places or pits of the river Con- 
way, which the Spaniards call the remansos del rio, is called 
the Beavers' pool. 



The Oreai Palace, like a sanctuary, 
Is safe. — nil. p. 348, col. 2. 
Dinas Vawr, the Great Palace. It was regarded as an 
asylum. 

Ooagan of Powxjs-land. — XII. p. 349, col. 1. 

Properly Gwgan ; but I have adapted the orthography to an 
English eye. This very characteristic story is to be found, as 
narrated in the poem, in Mr. Yorke's curious work upon the 
Royal Tribes of Wales. Gwgan's demand was for five pounds, 
instead often marks ; this is the only liberty I have taken with 
the fact, except that of fitting it to the business of the poem, 
by the last part of Rhys's reply. The ill humor in which the 
Lord of Dinvawr confesses the messenger had surprised him, 
is mentioned more bluntly by the historian. " Gwgan found 
him in a furious temper, beating his servants and hanging his 
dogs." I have not lost the character of the anecdote, by re- 
lating the cause of his anger, instead of the effects. 



The bay whose recldess waves 
Roll o''er the plain of Owaelod. — XIII. p. 349, col. 2. 

A large tract of fenny country, called Cantrev y Gwaelod, 
the Lowland Canton, was, about the year 500, inundated by 
the sea ; for Seithenyn, in a fit of drunkenness, let the sea 
through the dams which secured it. He is therefore distin- 
guished, with Geraint and Gwrtheyrn, under the appellation of 
the Three arrant Drunkards. This district, which forms the 
present Cardigan Bay, contained sixteen principal towns of the 
Cymry, the inhabitants of which, who survived the inunda- 
tion, fled into the mountainous parts of Meirion and Arvon, 
which were till then nearly uncultivated. Gwyddno Garan- 
hir, one of the petty Princes, whose territories were thus de- 
stroyed, was a poet. There were lately (and I believe, says 
Edmund Williams, are still) to be seen in the sands of this 
bay large stones with inscriptions on them, the characters 
Roman, but the language unknown. E. Williams's Poems. — 
Cambrian Biography. 

The two other arrant Drunkards were both Princes ; the 
one set fire to the standing corn in his country, and so oc- 
casioned a famine ; Gwrtheyrn, the other, is the Vortigern of 
Saxon history, thus distinguished for ceding the Isle of Thanet, 
in his drunkenness, as the price of Rowena. This worthless 
King is also recorded as one of the Three disgraceful men of 
the Island, and one of the Three treacherous conspirators, 
whose families were forever divested of privilege — Cam- 
trian Biography. 

Bardsey. — XIIL p. 349, col. 2. 

*' This little island," says Giraldus, " is inhabited by cer- 
tain monks of exceeding piety, whom they call Culdees, {Ca- 
libes vel Colideos.) This wonderful property it hath, either 
from the salubrity of its air, which it partakes with the shores 
of Ireland, or rather from some miracle by reason of the merits 
of the Saints, that diseases are rarely known there, and seldom 
or never does any one die till worn out by old age. Infinite 
numbers of Saints are buried there.' 



On his hack. 
Like a broad shield, the coracle was hung. 



■XIIL p. 350, col. 2. 



" The coracles are generally five feet and a half long and 
four broad, their bottom is a little rounded, and their shape 



nearly oval. These boats are ribbed with light laths, or spli 
twigs, in the manner of basket-work, and are covered with a 
raw hide or strong canvass, pitched in such a mode as to 
prevent their leaking ; a seat crosses just above the centre, 
towards the broader end ; they seldom weigh more than 
between 20 and 30 pounds. The men paddle them with one 
hand while they fish with the other, and when their work is 
completed, they throw the coracles over their shoulders, and 
without difficulty return with them home. 

" Riding through Abergwilly we saw several of these phe- 
nomena resting with their bottoms upwards against the houses, 
and resembling the shells of so many enormous turtles ; and 
indeed a traveller, at the first view of a coracle on the shoul- 
ders of a fisherman, might fancy he saw a tortoise walking on 
his hinder legs." — Windham. 

Andrew Marvell, in his poem called " Appleton House," 
describes the coracle as then used in Yorkshire : — 

And now the salmon-fishers moist 
Their leathern boats begin to hoist j 
And, like Antipodes in shoes. 
Have shod their heads in their canoes. 

How Tortoise-like, but not so slow, 
These rational amphibii go ! 
Let's in ; for the dark hemisphere 
Does now like one of them appear. 

The Saxon pirates ventured to sea in vessels of basket-work 
covered with skins : they were used also by the ancient Span- 
iards ; perhaps the coracle succeeded the canoe, implying more 
skill than is necessary to scoop out a tree, or hollow it with 
fire, and less than is required to build a boat. The boats of 
bark, which the savages of Canada use, are equally ingenious, 
and possess the same advantages. 



Prince HoeVs lay of love. — XIV. p. 352, col. 2. 
Eight poems by Prince Hoel are preserved : they are here 



given in Mr. Owen's translation. 



My choice is a lady, elegant, slender, and fair, whose length- 
ened white form is seen through the thin blue veil ; and my 
choicest faculty is to muse on superior female excellence, 
when she with diffidence utters the becoming sentiment ; and 
my choicest participation is to become united with the maid, 
and to share mutual confidence as to thoughts and fortune. I 
choose the bright hue of the spreading wave, thou who art the 
most discreet in thy country, with thy pure Welsh speech, 
chosen by me art thou ; what am I with thee ? how ! dost 
thou refrain from speaking 1 ah ! thy silence even is fair ! I 
have chosen a maid, so that with me there should be no hes- 
itation ; it is right to choose the choicest fair one ; choose, 
fair maid ! 

2. 

I love the white glittering walls on the side of the bank, 
clothed in fresh verdancy, where bashfulness loves to observe 
the modest sea-mew's course ; it would be my delight, though 
I have met with no great return of love in my much-desired 
visit on the sleek white steed, to behold my sister of flippant 
smile ; to talk of love since it has come to my lot ; to restore 
my ease of mind, and to renew her slighted troth with the 
nymph as fair as the hue of the shore-beating wave. 

From her country, who is bright as the coldly-drifted snow 
upon the lofty hill, a censure has come to us, that I should be 
so treated with disdain in the Hall of Ogyrvan. 

Playful, from her promise was new-born expectation ; — 
she is gone with my soul away : I am made wretched ! — Am 
I not become for love like Garwy Hir to the fair one of whom 
I am debarred in the Hall of Ogyrvan ! 



I love the castle of proud workmanship in the Cyvylci, 
where my own assuming form is wont to intrude : the high 
of renown, in full bustle, seek admittance there, and by it 
speaks the mad resounding wave. 

It is the chosen place of a luminary of splendid qualities 
and fair ; glorious her rising from the verge of the torrent, 



NOTES TO MADOC IN WALES 



373 



and the fair one shines upon the now progressive year, in the 
will! of Arvon, in the Snowdonian hills. 

The tent does not attract ; the glossy silk is not looked on 
by her I love, with passing tenderness : if her conquest could 
bo wrought by the muse's aid, ere the night that comes, I 
should next to her be found. 

4. 

I have harnessed thee to-day, my steed of shining gray ; I 
will traverse on thee the fiir region of Cynlas j and I will 
hold a hard dispute before death shall cut me oft'in obstructing 
sleep, and thus obstructing health ; and on me it has been a 
sign, no longer being the honored youth, the complexion is 
like the pale blue waves. 

Oppressed with longing is my memory in society ; regret 
for her by whom I am hated ; whilst I confer on the maid the 
honored eulogy ; she, to prosper pain, deigns not to return 
the consolation of the slightest grace. 

Broken is my heart ! my portion is regret, caused by the 
form of a slender lady, with a girdle of ruddy gold ; my 
treatment is not deserved, she is not this day where my ap- 
pointed place was fixed. Son of the God of Heaven ! if be- 
fore a promise of forbearance she goes away, woe to me that 
I am not slain 

5. 

When the ravens rejoice, when blood is hastening, when 
the gore runs bubbling, when the war doth rage, when the 
houses redden in Ruzlan, when the red hall is burning, when 
we glow with wrath ; the ruddy flame it blazes up to heaven ; 
our abode affords no shelter ; and plainly is the bright con- 
flagration seen from the white walls upon the shore of Menai 

They perished on the third day of May, three hundred ships 
of a fleet roving the ocean ; and ten hundred times the number 
the sword would put to flight, leaving not a single beard on 
Menai. 

6. 

Five evening tides were celebrated when France was saved, 
when barbarian chiefs were made to fly, when there was 
pressure round the steel-clad bodies ; should a weapon yet be 
brandished round the beard, a public triumph would my 
wrath procure, scouring the bounds of Loegyr, and on her 
habitation hurling ruin j there should be tlie hand of the 
hastening host upon the cross, the keen edge slaughtering, tiie 
blade reeking with blood, the blood hue over the abject throng, 
a blood veil hiding its place of falling, and a plain of blood, 
and a cheek suffused with gore. 



I love the time of summer ; then the gladly-exulting steed 
of the warrior prances before a gallant chief; the wave is 
crowned with foam ; the limb of the active more quickly 
moves ; the apple-tree has arrayed itself in another livery ; 
bordered with white is my shield on my shoulder, prepared 
for violence. 1 have loved, with ardency of desire, the object 
which T have not obtained. 

Ceridwen, fair and tall, of slowly languid gait, her com- 
plexion vies with the warm dawn in the evening hour, of a 
splendid delicate form, beautifully mild and white hued pres- 
ence ; in stepping over a rush nearly falling seems the little 
tiny fair one ; gentle in her air, she appears but scarcely older 
than a tenth year infant. Young, shapely, and full of grace- 
fulness, it were a congenial virtue that she should freely give ; 
but the youthful female does more embarrass good fortune by 
a smile, than an expression from her lips checks impertinence. 

A worshipping pilgrim, she will send me to the celestial 
presence ; how long shall I worship thee ? stop and think of 
thine oflice ! If I am unskilful through the dotage of love, 
Jesus, the well-informed, will not rebuke me. 



Fair foam-crowned wave, spraying over the sacred tomb of 
Ruvon the brave, the chief of princes, behold this day I love 
the utmost hate of England, a flat and unergetic land, with a 
race involved in every wile. I love the spot that gave me the 
much-desired gift of mead, where the seas extend a tedious 
conflict. I love the society and thick inhabitants therein, and 
which, obedient to its lord, directs its view to peace. I love 
its sea-coast and its mountains, its city bordering on its forest. 



its fair landscape, its dales, its water, and its vales, its white 
sea-mews, and its beauteous women. I love its warriors and 
its well-trained steeds, its woods, its strong-holds, and its 
social domicil. I love its fields clothed with tender trefoil, 
wiiere I had the glory of a mighty triumph. I love its cul- 
tivated regions, the prerogative of heroism, and its far-ex- 
tended wild, and its sports of the chase, which. Son of God ! 
have been great and wonderful : how sleek the melodious deer, 
and in what plenty found ! I achieved by the push of a spear 
an excellent deed between the chief of Powys and happy 
Gwynez, and upon the pale-hued element of ever-struggling 
motion may I accomplish a liberation from exile. I will not 
take breath until my party oomes ; a dream declares it, and 
God wills it to be so, t^iir foam-crowned wave spraying over 
the grave. 

Fair foam-crowned wave, impetuous in thy course, like in 
color to the hoar when it accumulates ; I love the sea-coast 
in Meirionyz, where I have had a white arm for a pillow. I 
love the nightingale upon the privet-brake in Cymmer Den- 
zur, a celebrated vale. Lord of heaven and earth, the glory 
of the blest, though so far it is from Ceri to Caeiliwelyz, I 
mounted the yellow steed, and from Maelienyz reached the 
land of Reged between the night and day. Before I am in 
the grave, may I enjoy a new blessing from the land of Te- 
gyngyl of fairest aspect ! Since I am a love-wight, one inured 
to wander, may God direct my fate, fair foam-crowned wave 
of impetuous course '. 

I will implore the Divine Supreme, the wonderful in sub- 
jugating to his will, as king, to create an excelling muse for a 
song of praise to tlie women, such as Merzin sung, who have 
claimed my bardic lore so long, who are so tardy in dispensing 
grace. The most eminent in all the west I name, from the 
gates of Chester to the port of Ysgevvin : The first is the 
nymph who will be the subject of universal praise, Gwenliant, 
whose complexion is like the sunnuer's day. The second ia 
another of high state, far from my embrace, adorned with 
golden necklace, fair Gweirvyl, from whom nor token nor 
confidence have I obtained, nor has any of my race ; though 1 
might be slain by two-edged blades, she whose foster brother 
was a king, should be my theme. And next for the handsome 
Gwladys, tlie young and modest virgin, the idol of the multi- 
tude, I utter the secret sigh ; I will worship her with the 
yellow blossoms of the furze. Soon may I see my vigor 
rouse to combat, and in my hand my blade, bright Leucu, my 
companion, laughing, and whose husband laughs not from 
anxiety. Great anxiety oppresses me, makes me sad ; and 
longing, alas ! is liabitual for fair Nest, for her who is like the 
apple-tree blossom ; and for Perwewr, the centre of my de- 
sire ; for Gcnerys the chaste, who grants not a smile for me ; 
may continence not overcome her ! for Ilunyz, whose fame 
will last till the day of doom; for Haw is, who claims my 
choicest eulogy. On a memorable day I had a nymph ; I 
had a second, more be their praise ; I had a third and a fourth 
with prosperitj' ; I had a fiflh of those with a skin white and 
delicate ; I had a sixth bright and fair, avoiding not the 
temptation, above the white walls did she arrest me ; I had a 
seventh, and this was satiety of love ; I had eight in recom- 
pense for a little of the praise which I sung: but the teeth 
most opportunely bar the tongue. 



Ere ever Saxon set his hateful foot 

Upon the beautiful Ide. — XV. p. 354, col. 1. 

The three names of this Island ; the first, before it was 
inhabited, it was called the Water-guarded Green Spot ; after 
it was inhabited, it was called the Honey Island ; and after its 
subjection to Prydain, the son of Aedd Mawr, he gave it the 
name of the Isle of Prydain. — Cambrian Register. 

This name was appropriately given to it, for Ynys Pry- 
dain signifies the Beautiful Isle. — Cambrian Biography, E. 
Williams. 



The contumacious Prince of Powys-land. — XV. p. 354, col. 1. 

Oenum de Cevelioc, quia solus inter WallicB principes Archi- 

prcBsuli cum populo suo non occurrerat., excommunicavimus. 

Oenus iste prce aliis Cambrice principibus, et linguce dicacis ez- 

titerat, et in terrm sucb moderamine in genii perspieacis. — Gi- 

RALDUS CaMBRENSIS. 



374 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Even as Owen in Ids deeds 
Disowned the Church when living, even so 
The Church disowned him dead. — XV. p. 354, col. 2. 

Owen Gwyneth was buried at Bangor. When Baldwin, 
Archbishop of Canterbury, coming to preach the crusade 
against the Saracens, saw his tomb, he charged the Bishop to 
remove the body out of the Cathedral, when he could find a 
fit opportunity so to do ; in regard that Archbishop Becket 
liad excommunicated him heretofore, because he had married 
his first cousin, the daughter of Grono ab Edwyn, and that 
notwithstanding he had continued to live with her till she died. 
The Bishop, in obedience to the charge, made a passage from 
the vault through the south wall of the church, under ground, 
and so secretly shoved the body into the churchyard. — 
Royal Tribes. From the Hengwrt MS. 

One of the first things we asked to see was the tomb of 
Potemkin. All Europe has heard that he was buried in 
Cherson ; and a magnificent sepulchre might naturally be ex- 
pected for a person so renowned. The reader will imagine 
our surprise, when, in answer to our inquiries concerning his 
remains, we were told that no one knew what was become of 
them. 

Potemkin, the illustrious, the powerful, of all the princes 
that ever lived the most princely, of all imperial favorites the 
most favored, had not a spot which might be called his grave. 
He, who not only governed all Russia, but even made the 
haughty Catherine his suppliant, had not the distinction pos- 
sessed by the humblest of the human race. The particulars 
respecting the ultimate disposal of his body, as they were 
communicated to me upon the spot, on the most credible testi- 
mony, merit cursory detail. 

The corpse, soon after his death, was brought to Cherson, 
and placed beneath a dome of the small church belonging to 
the fortress opposite to the altar. After the usual ceremony 
of interment, the vault was covered, merely by restoring to 
their former situation the planks of wood belonging to the 
floor of the building. Many inhabitants of Cherson, as well 
as English officers in the Russian service, who resided in the 
neighborhood, had seen the coffin : this was extremely ordi- 
nary ; but the practice of showing it to strangers prevailed for 
some years after Potemkin's decease. The Empress Cathe- 
rine either had, or pretended to have, an intention of erecting 
a superb monument to his memory ; whether at Cherson or 
elsewhere, is unknown. Her sudden death is believed to 
have prevented the completion of this design. 

The most extraordinary part of the story remains now to be 
related : the coffin itself has disappeared : instead of any 
answer to the various inquiries we made concerning it, we 
were cautioned to be silent. No one, said a countryman of 
ours, living in the place, dares to mention the name of Potem- 
kin. At length we received intelligence that the verger could 
satisfy our curiosity, if we would venture to ask him. 

We soon found the means of encouraging a little communi- 
cation on his part ; and were then told, that the body, by the 
Emperor Paul's command, had been taken up, and thrown 
into the ditch of the fortress. These orders were implicitly 
obeyed. A hole was dug in the fosse, into which his remains 
were thrown with as little ceremony as if they were those of 
a dead dog ; but this procedure taking place during the night, 
very few were informed of the disposal of the body. An eye- 
witness of the fact assured me that the coffin no longer ex- 
isted in the vault where it was originally placed ; and the 
Verger was actually proceeding to point out the place where 
the body was abandoned, when the Bishop himself, happening 
to arrive, took away my guide, and with menaces but too 
likely to be fulfilled, prevented our being more fully informed 
concerning the obloquy at present involving Potemkin. — 
Clarke's Travels, vol. i. p. 602. 



Winning slow Famine to their aid. — XVII. p. 357, col. I. 

" I am much affected," says old Fuller, " with the ingenui- 
ty of an English nobleman, who, following the camp of King 
Henry III. in these parts, (Caernarvonshire,) wrote home to 
his friends, about the end of September, 1243, the naked truth 
indeed as followeth : ' We lie in our tents, watchnig, fasting, 
praying, and freezing ; we watch for fear of the Welshmen, 



who are wont to invade us in the night ; we fast for want of 
meat, for the halfpenny loaf is worth five pence ; we pray to 
God to send us home speedily ; we freeze for want of winter 
garments, having nothing but thin linen betwixt us and the 
wind.' " 



Be not thou 
As is the black and melancholy yew, 
That strikes into the grave its baleful roots, 
And prospers on the dead. — XVII. p. 337, col. 2. 

Like the black and melancholic yew-tree, 
Dost think to root thyself in dead men's graves, 
And yet to prosper .? 

Webster's White Devil, or Vittoria Corombona. 



JSTever shall her waking eye 
Behold them, till the hour of happiness, 
When Death hath made her pure for perfect bliss. 

XVII. p. 358, col. 2. 

The three Restorations in the Circle of Happiness ; Resto- 
ration of original genius and character ; Restoration of all that 
was beloved ; and the Restoration of Remembrance from the 
origin of all things ; without these perfect happiness cannot 
exist. — Triads uf Bardism, 32. 

I have thought it unnecessary to give a connected account 
of the Bardic system in these Notes, as it has been so well 
done by my friend, Mr. Turner, in his Vindication of the An- 
cient British Poems. 



PART II. 
MADOC IN AZTLAN 



THE RETURN TO AZTLAN. 

NoAV go your way, ye gallant company ; 

God and good Angels guard ye as ye go ! 

Blow fairly, Winds of Heaven ! Ye Ocean Waves, 

Swell not in anger to that fated fleet ! 

For not of conquest greedy nor of gold, 

Seek they the distant world. — Blow fairly, Winds! 

Waft, Waves of Ocean, well your blessed load ! 

Fair blew the Winds, and safely did the Waves 
Bear that beloved charge. It were a tale 
Would rouse adventurous courage in a boy, 
Making him long to be a mariner, 
That he might rove the main, if I should tell 
How pleasantly, for many a summer day. 
Over the sunny sea, with wind at will. 
Prince Madoc sail'd ; and of those happy Isles, 
Which, had he seen ere that appointed storm 
Drove southward his slope course, there he had 

pitch' d 
His tent, and blest his lot that it had fallen 
In land so fair ; and human blood had reek'd 
Daily on Aztlan's devilish altars still. 
But other doom was his, :^ore arduous toil 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



375 



Yet to achieve, worse danger to endure, 
Worse evil to be quell'd, and higher good 
Which passeth not away educed from ill ; 
Whereof all unforeseeing, yet for all 
Prepared at heart, he over ocean sails, 
Wafted by gentle winds o'er gentle waves, 
As if the elements combined to serve 
The perfect Prince, by God and man beloved. 
And now how joyfully he views the land. 
Skirting like morning clouds the dusky sea ! 
With what a searching eye recalls to mind 
Foreland, and creek, and cape ! how happy now 
Up the great river bends at last his way ! 

No watchman had been station' d on the height 
To seek his sails, — for with Cadwallon's hope 
Too much of doubt was blended and of fear : 
Yet thitherward, whene'er he walk'd abroad. 
His face, as if instinctively, was turn'd; 
And duly, morn and eve, Lincoya there, 
As though religion led his duteous feet. 
Went up to gaze. He on a staff had scored 
The promised moons and days ; and many a time 
Counting again its often-told account. 
So to beguile impatience, day by day 
Smooth'd off with more delight the daily notch. 
But now that the appointed time was nigh. 
Did that perpetual presence of his hope 
Haunt him, and mingle with his sleep, and mar 
The natural rest, and trouble him by day. 
That all his pleasure was at earliest light 
To take his station, and at latest eve. 
If he might see the sails where, far away. 
Through wide savannahs roll'd the silver stream. 
Oh, then with what a sudden start his blood 
Flow'd from its quicken'd spring, when far away 
Pie spied the glittering topsails ! For a while 
Distrustful of that happy sight, till now 
Slowly he sees them rise, and wind along 
Through wide savannahs up the silver stream. 
Then with a breathless speed he flies to spread 
The joy ; and with Cadwallon now descends. 
And drives adown the tide the light canoe, 
And mounts the vessel-side, and once again 
Falls at the Ocean Lord's beloved feet. 

First of the general weal did Madoc ask ; 
Cadwallon answer'd. All as yet is well. 
And by this seasonable aid secured. 
Will well remain, — Thy father ? quoth the Prince. 
Even so, replied Cadwallon, as that eye 
Of hesitation augurs, — fallen asleep. 
The good old man remember' d thee in death, 
And blest thee ere he died. 

By this the shores 
And heights were throng'd ; from hill to hill, from 

rock 
To rock, the shouts of welcome rung around. 
Forward they press to view the man beloved, 
Britons and Hoamen with one common joy 
Hailing their common friend. Happy that day 
Was he who heard his name from Madoc's voice ; 
Happy who met the greeting of his eye ; 
Yea, happy he who shared his general smile. 
Amid the unacknowledged multitude. 



Caermadoc — by that name Cadwallon's love 
Call'd it in memory of the absent Prince — 
Stood in a mountain vale, by rocks and heights, 
A natural bulwark, girt. A rocky stream. 
Which from the fells came down, there spread itself 
Into a quiet lake, to compass which 
Had been a two hours' pleasurable toil ; 
And he, who from a well-strung bow could send 
His shaft across, had needs a sinewy arm, 
And might from many an archer, far and near 
Have borne away the bell. Here had the Chief 
Chosen his abiding-place, for strength preferr'd, 
Where vainly might a host in equal arms 
Attempt the difHcult entrance ; and for all 
That could delight the eye and heart of man ; 
Whate'er of beauty or of usefulness 
Heart could desire, or eye behold, being here. 
What he had found an idle wilderness 
Now gave rich increase to the husbandmen. 
For Heaven had blest their labor. Flourishing 
He left the happy vale ; and now he saw 
More fields reclaim'd, more habitations rear'd. 
More harvests rising round. The reptile race, 
And every beast of rapine, had retired 
From man's asserted empire ; and the sound 
Of axe, and dashing oar, and fisher's net. 
And song-beguiling toil, and pastoral pipe. 
Were heard, where late the solitary hills 
Gave only to the mountain-cataract 
Their wild response. 

Here, Urien, cried the Prince, 
These craggy heights and overhanging groves 
Will make thee think of Gwyneth. And this hut, 
Rejoin'd Cadwallon, with its roof of reeds, 
Goervyl, is our palace : it was built 
With lighter labor than Aberfraw's towers; 
Yet, Lady, safer are its wattled sides 
Than Mona's kingly walls. — Like Gwyneth, 

said he ? 
Oh no ! we neighbor nearer to the Sun, 
And with a more benignant eye the Lord 
Of Light beholds us here. 

So thus did they 
Cheerfully welcome to their new abode 
These, who, albeit aweary of their way. 
And glad to reach at length the place of rest, 
Felt their hearts overburden'd, and their eyes 
Ready to overflow. Yet not the less 
The buzz of busy joy was heard around. 
Where every dwelling had its guest, and all 
Gave the long eve to hospitable mirth. 



II. 



THE TIDINGS. 

But when the Lord of Ocean from the stir 
And tumult was retired, Cadwallon then 
Thus render'd his account. 

When we had quell'd 
The strength of Aztlan, we should have thrown 

down 
Her Altars, cast her Idols to the fire, 



376 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



And on the ruins of her fanes accurs'd 
Planted the Cross triumphant. Vain it is 
To sow the seed where noxious weeds and briers 
Must choke it in the growth. 

Yet I had hope 
The purer influence of exampled good 
Might to the saving knowledge of the truth 
Lead this bedarken'd race ; and when tliy ship 
Fell down the stream to distant Britain bound, 
All promised well. The stranger's God had 

proved 
Mightier in war ; and Aztlan could not choose 
But see, nor seeing could she fail to love. 
The freedom of his service. Few were now 
The offerings at her altars, few the youths 
And virgins to the temple-toils devote. 
Therefore the Priests combined to save their 

craft ; 
And soon the rumor ran of evil signs 
And tokens ; in the temple had been heard 
Wailings and loud lament ; the eternal fire 
Gave dismally a dim and doubtful flame ; 
And from the censer, which at morn should steam 
Sweet odors to the sun, a fetid cloud, 
Black and portentous, rose. And now no Priest 
Approach'd our dwelling. Even the friendly 

Prince 
Yuhidthiton was at Caermadoc now 
Rarely a guest ; and if that tried good-will 
Which once he bore us did at times appear, 
A sullen gloom and silence, like remorse, 
Followed the imagined crime. 

But I the while 
Reck'd not the brooding of the storm ; for then 
My father to the grave was hastening down. 
Patiently did the pious man endure, 
In faith anticipating blessedness. 
Already more than man in those sad hours 
"When man is meanest. I sat by his side. 
And pray'd with him, and talk'd with him of 

death 
And life to come. O Madoc ! those were hours 
Which even in anguish gave my soul a joy : 
I think of them in solitude, and feel 
The comfort of my faith. 

But when that time 
Of bitterness was past, and I return'd 
To daily duties, no suspicious sign 
Betoken'd ill; the Priests among us came 
As heretofore, and I their intercourse 
Encouraged as I could, suspecting nought, 
Nor conscious of the subtle-minded men 
I dealt with, how inveterate in revenge, 
How patient in deceit. Lincoya first 
Forewarn'd me of the danger. He, thou know'st. 
Had from the death of sacrifice escaped, 
And lived a slave among a distant tribe, 
When, seeing us, he felt a hope, that we, 
Lords, as he deem'd us, of the Elements, 
Might pity his poor countrymen oppress'd. 
And free them from their bondage. Didst thou 

hear 
How from yon bloody altars he was saved ? 
For in the eternal chain his fate and ours 
Were link'd together then. 



The Prince replied, 
I did but hear a broken tale. Tell on ! 

Among the Gods of yon unhappy race, 
Tezcalipoca as the chief they rank, 
Or with the Chief co-equal; Maker he, 
And Master of created things esteem'd. 
He sits upon a throne of trophied skulls, 
Hideous and huge ; a shield is on his arm, 
And with his black right hand he lifts, as though 
In wrath, the menacing spear. His festival, 
Of all this wicked nation's wicked rites. 
With most solemnity, and circumstance, 
And pomp of hellish piety, is held. 
From all whom evil fortune hath subdued 
To their inhuman thraldom, they select 
Him whom they judge, for comely countenance, 
And shapely form, and all good natural gifts. 
Worthiest to be the victim; and for this 
Was young Lincoya chosen, being in truth 
The flower of all his nation. For twelve months. 
Their custom is, that this appointed youth 
Be as the Idol's living image held. 
Garb'd therefore like the Demon Deity, 
Whene'er he goes abroad, an antic train 
With music and with dance attend his way ; 
The crowd before him fall and worship him ; 
And those infernal Priests who guard him then, 
To be their victim and their feast at last. 
At morning and at evening incense him. 
And mock him with knee-reverence. Twenty 

days 
Before the bloody festival arrive, 
As 'twere to make the wretch in love with life. 
Four maids, the loveliest of the land, are given 
In spousals. With Lincoya all these rites 
Duly were kept; and at the stated time, 
Four maids, the loveliest of the land, were his. 
Of these was one, whom even at that hour 
He learnt to love, so excellently good 
Was she ; and she loved him and pitied him. 
She is the daughter of an aged Priest ; 
I oftentimes have seen her ; and in truth. 
Compared with Britain's maids, so beautiful, 
Or with the dark-eyed daughters of the South, 
She would be lovely still. Her cotton vest 
Falls to the knee, and leaves her olive arms 
Bare in their beauty ; loose, luxuriant, long, 
Flow the black tresses of her glossy hair; 
Mild is her eye's jet lustre ; and her voice ! — 
A soul which harbor'd evil never breathed 
Such winning tones. 

Thou know'st how manfully 
These tribes, as if insensible to pain. 
Welcome their death in battle, or in bonds 
Defy their torturers. To Lincoya's mind 
Long preparation now had made his fate 
Familiar ; and, he says, the thought of death 
Broke not his sleep, nor mingled with his dreams, 
Till Coiltel was his. But then it woke ; — 
It hung, — it press'd upon him like a weight 
On one who scarce can struggle with the waves; 
And when her soul was full of tenderness. 
That thought recurring to her, she would rest 
Her cheek on his, and weep. 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



377 



The day drew nigh ; 
And now the eve of sacrifice was come. — 
What will not woman, gentle woman, dare, 
When strong affection stirs her spirit up ? — 
Slie gather'd herbs, which, like our poppy, bear 
The seed of sleep, and with the temple-food 
Mingled their power; herself partook the food, 
So best to lull suspicion ; and the youth, 
Instructed well, when all were laid asleep, 
Fled far away. 

After our conquering arms 
Had freed the Hoamen from their wretched yoke, 
Lincoya needed but his Coatel 
To fill his sum of earthly happiness. 
Her to the temple had her father's vow 
Awhile devoted, and some moons were still 
To pass away, ere yet she might become 
A sojourner with us, Lincoya's wife, 
When from the Paba's wiles his watchful mind 
Foreboded ill. He bade me take good heed. 
And fear the sudden kindness of a foe. 
I started at his words; — these artful men. 
Hostile at heart, as well we knew they were, 
These were lip-lavish of their friendship now. 
And courted confidence, while our tried friend 
Yuhidthiton, estranged, a seldom guest. 
Sullen and joyless, seem'd to bear at heart 
Something that rankled there. These things were 

strange ; 
The omens too had ceased ; — we heard no more 
Of twilight voices, nor the unholy cloud 
Steam'd from the morning incense. Why was 

this .? 

Young Malinal had from the hour of peace 
Been our in-dweller, studious to attain 
Our language and our arts. To him I told 
My doubts, assured of his true love and truth ; 
For he had learnt to understand and feel 
Our holy faith, and tended like a son 
Cynetha's drooping age, and shared with me 
His dying benediction. He, thus long 
Intent on better things, had been estranged 
From Aztlan and her councils ; but at this 
He judged it for her welfare and for ours, 
Now to resume his rank; — belike his voice 
Might yet be heard, or, if the worst befell. 
His timely warning save us from the snare. 

But in their secret councils Malinal 
No longer bore a part ; the Chiefs and King 
Yielding blind reverence to the Pabas now. 
Deluded or dismay'd. He sent to say. 
Some treachery was design'd, and bade me charge 
His brother with the crime. On that same day, 
Lincoya came from Aztlan ; he had found 
Coatel laboring with a wretchedness 
She did not seek to hide ; and when the youth 
Reveal'd his fear, he saw her tawny cheek 
Whiten, and round his neck she clung and wept. 
She told him something dreadful Avas at hand. 
She knew not what : That, in the dead of night, 
Coanocotzin at Mexitli's shrine 
Had stood with all his nobles ; human blood 
48 



Had then been offer'd up, and secret vows 
Vow'd with mysterious horror : That but late, 
When to her father of the days to come 
She spake, and of Lincoya and her lot 
Among the strangers, he had frown'd, and strove, 
Beneath dissembled anger, to conceal 
Visible grief She knew not what to fear ; 
But something dreadful surely was at hand, 
And she was wretched. 

When I heard these things, 
Yuhidthiton and the Priest Helhua 
Were in our dwellings. Them I call'd apart — 
There should be peace between us, 1 began ; 
Why is it otherwise ? 

The Priest replied. 
Is there not peace, Cadwallon .? Seek we not 
More frequent and more friendly intercourse, 
Even we, the servants of our Country-Gods, 
Whose worship ye have changed, and for whose 

sake 
We were, and would have been, your enemies ? 
But as those Gods have otherwise ordain'd. 
Do we obey. Why, therefore, is this doubt .^ 

The Power who led us hither, I replied, 
Over the world of waters, who hath saved. 
And who will save his people, warns me now. 
Then on Yuhidthiton I fix'd my eye. 
Danger is near ! I cried ; I know it near ! 
It comes from Aztlan. 

His disorder'd cheek, 
And the forced and steady boldness of his eye. 
Which in defiance met the look it fear'd, 
Confess'd the crime. I saw his inward shame; 
Yet with a pride like angry innocence 
Did he make answer, I am in your hands, 
And you believe me treacherous ! — Kill me now ' 

Not so, Yuhidthiton ! not so ! quoth I ; 
You wore the Strangers' friend, and yet again 
That wisdom may return . We are not changed ; — 
Lovers of peace, we know, when danger comes, 
To make the evil on the guilty head 
Fall heavily and sure ! With our good arms, 
And our good cause, and that Almighty One, 
We are enough, had we no other aid. 
We of Caermadoc here, to put to shame 
Aztlan, with all her strength and 3,11 her wiles. 
But even now is Madoc on the seas ; 
He leads our brethren here ; and should he find 
That Aztlan hath been false, — oh ! hope not then, 
By force or fraud, to bafHe or elude 
Inevitable vengeance ! While ye may. 
Look to your choice ; for we are friends or foes. 
Even to your own desert. 

So saying, I left 
The astonish'd men, whose unprovided minds 
Fail'd them ; nor did they aim at answer more, 
But homeward went their way. Nor knew 1 

then — 
For this was but a thing of yesterday — 
How near the help I boasted. Now I trust 
Thy coming shall discomfit all their wiles. 



378 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



III. 



NEOLIN. 

Not yet at rest, my Sister ! quoth the Frince, 
As at her dwelling-door he saw the Maid 
Sit gazing on that lovely moonlight scene : — 
To bed, Goervyl. Dearest, what hast thou 
To keep thee wakeful here at this late hour, 
When even I shall bid a truce to thought, 
And lay me down in peace ? — Good night, 

Goervyl ! 
Dear sister mine, — my own dear mother's child I 

She rose, and bending on with lifted arms, 
Met the fond kiss, obedient then withdrew. 
Yet could not he so lightly as he ween'd 
Lay wakeful thoughts aside ; for he foresaw 
Long strife and hard adventure to achieve, 
And forms of danger vague disturb'd his dreams. 

Early at morn the colonists arose ; 
Some pitch the tent-pole, and pin down the lines 
That stretch the o'er-awning canvass ; to the wood 
Others, with saw, and axe, and bill, for stakes 
And undergrowth to weave the wicker walls ; 
These to the ships, with whom Cadwallon sends 
The Elk and Bison, broken to the yoke. 

Ere noon Erillyab and her son arrived, 
To greet the Chief. She wore no longer now 
The lank, loose locks of careless widowhood ; 
Her braided tresses round her brow were bound, 
Bedeck'd with tufts of gray and silvery plumes, 
Pluck'd from the eagle's pennons. She, with eye 
And countenance which spake no feign'd delight, 
Welcomed her great deliverer. But her son 
Had Nature character'd so legibly. 
That, when his tongue told fair, his face bewray'd 
The lurking falsehood ; sullen, slow of speech. 
Savage, down-looking, dark, that at his words 
Of welcome, Madoc in his heart conceived 
Instinctive enmity. 

In a happy hour 
Did the Great Spirit, said Erillyab, 
Give bidding to the Winds to speed thee here ! 
For this I made my prayer ; and when He sent 
For the Beloved Teacher, to restore him 
Eyesight and youth, of him I then besought, 
As he had been thy friend and ours on earth. 
That he would intercede. — Brother, we know 
That the Great Spirit loves thee ; He hath blest 
Thy going and thy coming, and thy friends 
Have prosper'd for thy sake ; and now, when first 
The Powers of Evil do begin to work, 
Lo ! thou art here ! — Brother, we have obeyed 
Thy will, and the Beloved Teacher's words 
Have been our law ; but now the Evil Ones 
Cry out for blood, and say they are athirst. 
And threaten vengeance. I have brought the Priest 
To whom they spake in darkness — Thou art wise. 
And the great Spirit will enlighten thee ; — 
We know not what to answer — Tell thy tale, 
Neolin ! 



Hereat did Madoc fix upon him 
A searching eye ; but he, no whit abash'd, 
Began with firm effrontery his speech. 
The Feast of the Departed is at hand, 
And I, in preparation, on the Field 
Of the Spirit past the night. It came to me 
In darkness, after midnight, when the moon 
Was gone, and all the stars were blotted outj 
It gather' d round me, with a noise of storms, 
And enter'd into me, and I could feel 
It was the Snake-God roll'd and writhed within; 
And I, too, with the inward agony, 
Roll'd like a snake, and writhed. Give ! give ! he 

cried : 
I thirst ! — His voice was in me, and it burnt 
Like fire, and all my flesh and bones were shaken ; 
Till, with a throe which seem'd to rend my joints 
Asunder, he past forth, and I was left. 
Speechless and motionless, gasping for breath. 

Then Madoc, turning to Ayayaca, 
Inquired, Who is the man ? — The good old Priest 
Replied, He hath attended from his youth 
The Snake- God's temple, and received for him 
His offerings, and perform' d his sacrifice, 
Till the Belov'd Teacher made us leave 
The wicked way. 

Hear me ! quoth Ne&lin, 
With antic gesture and loud vehemence ; 
Before this generation, and before 
These ancient forests, — yea, before yon lake 
Was hollow'd out, or one snow-feather fell 
On yonder mountain-top, now never bare, — 
Before these things I was, — where, or from 

whence, 
I know not, — who can tell ? But then I was, 
And in the shadow of the Spirit stood ; 
And I beheld the Spirit, and in him 
Saw all things, even as they were to be ; 
And I held commune with him, not of words. 
But thought with thought. Then was it given me 
That I should choose my station when my hour 
Of mortal birth was come, — hunter, or chief, 
Or to be mightiest in the work of war, 
Or in the shadow of the Spirit live. 
And He in me. According to my choice^ 
Forever, overshadow'd by his power, 
I walk among mankind. At times I feel not 
The burden of his presence ; then am I 
Like other men ; but when the season comes, 
Or if I seek the visitation, then 
He fills me, and my soul is carried on. 
And then do I forelive the race of men. 
So that the things that will be, are to me 
Past. 

Amalahta lifted then his eyes 
A moment ; — It is true, he cried ; we know 
He is a gifted man, and wise beyond 
The reach of mortal powers. Ayayaca 
Hath also heard the warning. 

As I slept. 
Replied the aged Priest, upon the Field 
Of the Spirit, a loud voice awaken'd me. 
Crying, I thirst ! Give, — give ! or I will take ! 
And then I heard a hiss, as if a snake j 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



379 



Were threatening at my side. — But saw you 

nothing ? 
Quoth Madoc. — Nothing ; for the night was dark. 
And felt you nothing? said the Ocean Prince. 
He answered, Nothing; only sudden fear. — 
No inward struggle, like possession.? — None. 
I thought of the Beloved Teacher's words, 
And cross'd myself, and then he had no power. 

Thou hast slept heretofore upon the Field, 
Said Madoc ; didst thou never witness voice, 
Or ominous sound ? Ayayaca replied, 
Certes the Field is holy ! it receives, 
All the year long, the operative power 
Which falleth from the sky, or from helow 
Pervades the earth ; no harvest groweth there. 
Nor tree, nor bush, nor herb, is left to spring ; 
But there, the virtue of the elements 
Is gathered, till the circle of the months 
Be full ; then, when the Priest, by mystic rites. 
Long vigils, and long abstinence prepared, 
Goeth there to pass the appointed night alone. 
The whole collected influence enters him. 
Doubt not but I have felt strange impulses 
On that mysterious Field, and in my dreams 
Been visited ; and have heard sounds in the air, 
I knew not what; — but words articulate 
Never till now. It was the Wicked One ! 
He wanted blood. 

Who says the Wicked One .' 
It was our fathers' God ! cried Neolin. 
Sons of the Ocean, why should we forsake 
The worship of our fathers ? Ye obey 
The White Man's Maker ; but to us was given 
A different skin, and speech, and land, and law. 
The Snake-God understands the Rod Man's prayer. 
And knows his wants, and loves him. Shame be 

to us, 
That since the Stranger here set foot among us. 
We have let his lips be dry ! 

Enough ! replied 
Madoc, who, at Cadwallon's look, repress'd 
His answering anger. We will hold a talk 
Of this hereafter. Be ye sure, meantime. 
That the Great Spirit will from Evil Powers 

i Protect his people. This, too, be ye sure. 
That every deed of darkness shall be brought 

S To light, — and woe be to the lying lips ! 



IV. 



AMALAHTA. 

Soon as the coming of the fleet was known. 
Had Queen Erillyab sent her hunters forth. 
They from the forest now arrive, with store 
Of venison ; fires are built before the tents, 
Where Llaian and Goervyl for their guests 
Direct the feast ; and now the ready board 
With grateful odor steams. But while they sat 
At meat, did Amalahta many a time 
Lift his slow eye askance, and eagerly 
Gaze on Goervyl's beauty; for whate'er 



In man he might have thought deformed or strange 
Seemed beautiful in her, — her golden curls, 
Bright eyes of heavenly blue, and that clear skin, 
Blooming with health, and youth, and happiness. 
He, lightly yielding to the impulse, bent 
His head aside, and to Erillyab spake ; 
Mother, said he, tell them to give to me 
That woman for my wife, that we may be 
Brethren and friends. She, in the same low tone, 
Rebuked him, in her heart too well aware 
How far unworthy he. Abash'd thereby, 
As he not yet had wholly shaken oflf 
Habitual reverence, he sat sullenly. 
Brooding in silence his imagined wiles, 
By sight of beauty made more apt for ill ; 
For he himself being evil, good in him 
Work'd evil. 

And now Madoc, pouring forth 
The ripe metheglin, to Erillyab gave 
The horn of silver brim. Taste, Queen and friend, 
Said he, what from our father-land we bring, 
The old beloved beverage. Sparingly 
Drink, for it hath a strength to stir the brain. 
And trouble reason, if intemperate lips 
Abuse its potency. She took the horn. 
And sipp'd with wary wisdom. — Canst thou 

teach us 
The art of this rare beverage ? quoth the Queen, 
Or is the gift reserved for ye alone. 
By the Great Spirit, who hath favor'd ye 
In all things above us .'' — The Chief replied, 
All that we know of useful and of good 
Ye also shall be taught, that we may be 
One people. While he spake, Erillyab past 
The horn to Amalahta. Sparingly ! 
Madoc exclaim'd ; but when the savage felt 
The luscious flavor, and the poignant life, 
He heeded nought beyond the immediate joy. 
Deep did he drink, and still with clinching hands 
Struggled, when from his lips, unsatisfied, 
Erillyab pluck' d the horn with sharp reproof. 
Chiding his stubborn wilfulness. Erelong 
The generous liquor flush'd him : he could feel 
His blood play faster, and the joyful dance 
Of animal life within him. Bolder grown, 
He at Goervyl lifts no longer now 
The secret glance, but gloats with greedy eye ; 
Till, at the long and loathsome look abash'd. 
She rose, and nearer to her brother drew, 
On light pretence of speech, being half in fear. 
But he, regardless of Erill3rab now, 
To Madoc cried aloud, Thou art a King, 
And I a King! — Give me thy sister there, 
To be my wife, and then we will be friends. 
And reign together. 

Let me answer him, 
Madoc ! Cadwallon cried. I better know 
Their language, and will set aside all hope, 
Yet not incense the savage. — A great thing, 
Prince Amalahta, hast thou ask'd ! said he. 
Nor is it in Lord Madoc's power to give, 
Or to withhold ; for marriage is with us 
The holiest ordinance of God, whereon 
The bliss or bane of human life depends. 
Love must be won by love, and heart to heai't 



380 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Link'd in mysterious sympathy, before 

We pledge the marriage-vow ; and some there are, 

Who hold, that, e'er we enter into life. 

Soul hath with soul been mated, each for each 

Especially ordain'd. Prince Madoc's will 

Avails not, therefore, where this secret bond 

Hath not been framed in Heaven. 

The skilful speech 
Which, with wild faith and reason, thus confirm'd. 
Yet temper'd the denial, for a while 
Silenced him, and he sat in moody dreams 
Of snares and violence. Soon a drunken thirst, 
And longing for the luscious beverage, 
Drove those dark thoughts aside. More drink ! 

quoth he. 
Give me the drink ! — Madoc again repeats 
His warning, and again with look and voice 
Erillyab chides ', but he of all restraint 
Impatient, cries aloud. Am I a child .? 
Give ! give ! or I will take ! — - Perchance ye think 
I and my God alike cry out in vain 1 
But ye shall find us true ! 

Give him the horn ! 
Cadwallon answered ; there will come upon him 
Folly and sleep, and then an after-pain. 
Which may bring wisdom with it, if he learn 
Therefrom to heed our warning. — As thou say'st, 
No child art thou ! — the choice is in thy hand ; — 
Drink, if thou wilt, and suffer, and in pain 
Remember us. 

He clinch'd the horn, and swill'd 
The sweet intoxication copious down. 
So bad grew worse. The potent draught provoked 
Fierce pride and savage insolence. Ay ! now 
It seems that I have taught ye who I am ! 
The inebriate wretch exclaim'd. This land is mine, 
Not hers ; the kingdom and the power are mine ; 
I am the master ! 

Hath it made thee mad .? 
Erillyab cried. — Ask thou the Snake-God that ! 
Quoth he ; ask Neolin and Aztlan that ! [me 

Hear me, thou Son of the Waters ! wilt thou have 
For friend or foe ? — Give me that woman there, 
And store me with this blessed beverage. 
And thou shalt dwell in my domains, — or else. 
Blood ! blood ! The Snake-God calls for blood ; the 

Gods 
Of Aztlan and the people call for blood ; 
They call on me, and I will give them blood, 
Till they have had their fill. 

Meanwhile the Queen 
In wonder and amazement heard, and grief; 
Watching the fiendish workings of his face, 
And turning to the Prince at times, as if 
She look'd to him for comfort. Give him drink. 
To be at peace ! quoth Madoc. The good mead 
Did its good office soon ; his dizzy eyes 
Roll'd with a sleepy swim; the joyous thrill 
Died away ; and as every limb relax'd, 
Down sunk his heavy head, and down he fell. 
Then said the Prince, We must rejoice in this, 
O Queen and friend, that, evil though it be. 
Evil is brought to light ; he hath divulged. 
In this mad mood, what else hath been conceal'd 
By guilty cunning. Set a watch upon him. 



And on Priest Neolin ; they plot against us ; 
Your fall and mine do they alike conspire, 
Being leagued with Aztlan to destroy us both. 
Thy son will not remember that his lips 
Have let the treason pass. Be wary then, 
And we shall catch the crafty in the pit 
Which they have dug for us. 

Erillyab cast 
A look of anger, made intense by grief, 
On Amalahta. — Cursed be the hour 
Wherein I gave thee birth ! she cried ; that pain 
Was light to what thy base and brutal nature 
Hath sent into my soul. — But take thou heed ! 
I have borne many a woe and many a loss. 
My father's realm, the husband of my youth, 
My hope in thee ! — All motherly love is gone, 
Sufferance wellnigh worn out. 

When she had ceased, 
Still the deep feeling fill'd her, and her eye 
Dwelt on him, still in thought. Brother ! she cried, 
As Madoc would have soothed her, doubt not me ! 
Mine is no feeble heart. Abundantly 
Did the Great Spirit overpay all woes, 
And this the heaviest, when he sent thee here, 
The friend and the deliverer. Evil tongues 
May scatter lies ; bad spirits and bad men 
May league against thy life ; but go thou on, 
Brother ! He loves thee, and will be thy shield. 



tVAR DENOUNCED. 

Thfs is the day, when, in a foreign grave, 
King Owen's relics shall be laid to rest. 
No bright emblazonries bedeck'd his bier, 
No tapers blazed, no prelate sung the mass, 
No choristers the funeral dirge intoned. 
No mitred abbots, and no tonsured train, 
Lengthen'd the pomp of ceremonious woe. 
His decent bier was with white linen spread 
And canopied ; two elks and bisons yoked 
Drew on the car ; foremost Cadwallon bore 
The Crucifix ; with single voice distinct. 
The good priest Llorien chanted loud and deep 
The solemn sevice ; Madoc next the bier 
Follow'd his father's corpse ; bareheaded then 
Came all the people, silently and slow. 

The burial-place was in a grassy plat, 
A little level glade of sunny green. 
Between the river and a rocky bank, 
Which, like a buttress, from the precipice 
Of naked rock sloped out. On either side 
'Twas skirted by the woodlands. A stone cross 
Stood on Cynetha's grave, sole monument. 
Beneath a single cocoa, whose straight trunk 
Rose like an obelisk, and waved on high 
Its palmy plumage, green and never sere. 
Here by Cynetha's side, with Christian prayers. 
All wrongs forgotten now, was Owen laid. 
Rest, King of Gwyneth, in a foreign grave ! 
From foul indignity of Romish pride 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



381 



And bigot priesthood, from a falling land 

Thus timely snatch'd, and from the impending 

yoke, — 
Rest in tlie kingdom of thy noble son ! 

Ambassadors from Aztlan in the vale 
Awaited their return, — Yuhidthiton, 
Chief of the Chiefs, and Helhua the Priest; 
With these came Malinal. They met the Prince, 
And with a sullen stateliness returnd 
His salutation ; then the Chief began : 
Lord of tlie Strangers, hear me ! by my voice 
The Peopb, and the Pabas, and the King 
Of Aztlan speak. Our injured Gods have claim'd 
Their wonted worship, and made manifest 
Their wrath ; we dare not impiouly provoke 
The Dreadful. Worship ye in your own way ; 
But we must keep the path our fathers kept. 

We parted, O Yuhidthiton ! as friends 
And brethren, said the Christian Prince ; — alas. 
That this should be our meeting ! When we 

pledged. 
In the broad daylight and the eye of Heaven, 
Our hands in peace, ye heard the will of God, 
And felt, and understood. This calm assent 
Ye would belie, by midnight miracles 
Scared, and such signs of darkness as beseem 
The Demons whom ye dread ; or, likelier. 
Duped by the craft of those accursed men. 
Whose trade is blood. Ask thou of thine own heart, 
Yuhidthiton, — 

But Helhua broke his speech : 
Our bidding is to tell thee, quoth the Priest, 
That Aztlan hath restored, and will maintain. 
Her ancient faith. If it ofFendeth thee, 
Move thou thy dwelling-place ! 

Madoc replied. 
This day have I deposited in earth 
My father's bones ; and where his bones are laid, 
There mine shall moulder. 

Malinal at that 
Advanced ; — Prince Madoc, said the youth, I come. 
True to thy faith and thee, and to the weal 
Of Aztlan true, and bearing, for that truth. 
Reproach and shame, and scorn and obloquy. 
In sorrow come I here, a banish'd man ; 
Here take, in sorrow, my abiding-place, 
Cut off from all my kin, from all old ties 
Divorced ; all dear familiar countenances 
No longer to be present to ray sight ; 
The very mother-language which I learn'd, 
A lisping baby on my mother's knees. 
No more with its sweet sounds to comfort me. 
So be it ! — To his brother then he turn'd ; 
Yuhidthiton, said he, when thou shalt find — 
As find thou wilt — that those accursed men 
Have played the juggler with thee, and deceived 
Thine honest heart, — when Aztlan groans in 

blood, — 
Bid her remember then, that Malinal 
Is in the dwellings of her enemy ; 
Where all his hope in banishment hath been 
To intercede for her, and heal her wounds. 
And mitigate her righteous punishment. 



Sternly and sullenly his brother heard ; 
Yet hearken'd he as one whose heart perforce 
Suppress'd its instinct ; and there might be seeu 
A sorrow in his silent stubbornness. 
And now his ministers on either hand 
A water-vessel fill, and heap dry sedge 
And straw before his face, and fire the pile. 
He, looking upward, spread his arms and cried, 
Hear me, ye Gods of Aztlan, as we were, 
And are, and will be yours ! Behold your foes ! 
He stoop'd, and lifted up one ample urn, — 
Thus let their blood be shed ! — and far away 
He whirl'd the scattering water. Then again 
Raised the full vase, — Thus let their lives be 

quench'd ! 
And out he pour'd it on the flaming pile. 
The steam-cloud, hissing from the extinguish'd 

heap. 
Spread like a mist, and ere it melted off^, 
Homeward the heralds of the war had turn'd. 



VI. 



THE FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD. 

The Hoamen in their Council-hall are met 
To hold the Feast, of Souls; seat above seat, 
Ranged round the circling theatre they sit. 
No light but from the central fire, whose smoke. 
Slow passing through the over aperture. 
Excludes the day, and fills the conic roof. 
And hangs above them like a cloud. Around, 
The ghastly bodies of their cliiefs are hung, 
Shriveird and parch'd by heat; the humbler dead 
Lie on the floor, — white bones, exposed to view, 
On deer, or elk-skin laid, or softer fur. 
Or web, the work of many a mournful hour ; 
The loathlier forms of fresh mortality 
Swathed, and in decent tenderness conceal'd. 
Beside each body pious gifts are laid. 
Mantle, and belt, and feathery coronal, 
The bow he used in war, his drinking shell. 
His arrows for the chase, the sarbacan. 
Through whose long tube the slender shaft, breath 
driven, [wives, 

Might pierce the winged game. Husbands and 
Parents and children, there in death they lie ; 
The widow'd, and the parent, and the child, 
Look on in silence. Not a sound is heard 
But of the crackling brand, or mouldering fire. 
Or when, amid yon pendent string of shells. 
The slow wind wakes a shrill and feeble sound, — 
A sound of sorrow to the mind attuned 
By sights of woe. 

Ayayaca at length 
Came forward : — Spirits, is it well with ye ? 
Is it well. Brethren ? said the aged Priest ; 
Have ye received your mourning, and the rites 
Of righteous grief.? or round your dwelling-place 
Still do your shadows roam dissatisfied. 
And to the cries of wailing woe return 
A voice of lamentation ? Teach us now, 
If we in aught have fail'd, that 1, your Priest, 



382 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



When I shall join ye soon, — as soon I must, — 
May unimpeded pass the perilous floods, 
And in the Country of the Dead, be hail'd 
By you with song, and dance, and grateful joy. 

So saying, to the Oracle he turn'd, 
Awaiting there the silence which implied 
Peaceful assent. Against the eastern wall, 
Fronting the narrow portal's winding way, 
An Image stood . a cloak of fur disguised 
The rude proportion of its uncouth limbs ; 
The skull of some old seer of days of old 
Topp'd it, and with a visor this was mask'd. 
Honoring the oracular Spirit, who at times 
There took his resting-place. Ayayaca 
Repeated, Brethren, is it well with ye ? 
And raised the visor. But he started back, 
Appall'd and shuddering; for a moony light 
Lay in its eyeless sockets, and there came 
From its immovable and bony jaws 
A long, deep groan, thrice utter'd, and thrice felt 
In every heart of all the hearers round. 
The good old Priest stood tottering, like a man 
Stricken with palsy ; and he gazed with eyes 
Of asking horror round, as if he look'd 
For counsel in that fear. But Neolin 
Sprung boldly to the Oracle, and cried. 
Speak, Spirit ! tell us of our sin, and teach 
The atonement ! A sepulchral voice replied. 
Ye have for other Gods forsaken us. 
And we abandon you ! — and crash with that, 
The Image fell. 

A loud and hideous shriek. 
As of a demon, Neolin set up ; 
So wild a yell, that, even in that hour. 
It brought fresh terror to the startled ear. 
While yet they sat, pale and irresolute, 
Helhua the Azteca came in. He bore 
A shield and arrow, — symbols these of war. 
Yet now beheld with hope, so great relief 
They felt his human presence. 

Hoamen, hear me ! 
The messenger began ; Erillyab, hear. 
Priests, Elders, People ! but hear chiefly thou, 
Prince Amalahta, as of these by birth. 
So now of years mature, the rightful Lord ! — 
Shall it be peace or war ? — thus Aztlan saith ; 
She, in her anger, from the land will root 
The Children of the Sea ; but viewing you 
In mercy, to your former vassalage 
Invites ye, and remits the tribute lives. 
And for rebellion claimeth no revenge. 

Oh, praise your Gods ! cried Neolin, and hail 
This day-spring of new hope ! Aztlan remits 
The tribute lives, — what more could Madoc give ? 
She claimeth no revenge, and if she claimed. 
He could not save. O Hoamen, bless your 

Gods; 
Appease them ! Thou, Prince Amalahta, speak. 
And seize the mercy, 

Amalahta stood 
In act of speech ; but then Erillyab rose, — 
Who gives thee, Boy, this Elder's privilege ? 
The Queen exclaim'd ; — and thou. Priest Neolin, 



Curb thou thy traitorous tongue ! The reign is 

mine ; 
1 hold it from my father, he from his ; 
Age before age, beyond the memory 
Of man it hath been thus. My father fell 
In battle for his people, and his sons 
Fell by his side ; they perish'd, but their names 
Are with the names we love, — their happy souls 
Pursue in fields of bliss the shadowy deer ; 
The spirit of that noble blood which ran 
From their death-wounds, is in the ruddy clouds 
Which go before the Sun, when he comes forth 
In glory. Last of that illustrious race 
Was I, Erillyab. Ye remember well. 
Elders, that day when I assembled here 
The people, and demanded at their choice 
The worthiest, to perpetuate our old line 
Of Kings and Warriors. — To the wind he spread 
His black and blood-red banner. Even now, 
I hear his war-drum's tripled sound, that call'd 
The youth to battle ; even now behold 
The hope which lit his dark and fiery eye. 
And kindled with a sunnier glow his cheek, 
As he from yonder war-pole, in his pride, 
Took the death-doers down. — Lo, here the bones 
Of King TepoUomi ! — my husband's bones ! — 
There should be some among ye who beheld, 
When, all with arrows quill'd, and clothed with 

blood 
As with a purple garment, he sustain'd 
The unequal conflict, till the Aztecas 
Took him at vantage, and their monarch's club 
Let loose his strugghng soul. Look, Hoamen, 

here. 
See through how wide a wound his spirit fled ! 
Twenty long years of mournful widowhood 
Have past away ; so long have I maintain'd 
The little empire left us, loving well 
My people, and by them as well beloved. 
Say, Hoamen, am I still your Queen ? 

At once 
The whole assembly rose with one acclaim, — 
Still, O Erillyab, O Beloved, rule 
Thy own beloved people ! 

But the Gods ! 
Cried Amalahta, — but the Oracle ! 
The Oracle ! quoth she ; what hath it said 
That forty years of suffering hath not taught 
This wretched people ? — They abandon us ? — 
So let them go ! Where were they at that hour, 
When, like a blasting night-wind in the spring, 
The multitudes of Aztlan came upon us ? 
Where were they when my father went to war ? 
Where were they when thy father's stiffen'd corpse, 
Even after death a slave, held up the lamp 
To light his conqueror's revels ? — Think not. Boy, 
To palter with me thus ! A fire may tremble 
Within the sockets of a skull, and groans 
May issue from a dead man's fleshless jaws, 
And images may fall, and yet no God 
Be there ! — If it had walk'd abroad with life, 
That had indeed been something ! 

Then she turn'd 
Her voice toward the people. — Ye have heard 
This Priest of Aztlan, whose insidious tongue 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



383 



Bids ye desert the Children of the Sea, 

And vow again your former vassalage. 

Speaks Aztlan of the former ? O my people, 

I, too, could tell ye of the former days. 

When yonder plain was ours, with all its woods. 

And waters, and savannahs ! — of those days, 

When, following where her husband's stronger 

arm 
Had open'd the light glebe, the willing wife 
I Dropp'd in the yellow maize; erelong to bear 
Its increase to the general store, and toss 
Her flowing tresses in the dance of joy. 
And I could tell ye how those summer stores 
Were hoarded for the invader's winter feasts ; 
And how the widows clipp'd those flowing locks 
To strew them, — not upon their husband's 

grave, — 
Their husbands had no graves ! — but on the rocks 
And mountains in their flight. And even these 

rocks 
And mountains could not save us ! Year by year 
Our babes, like firstlings of the flock, were cull'd 
To be the banquet of these Aztecas ! 
This very wretch, who tells us of the past, 
Hath chosen them for the butchery ! — Oh, I thank 

you 
For this brave anger ! — In your name I take 
The war-gift ! 

Gods of Aztlan, Helhua cried. 
As to Erillyab's ready hand he gave 
The deadly symbol, in your name I give 
The war-gift ! Ye have thirsted over-long ; 
Take now your fill of blood ! — He turn'd away. 
And Queen Erillyab bade the tribe fulfil 
Their customary rites. 

Each family 
Bore its own dead, and to the general grave, 
With melancholy song and sob of woe, 
The slovv^ procession moves. The general grave 
Was delved within a deep and shady dell. 
Fronting a cavern in the rock, — the scene 
Of many a bloody rite, ere Madoc came, — 
A temple, as they deem'd, by Nature made. 
Where the Snake-Idol stood. On fur and cloth 
Of woven grass, they lay their burdens down, 
W^ithin the ample pit ; their offerings range 
Beside, and piously a portion take 
Of that cold earth, to which forever now 
Consign'd, they leave their fathers, dust to dust ; 
Sad relic that, and wise remembrancer. 

But as with bark and resinous boughs they pile 
The sepulchre, suddenly Neolin 
Sprung up aloft, and shriek'd, as one who treads 
Upon a viper in his heedless path. 
The God ! the very God ! he cried, and howl'd 
One long, shrill, piercing, modulated cry; 
Whereat from that dark temple issued forth 
A Serpent, huge and hideous. On he came, 
Straight to the sound, and curl'd around the Priest 
His mighty folds innocuous, overtopping 
His human height, and arching down his head, 
Sought in the hands of Neolin for food ; 
Then questing, rear'd, and stretch'd, and waved 
his neck. 



And glanced his forky tongue. Who then had 

seen 
The man, with what triumphant fearlessness, 
Arms, thighs, and neck, and body, wreathed and 

ring'd 
In those tremendous folds, he stood secure, 
Play'd with the reptile's jaws, and call'd for food, 
Food for the present God I — who then had seen 
The fiendish joy which fired his countenance. 
Might well have ween'd that he had summoned up 
The dreadful monster from its native Hell, 
By devilish power, himself a Fiend inflesh'd. 

Blood for the God ! he cried ; Lincoya's blood ! 
Friend of the Serpent's foe. — Lincoya's blood! 
Cried Amalahta, and the people turn'd 
Their eyes to seek the victim, as if each 
Sought his own safety in that sacrifice. 
Alone Erillyab raised her voice, confused. 
But not confounded ; she alone exclaim'd, 
Madoc shall answer this ! Unheard her voice 
By the bewilder 'd people, by the Priest 
Unheeded ; and Lincoya sure had fallen 
The victim of their fear, had he been found 
In that wild hour ; but when his watchful eye 
BelieW the Serpent from his den come forth. 
He fled to bear the tidings. — Neolin 
Repeats the accursed call, Food for the God ! 
Ayayaca, his unbelieving Priest ! 
At once all eager eyes were fix'd on him. 
But he came forward calmly at the call ; 
Lo ! here am I ! quoth he ; and from his head 
Plucking the thin gray hairs, he dealt them round — 
Countrymen, kinsmen, brethren, children, take 
These in remembrance of me ! there will be 
No relic of \^our aged Priest but this. 
From manhood to old age, full threescore years. 
Have I been your true servant : fit it is 
That I, who witness'd Aztlan's first assault. 
Should perish her last victim ! — and he moved 
Towards the death. But then Erillyab 
Seized him, and by the garment drew him back ! — 
By the Great Spirit, but he shall not die ! 
The Queen exclaim'd ; nor shalt thou triumph thus, 
Liar and traitor ! Hoamen, to your homes ! 
Madoc shall answer this ! 

Irresolute 
They heard, and inobedicnt ; to obey 
Fearing, yet fearful to remain. Anon, 
The Queen repeats her bidding, To your homes, 
My people ! — But when Neolin perceived 
The growing stir and motion of the crowd. 
As from the outward ring they moved away, 
He utter'd a new cry, and disentangling 
The passive reptile's folds, rush'd out among them, 
With outstretch'd hands, like one possess'd, to seize 
His victim. Then they fled ; for who could tell 
On whom the madman, in that hellish fit. 
Might cast the lot ^ An eight-years' boy he seized, 
And held him by the leg, and, whirling him 
In ritual dance, till breath and sense were gone, 
Set up the death-song of the sacrifice. 
Amalahta, and what others rooted love 
Of evil leagued with him, accomplices 
In treason, join'd the death-song and the dance 



384 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Some, too, there were, believing what they fear'd, 

Who yielded to their old idolatry, 

And mingled in the worship. Round and round 

The accursed minister of murder whirl'd 

His senseless victim ; they, too, round and round 

In maddening motion, and with maddening cries 

Revolving, whirl'd and wheel'd. At length, when 

now. 
According to old rites, he should have dasli'd 
On the stone Idol's head the wretch's brains, 
Neolin stopp'd, and once again began 
The long, shrill, piercing, modulated cry. 
The Serpent knew the call, and, rolling on, 
Wave above wave, his rising length, advanced 
His open jaws : then, with the expected prey. 
Glides to the dark recesses of his den. 



VII. 



THE SNAKE-GOD. 



Meantime Erillyab's messenger had girt 
His loins, and, like a roebuck, o'er the hills 
He sped. He met Cadwallon and the Prince 
In arms, so quickly Madoc had obey'd 
Lincoya's call ; at noon he heard the call ; 
And still the sun was riding high in heaven, 
When up the valley where the Hoamen dwelt 
He led his twenty spears. O welcome, friend 
And brother ! cried the Queen. Even as thou 

saidst. 
So hath it proved ; and those accursed schemes 
Of treachery, which that wretched boy reveal'd 
Under the influence of thy potent drink. 
Have ripen'd to effect. From what a snare 
The timely warning saved me ! for, be sure, 
What I had seen I else should have believed, 
In utter fear confounded. The Great Spirit, 
Who taught thee to foresee the evil thing. 
Will give thee power to quell it. 

On they went 
Toward the dell, where now the Idolaters 
Had built their dedicated fire, and still 
With feast, and fits of song, and violent dance. 
Pursued their rites. When Neolin perceived 
The Prince approach, fearlessly he came forth, 
And raised his arm, and cried, Strangers, away ! 
Away, profane ! hence to your mother-land ! 
Hence to your waters ; for the God is here ; — 
He came for blood, and he shall have his fill I 
Impious, away ! 

Seize him ! exclaim'd the Prince ; 
Nor had he time for motion nor for flight. 
So instantly was that command obey'd. 
Hoamen, said Madoc, hear me ! — I came here 
Stranger alike to Aztlan and to you ; 
I found ye an oppress'd and wretched race. 
Groaning beneath your chains ; at your request. 
For your deliverance, I unsheathed the sword, 
Redeem'd ye from your bondage, and preserved 
Your children from the slaughter. With those foes 
Whose burden ye for forty years endured. 
This traitor hath conspired, against yourselves, 



Your Queen, and me, your friend ; the solemn faith 
Which in the face of yonder sun we pledged, 
Each to the other, this perfidious man 
Hath broken, and hath stain'd his hands this day 
With innocent blood. Life must atone for life ; 
Ere I destroy the Serpent, whom his wiles 
Have train'd so well, last victim, he shall glut 
The monster's maw. 

Strike, man ! quoth Neolin. 
This is my consummation I the reward 
Of my true faith ! the best that I could ask. 
The best the God could give : — to rest in him, 
Body with body be incorporate. 
Soul into soul absorb'd, and I and He 
One life, inseparable, for evermore. 
Strike ; I am weary of this mortal part ; 
Unite me to the God ! 

Triumphantly 
He spake ; the assembled people, at his words, 
With rising awe gazed on the miscreant; 
Madoc himself, when now he would have given 
The sign for death, in admiration paused ', 
Such power hath fortitude. And he perceived 
The auspicious moment, and set up his cry. 
Forth, from the dark recesses of the cave. 
The Serpent came : the Hoamen at the sight 
Shouted, and they who held the Priest, appall'd, 
Relax'd their hold. On came the mighty Snake, 
And twined, in many a wreath, round Neolin, 
Dartmg aright, aleft, his sinuous neck. 
With searching eye, and lifted jaw, and tongue 
Quivering, and hiss as of a heavy shower 
Upon the summer woods. The Britons stood 
Astounded at the powerful reptile's bulk. 
And that strange sight. His girth was as of man, 
But easily could he have overtopp'd 
Goliath's helmed head, or that huge King 
Of Basan, hugest of the Anakim • 
What then was human strength, if once involved 
Within those dreadful coils.'' — The multitude 
Fell prone, and worshipp'd ; pale Erillyab grew, 
And turn'd upon the Prince a doubtful eye ; 
The Britons too were pale, albeit they held 
Their spears protended ; and they also look'd 
On Madoc, who the while stood silently 
Contemplating how wiseliest he might cope 
With that surpassing strength. 

But Neolin, 
Well hoping now success, when he had awed 
The general feeling thus, exclaim'd aloud — 
Blood for the God ! give him the Stranger's blood ! 
Avenge him on his foes ! And then, perchance, 
Terror had urged them to some desperate deed, 
Had Madoc ponder'd more, or paused in act 
One moment. From the sacrificial flames 
He snatch'd a firebrand, and with fire and sword, 
Rush'd at the monster ; back the monster drew 
His head upraised recoiling, and the Prince 
Smote Neolin ; all circled as he was. 
And clipp'd in his false Deity's embrace, 
Smote he the accursed Priest ; the avenging sword 
Fell on his neck ; through flesh and bone it drove 
Deep in the chest : the wretched criminal 
Totter'd, and those huge rings a moment held 
His bloody corpse upright, while Madoc struck 



MADOC IjN AZTLAN. 



385 



TJie Serpent : twice he struck him, and the sword 
Ghmced from tlie impenetrable scales ; nor more 
A vail'd its thrust, though driven by that strong arm ; 
For on the unyielding skin the temper'd blade 
Bent. He sprung upward then, and in the eyes 
Of the huge monster flashed the fiery brand. 
Impatient of the smoke and burning, back 
The reptile wreathed, and from his loosening clasp 
Dropp'd the dead Neolin, and turn'd, and fled 
To his dark den. 

The Hoamen, at that sight, 
Raised a loud wonder-cry, with one accord, 
Great is the Son of Ocean, and his God 
Is mightiest ! But Erillyab silently 
Approach'd the great Deliverer; her whole frame 
Trembled with strong emotion, and she took 
His hand, and gazed a moment earnestly, 
Having no power of speech, till with a gush 
Of tears her utterance came, and she exclaim'd, 
Blessed art thou, my brother ! for the power 
Of God is in thee ! — and she would have kissed 
His hand in adoration ; but he cried, 
God is indeed with us, and in his name 
Will we complete the work ! — then to the cave 
Advanced, and call'd for fire. Bring fire ! quoth he ; 
By his own element this spawn of hell 
Shall perish ! and he enter'd, to explore 
The cavern depths. Cadwallon follow'd him, 
Bearing in either hand a flaming brand ; 
For sword or spear avail'd not. 

Far in the hill, 
Cave within cave, the ample grotto pierced, 
Three chambers in the rock. Fit vestibule 
The first to that wild temple, long and low. 
Shut out the outward day. The second vault 
Had its own daylight from a central chasm 
High in the hollow; here the Image stood, 
Their rude idolatry, — a sculptured snake, 
If term of art may such misshapen form 
Beseem, — around a human figure coil'd, 
And all begrimed with blood. The inmost cell 
Dark ; and far up within its blackest depth 
They saw the Serpent's still small eye of fire. 
Not if they thinn'd the forest for their pile. 
Could they, with flame or suffocating suaoke. 
Destroy him there ; for through the open roof 
The clouds would pass away. They paused not 

long ; 
Drive him beneath the chasm, Cadwallon cried. 
And hem him in with fire, and from above 
We crush him. 

Forth they went, and climb'd the hill 
With all their people. Their united strength 
Loosen'd the rocks, and ranged them round the 

brink, 
Impending. With Cadwallon on the height 
Ten Britons wait; ten with the Prince descend. 
And with a firebrand each in either hand. 
Enter the outer cave. Madoc advanced, 
And at the entrance of the inner den, 
He took his stand alone. A bow he bore. 
And arrows round whose heads dry tow was twined, 
In pine-guiB dipp'd ; he kindled these, and shot 
The fiery shafts. Upon the scaly skin, 
As on a rock, the bone-tipp'd arrows fell , 
49 



But at their bright and blazing light effray'd, 
Out rush'd the reptile. Madoc from his path 
Retired against the side, and call'd his men, 
And in they came, and circled round the Snake ; 
And shaking all their flames, as with a wheel 
Of fire, they ring'd him in. From side to side 
The monster turns ! — where'er he turns, the flame 
Flares in his nostrils and his blinking eyes ; 
Nor aught against the dreaded element 
Did that brute force avail, which could have crush'd 
Milo's young limbs, or Theban Hercules, 
Or old Manoah's mightier son, ere yet 
Shorn of his strength. They press him now, and 

now 
Give back, here urging, and here yielding way, 
Till right beneath the chasm they centre him. 
At once the crags are loosed, and down they fall 
Thundering. They fell like thunder, but the crash 
Of scale and bone was heard. In agony 
The Serpent writhed beneath the blow ; in vain, 
From under the incumbent load essay 'd 
To drag his mangled folds. One heavier stone 
Fasten'd and flatten'd him ; yet still, with tail 
Ten cubits long, he lash'd the air, and foined 
From side to side, and raised his raging head 
Above the height of man, though half his length 
Lay mutilate. Who then had felt the force 
Of that wild fury, little had to him 
Buckler or corselet profited, or mail, 
Or might of human arm. The Britons shrunk 
Beyond its arc of motion ; but the Prince 
Took a long spear, and springing on the stone 
Which fix'd the monster down, provoked his rage. 
Uplifts the Snake his head retorted, high 
He lifts it over JNIadoc, then darts down 
To seize his prey. The Prince, with foot advanced, 
Inclines his body back, and points the spear 
With sure and certain aim, then drives it up, 
Into his open jaws ; two cubits deep 
It pierced, the monster forcing on the wound. 
He closed his teeth for anguish, and bit short 
The ashen hilt. But not the rage which now 
Clangs all his scales, can from its seat dislodge 
The barbed shaft ; nor those contortions wild. 
Nor those convulsive shudderings, nor the throes 
Which shake his inmost entrails, as with the air 
In suffocating gulps the monster now 
Inhales his own life-blood. The Prince descends; 
He lifts another lance ; and now the Snake, 
Gasping, as if exhausted, on the ground 
Reclines his head one moment. Madoc seized 
That moment, planted in his eye the spear, 
Then setting foot upon his neck, drove down 
Through bone, and brain, and throat, and to the 

earth 
Infixed the mortal weapon. Yet once more 
The Snake essay'd to rise ; his dying strength 
Fail'd him, nor longer did those mighty folds 
Obey the moving impulse, crush'd and scotch'd; 
In every ring, through all his mangled length. 
The shrinking muscles quiver'd, then collapsed 
In death. 

Cadwallon and his comrades now 
Enter the den ; they roll away the crag 
Which held him down, pluck out the mortal spear, 



386 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Then drag him forth to day ; the force conjoin 'd 

Of all the Britons difficultly drag 

His lifeless bulk. But when the Hoamen saw 

That form portentous trailing in its gore, 

The jaws, which, in the morning, they had seen 

Purpled with human blood, now in their own 

Blackening, — aknee they fell before the Prince, 

And in adoring admiration raised 

Their hands with one accord, and all in fear 

Worshipped the mighty Deicide. But he, 

Recoiling from those sinful honors, cried. 

Drag out the Idol now, and heap the fire, 

That all may be consumed ! 

Forthwith they heap'd 
The sacrificial fire, and on the pile 
The Serpent, and the Image, and the corpse 
Of Neolin were laid ; with prompt supply 
They feed the raging flames, hour after hour. 
Till now the black and nauseous smoke is spent, 
And mingled with the ruins of the pile. 
The undistinguishable ashes lay. 
Go ! cried Prince Madoc, cast them in the stream, 
And scatter them upon the winds, that so 
No relic of this foul idolatry 
Pollute the land. To-morrow meet me here, 
Hoamen, and I will purify yon den 
Of your abominations. Come ye here 
With humble hearts ; for ye, too, in the sight 
Of the Great Spirit, the Beloved One, 
Must be made pure, and cleansed from your 

offence, 
And take upon yourselves his holy law. 



VIII. 
THE CONVERSION OF THE HOAMEN. 

How beautiful, O Sun, is thine uprise^ 

And on how fair a scene ! Before the Cave 

The Elders of the Hoamen wait the will 

Of their Deliverer ; ranged without their ring 

The tribe look on, thronging the narrow vale. 

And what of gradual rise the shelving combe 

Displayed, or steeper eminence of wood. 

Broken with crags and sunny slope of green. 

And grassy platform. With the Elders sat 

The Queen and Prince, their rank's prerogative. 

Excluded else for sex unfit, and youth 

For counsel immature. Before the arch. 

To that rude fane, rude portal, stands the Cross, 

By Madoc's hand victorious planted there. 

And lo. Prince Madoc comes ! no longer mail'd 

In arms of mortal might ; the spear and sword. 

The hauberk and the helmet laid aside, 

Gorget and gauntlet, greaves and shield, — he 

comes 
In peaceful tunic clad, and mantle long ; 
His hyacinthine locks now shadowing 
That face, which late, with iron overbrow'd, 
Struck from within the aventayle such awe 
And terror to the heart. Bareheaded he, 
Followina' the servant of the altar, leads 



The reverential train. Before them, raised 

On high, the sacred images are borne ; 

There, in faint semblance, holiest Mary bends 

In virgin beauty o'er her babe divine, — 

A sight which almost to idolatry 

Might win the soul by love. But who can gaze 

Upon that other form, which on the rood 

In agony is stretch'd.'' — his hands transfix'd, 

And lacerate with the body's pendent weight ; 

The black and deadly paleness of his face, 

Streak'd with the blood which from that crown of 

scorn 
Hath ceased to flow; the side- wound streaming 

still; 
And open still those eyes, from which the look 
Not yet hath pass'd away, that went to Heaven, 
When, in that hour, the Son of Man exclaim'd, 
Forgive them, for they know not what they do ! 
And now arrived before the cave, the train 
Halt : to the assembled elders, where they sat 
Ranged in half circle, Madoc then advanced, 
And raised, as if in act to speak, his hand. 
Thereat was every human sound suppress' d ; 
And every quicken'd ear and eager eye 
Were centred on his lips. 

The Prince began, — 
Hoamen, friends, brethren, — friends we have been 

long. 
And brethren shall be, ere the day go down, — 
I come not here propounding doubtful things 
For counsel, and deliberate resolve 
Of searching thought ; but with authority 
From Heaven, to give the law, and to enforce 
Obedience. Ye shall worship God alone, 
The One Eternal. That^ Beloved One 
Ye shall not serve with offer'd fruits, or smoke 
Of sacrificial fire, or blood, or life ; 
Far other sacrifice he claims, — a soul 
Resign'd, a will subdued, a heart made clean 
From all offence. Not for your lots on earth, 
Menial or mighty, slave or highly-born. 
For cunning in the chase, or strength in war, 
Shall ye be judged hereafter ; — as ye keep 
The law of love, as ye shall tame your wrath, 
Forego revenge, forgive your enemies, 
Do good to them that wrong ye, ye will find 
Your bliss or bale. This law came down from 

Heaven. 
Lo, ye behold Him there by whom it came ; 
The Spirit was in Him, and for the sins 
Of man He suffered thus, and by His death 
Must all mankind be blest. Not knowing Him, 
Ye wander'd on in error ; knowing now. 
And not obeying, what was error once 
Is guilt and wilful wrong. If ever more 
Ye bow to your false deities the knee ; 
If ever more ye worship them with feast, 
Or sacrifice, or dance ; whoso offends 
Shall from among the people be cut off, 
Like a corrupted member, lest he taint 
The whole with death. With what appointed 

rites 
Your homage must be paid, ye shall be taught ; 
Your children in the way that they shall go 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



387 



Be train'd from childhood up. Make ye, mean- 
time, 
Your prayer to that Beloved One, who sees 
The secrets of all hearts ; and set ye up 
This the memorial of his chosen Son, 
And Her, who, blessed among women, fed 
The Appointed at Her breast, and by His cross 
Endured intenser anguish ; therefore sharing 
His glory now, with sunbeams robed, the Moon 
Her footstool, and a wreath of stars her crown. 

Hoamen, ye deem us children of a race 
Mightier than ye, and wiser, and by Heaven 
Beloved and favor'd more. From this pure law 
Hath all proceeded, — wisdom, power, whate'er 
Here elevates the soul, and makes it ripe 
For higher powers and more exalted bliss. 
Share then our law, and be with us, on earth. 
Partakers of these blessings, and in Heaven, 
Co-heritors with us of endless joy. 

Ere yet one breath or motion had disturb'd 
The reverential hush, Erillyab rose. 
My people, said the Queen, their God is best 
And mightiest. Him to whom we offered up 
Blood of our blood and of our flesh the flesh, 
Vainly we deem'd divine ; no spirit he 
Of good or evil, by the conquering arm 
Of Madoc mortal proved. What then remains 
But that the blessing proffer'd thus in love. 
In love we take.'' — Deliverer, Teacher, Friend, 
First in the fellowship of faith I claim 
The initiatory rite. 

I also, cried 
The venerable Priest Ayayaca, 
Old as I am, I also, like a child, 
Would learn this wisdom yet before I die. 
The Elders rose and answer'd. We and all ! 
And from the congregated tribe burst forth 
One universal shout, — Great is the God 
Of Madoc, — worthy to be served is He ! 

Then to the mountain rivulet, which roll'd 
Like amber over its dark bed of rock. 
Did Madoc lead Erillyab, in the name 
Of Jesus, to his Christian family 
Accepted now. On her and on her son. 
The Elders and the People, Llorien 
Sprinkled the sanctifying waters. Day 
Was scarcely two hours old when he began 
His work, and when he ceased, the sun had past 
The heights of noon. Ye saw that blessed work, 
Sons of the Cymry, Cadog, Deiniol, 
Padarn, and Teilo ! ye whose sainted names 
Your monumental temples still record ; 
Thou, David, still revered, who in the vale. 
Where, by old Hatteril's wintry torrents swollen. 
Rude Hodney rolls his raging stream, didst choose 
Thy hermit home ; and ye who by the sword 
Of the fierce Saxon, when the bloodier Monk 
Urged on the work of murder, for your faith 
And freedom fell, — Martyrs and Saints, ye saw 
This triumph of the Cymry and the Cross, 
And struck your golden harps to hymns of joy. 



IX. 



TLALALA. 

As now the rites were ended, Caradoc 

Came from the ships, leading an Azteca 

Guarded and bound. Prince Madoc, said the Bard, 

Lo ! the first captive of our arms I bring. 

Alone, beside the river I had stray'd, 

When, from his lurking-place, the savage hurl'd 

A javelin. At the rustle of the reeds. 

From whence the blow was aim'd, I turn'd in time, 

And heard it whizz beside me. Well it was. 

That from the ships they saw and succor'd me ; 

For, subtle as a serpent in my grasp, 

He seemed all joint and flexure ; nor had 1 

Armor to ward, nor weapon to offend. 

To battle all unused and unprepared ; 

But I, too, here upon this barbarous land, 

Like Elmur and like Aronan of old. 

Must lift the ruddy spear. 

This is no day 
For vengeance, answered Madoc, else his deed 
Had met no mercy. Freely let him go ! 
Perchance the tidings of our triumph here 
May yet reclaim his country. — Azteca, 
Go, let your Pabas know that we have crush'd 
Their complots here ; beneath our righteous sword 
The Priest and his false Deity have fallen ; 
The idols are consumed, and, in their stead. 
The emblems of our holy faith set up. 
Whereof the Hoamen have this day been made 
Partakers. Say to Aztlan, when she, too. 
Will make her temples clean, and put away 
Her foul abominations, and accept 
The Christian Cross, that Madoc then accords 
Forgiveness for the past, and peace to come. 
This better part let her, of her free-will 
And wisdom, choose in time. 

Till Madoc spake, 
The captive reckless of his peril stood. 
Gazing with resolute and careless eye. 
As one in whom the lot of life or death 
Moved neither fear nor feeling ; but that eye 
Now sparkling with defiance, — Seek ye peace ? 
He cried : O weak and woman-hearted man ! 
Already wouldst thou lay the sword to rest ? 
Not with the burial of the sword this strife 
Must end, for never doth the Tree of Peace 
Strike root and flourish, till the strong man's hand 
Upon his enemy's grave hath planted it. 
Come ye to Aztlan then in quest of peace ? 
Ye feeble souls, if that be what ye seek. 
Fly hence ! our Aztlan suffers on her soil 
No living stranger. 

Do thy bidding. Chief! 
Calmly Cadwallon answered. To her choice 
Let Aztlan look, lest what she now reject 
In insolence of strength, she take upon her, 
In sorrow, and in suffering, and in shame. 
By strong compulsion, penitent too late. 
Thou hast beheld our ships with gallant men 
Freighted, a numerous force, — and for our arms, — 



388 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Surely thy nation hath acquired of them 
Disastrous knowledge. 

Curse upon your arms ! 
Exclaim'd the savage : — Is there one among you 
Dare lay that cowardly advantage by, 
And meet me, man to man, in honest strife ? 
That I might grapple with him, weaponless. 
On yonder rock, breast against breast, fair force 
Of limb, and breath, and blood, — till one, or both, 
Dash'd down the shattering precipice, should feed 
The mountain eagle ! — Give me, I beseech you, 
That joy ! 

As wisely, said Cynetha's son. 
Thy foe might challenge thee, and bid thee let 
Thy strong right hand hang idle in the fray, 
That so his weakness with thy strength might cope 
In equal battle ! — Not in wrongful war. 
The tyrants of our weaker brethren. 
Wield we these dreadful arms, — but when assail'd 
By fraud and force, when call'd upon to aid 
The feeble and oppressed, shall we not 
Then put our terrors forth, and thunder-strike 
The guilty ? 

Silently the Savage heard ; 
Joy brighten'd in his eyes, as they unloosed 
His bonds ; he stretched his arms at length, to feel 
His liberty, and like a greyhound then 
Slipp'd from the leash, he bounded o'er the hills. 
What was from early morning till noon day 
The steady travel of a well-girt man, 
He with fleet feet and unfatiguable, 
In three short hours hath traversed ; in the lake 
He plunged, now shooting forth his pointed arms. 
Arrow-like darting on ; recumbent now. 
Forces with springing feet his easier way ; 
Then with new speed, as freshen' d by repose, 
Again he breasts the water. On the shore 
Of Aztlan now he stands, and breathes at will. 
And wrings his dripping locks ; then through the 

gate 
Pursued his way. 

Green garlands deck the gate ; 
Gay are the temples with green boughs affix' d ; 
The door-posts and the lintels hung with wreaths ; 
The fire of sacrifice, with flames bedimm'd. 
Burns in the sun-light, pale ; the victims wait 
Around, impatient of their death delay 'd. 
The Priest, before Tezcalipoca's shrine, 
Watches the maize-strown threshold, to announce 
The footsteps of the God ; for this the day, 
When to his favor'd city he vouchsafes 
His annual presence, and, with unseen feet, 
Imprints the maize-strown threshold ; follow'd soon 
By all whose altars with eternal fires 
Aztlan illumed, and fed with human blood ; — 
Mexitli, woman-born, who from the womb, 
Child of no mortal sire, leap'd terrible. 
The arm'd avenger of his mother's fame ; 
And he whose will the subject winds obey, 
Quetzalcoal ; and Tlaloc, Water- God, 
And all the host of Deities, whose power 
Requites with bounty Aztlan's pious zeal, 
Health and rich increase giving to her sons. 
And withering in the war her enemies. 
So taught the Priests; and therefore were the gates 



Green-garlanded, the temples green with boughs, 
The door-posts and the lintels hung with wreaths j 
And yonder victims, ranged around the fire, 
Are destin'd, with the steam of sacrifice, 
To greet their dreadful coming. 

With the train 
Of warrior Chiefs Coanacotzin stood, 
Tliat when the Priest proclaim'd the enter'd God, 
His lips before the present Deity 
Might pour effectual prayer. The assembled Chiefs 
Saw Tlalala approach, more welcome now, 
As one whose absence from the appointed rites 
Had waken'd fear and wonder. — Think not ye. 
The youth exclaim'd, careless impiety 
Could this day lead me wandering. I went forth 
To dip my javelin in the Strangers' blood — 
A sacrifice, methought, our Gods had loved 
To scent, and sooner hasten'd to enjoy. 
I fail'd, and fell a prisoner ; but their fear 
Released me — coward fear, or childish hope, 
That, like Yuhidthiton, I might become 
Their friend, and merit chastisement from Heaven, 
Pleading the Strangers' cause. They bade me go 
And proffer peace. — Chiefs, were it possible 
That tongue of mine could win you to that shame. 
Out would I pluck the member, though my soul 
Followed its bloody roots. The Stranger finds 
No peace in Aztlan, but the peace of death ! 

'Tis bravely said ! Yuhidthiton replied. 
And fairly mayst thou boast, young Tlalala, 
For thou art brave in battle. Yet 'twere well 
If that same fearless tongue were taught to check 
Its boyish license now. No law forbade 
Our friendship with the Stranger, when my voice 
Pleaded for proffered peace ; that fault I shared 
In common with the King, and with the Chiefs, 
The Pabas, and the People, none foreseeing 
Danger or guilt ; but when at length the Gods 
Made evident their wrath m prodigies, M 

I yielded to their manifested will qj 

My prompt obedience. — Bravely hast thou said. 
And brave thou art, young Tiger of the War ! 
But thou hast dealt with other enemies 
Than these impenetrable men, — with foes. 
Whose conquered Gods lie idle in their chains, 
And with tame weakness brook captivity. 
When thou hast met the Strangers in the fight. 
And in the doings of that fight outdone 
Yuhidthiton, revile him then for one 
Slow to defend his country and his faith ; 
Till then, with reverence, as beseems thy youth, 
Respect thou his full fame ! 

I wrong it not ! 
I wrong it not ! cried the young Azteca ; 
But truly, as I hope to equal it. 
Honor thy well-earn'd glory. — But this peace ! — 
Renounce it ! — say that it shall never be ! — 
Never, — as long as there are Gods in Heaven, 
Or men in Aztlan ! 

That, the King replied. 
The Gods themselves have answer'd. Never yet 
By holier ardor were our countrymen 
Possess'd ; peace-offerings of repentance fill 
The temple courts ; from every voice ascends 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



389 



The contrite prayer ; daily the victim's heart 

Sends its propitiatory steam to Heaven ; 

And if the aid divine may be procured 

By the most dread solemnities of faith, 

And rigor of severest penitence, 

Soon shall the present influence strengthen us. 

And Aztlan be triumphant. 

While they spake, 
The ceaseless sound of song and instrument 
Rung through the air, now rising like the voice 
Of angry ocean, now subsiding soft. 
As when the breeze of evening dies away. 
The horn, and shrill-toned pipe, and drum, that 

gave 
Its music to the hand, and hollow'd wood, 
Drum-like, whose thunders, ever and anon. 
Commingling with the sea-shell's spiral roar, 
Closed the full harmony. And now the eve 
Past on, and, through the twilight visible. 
The frequent fire-flies' brightening beauties shone. 
Anxious and often now the Priest inspects 
The maize-strown threshold ; for the wonted hour 
Was come, and yet no footstep of the God ! 
More radiant now the fire of sacrifice, 
Fed to full fury, blazed ; and its red smoke 
Imparted to the darker atmosphere 
Such obscure light, as, o'er Vesuvio seen. 
Or pillared upon Etna's mountain-head. 
Makes darkness dreadful. In the captives' cheeks 
Then might a livid paleness have been seen, 
And wilder terror in their ghastly eyes, 
Expecting momently the pang of death. 
Soon in the multitude a doubt arose, 
Which none durst mention, lest his neighbor's fears. 
Divulged, should strengthen his; — the hour was 

past, 
And yet no foot had mark'd the sprinkled maize ! 



X. 



THE ARRIVAL OF THE GODS. 

Now every moment gave their doubts new force. 

And every wondering eye disclosed the fear 

Which on the tongue was trembling, when to the 

Emaciate like some bare anatomy, [King, 

And deadly pale, Tezozomoc was led. 

By two supporting Priests. Ten painful months. 

Immured amid the forest had he dwelt, 

Jn abstinence and solitary prayer 

Passing his nights and days : thus did the Gods 

From their High Priest exact, when they enforced. 

By danger or distress, the penance due 

For public sins ; and he had dwelt ten months, 

Praying and fasting, and in solitude. 

Till now might every bone of his lean limbs 

Be told, and in his starved and bony face 

The living eye appeared unnatural, — 

A ghostly sight. 

In breathless eagerness 
The multitude drew round as he began, — 
O King, the Gods of Aztlan are not come ; 
They will not come before the Strangers' blood 



Smoke on their altars ; but they have beheld 
My days of prayer, and nights of watchfulness, 
And fasts austere, and bloody disciplines. 
And have reveal'd their pleasure. Who is here, 
Who to the White King's dwelhng-place dare go, 
And execute their will ? 

Scarce had he said, 
When Tlalala exclaim'd, I am the man. 

Hear then ! Tezozomoc replied. — Ye know 
That self-denial and long penance purge 
The film and foulness of mortality. 
For more immediate intercourse with Heaven 
Preparing the pure spirit ; and all eyes 
May witness that with no relaxing zeal 
I have performd my duty. Much I fear'd 
For Aztlan's sins, and oft, in bitterness. 
Have groan'd and bled for her iniquity j 
But chiefly for this solemn day the fear 
Was strong upon me, lest her Deities, 
Estranged, should turn away, and we be left 
A spiritless and God-abandoned race, 
A warning to the earth. Ten weary months 
Have the raw maize and running water been 
My only food ; but not a grain of maize 
Hath stay'd the gnawing appetite, nor drop 
Of water cool'd my parch'd and painful tongue. 
Since yester-morn arose. Fasting 1 pray'd. 
And, praying, gash'd myself; and all night long, 
1 watch'd, and wept, and supplicated Heaven, 
Till the weak flesh, its life-blood almost drain'd. 
Sunk with the long austerity : a dread 
Of death came over me ; a deathy chill 
Ran through my veins, and loosen'd every limb ; 
Dim grew mine eyes ; and I could feel my heart, 
Dying away within me, intermit 
Its slow and feeble throbs, then suddenly 
Start, as it seem'd exerting all its force 
In one last effort. On the ground I fell, 
I know not if entranced, or dead indeed. 
But without motion, hearing, sight, or sense^ 
Feeling, or breath, or life. From that strange state, 
Even in such blessed freedom from all pain 
That sure I thought myself in very Heaven, 
I woke, and raised my eyelids, and beheld 
A light which seemed to penetrate my bones 
With life and health. Before me, visible, 
Stood Coatlantona ; a wreath of flowers 
Circled her hair, and from their odorous leaves 
Arose a lambent flame ; not fitfully. 
Nor with faint flash or spark of earthly flowers ; 
From these, forever flowing forth, there play'd, 
In one perpetual dance of pointed light. 
The azure radiance of innocuous fire. 
She spake — Hear, Aztlan ! and give ear, O King ! 
She said. Not yet the offended Gods relax 
Their anger ; they require the Strangers' blood, 
The foretaste of their banquet. Let their will 
Be known to Aztlan, and the brave perform 
Their bidding; I, meantime, will seek to soothe, 
With all a mother's power, Mexitli's wrath. 
So let the maidens daily with fresh flowers 
Garland my temple ! — Daily with fresh flowers 
Garland her temple, Aztlan ! and revere 
The gentle mother of thy guardian God ! 



390 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



And let the brave, exclaim 'd young Tlalala, 
Perform her bidding ! Servant of the Gods, 
Declare their will ! — Is it, that I should seek 
The strangers, in the first who meets my way 
To plunge the holy weapon ? Say thou to me, 
Do this ! — and I depart to do the deed, 
Though my life-blood should mingle with the foe's. 

O brave young Chief! Tezozomoc replied, 
With better fortune may the grateful Gods 
Reward thy valor ! deed so hazardous 
They ask not. Couldst thou from the mountain 

holds 
Tempt one of these rash foemen to pursue 
Thine artful flight, an ambush'd band might rise 
Upon the unsuspcting enemy, 
And intercept his way ; then hither ward 
The captive should be led, and Aztlan's Gods 
On their own altars see the sacrifice. 
Well pleased, and Aztlan's sons, inspirited, 
Behold the omen of assured success. 
Thou know'st that Tlaloc's annual festival 
Is close at hand. A stranger's child would prove 
A victim, whose rare value would deserve 
His certain favor. More I need not say. 
Choose thou the force for ambush ; and thyself 
Alone, or with a chosen comrade, seek 
The mountain dwellers. 

Instant as he ceased, 
Ocellopan began : I go with thee, 
O Tlalala ! My friend ! — If one alone 
Could have the honor of this enterprise, 
My love might yield it thee ; — but thou wilt need 
A comrade. — Tlalala, I go with thee ! 
Whom, the Chief answer' d, should my heart 

select. 
Its tried companion else, but thee, so oft 
My brother in the battle ^ We will go, 
Shedder of blood! together will we go. 
Now, ere the midnight ! 

Nay ! the Priest replied, 
A little while delay; and ere ye go, 
Devote yourselves to Heaven ! Feebly he spake, 
Like one exhausted ; gathering then new force. 
As with laborious effort, he pursued, — 
Bedew Mexitli's altar with your blood. 
And go beneath his guidage. I have yet 
Strength to officiate, and to bless your zeal. 

So saying, to the Temple of the God 
He led the way. The warriors follow'd him ; 
And with his chiefs, Coanocotzin went. 
To grace with all solemnity the rite. 
They pass the Wall of Serpents, and ascend 
The massive fabric ; four times they surround 
Its ample square ; the fifth, they reach the height. 
There, on the level top, two temple-towers 
Were rear'd ; the one Tezcalipoca's fane, 
Supreme of Heaven, where now the wily Priest 
Stood, watchful for his presence, and observed 
The maize-strown threshold. His the other pile, 
By whose peculiar power and patronage 
Aztlan was blest, Mexitli, woman-born. 
Before the entrance, the eternal fire 
Was burning; bare of foot they enter'd there. 



On a blue throne, with four huge silver snakes, 
As if the keepers of the sanctuary, 
Circled, with stretching neck and fangs display' d, 
Mexitli sat; another graven snake 
Belted with scales of gold his monster bulk. 
Around the neck a loathsome collar hung, 
Of human hearts; the face was mask'd with goldj 
His specular eyes seem'd fire; one hand uprear'dl 
A club ; the other, as in battle, held 
The shield ; and over all suspended hung 
The banner of the nation. They beheld 
In awe, and knelt before the Terrible God. 

Guardian of Aztlan! cried Tezozomoc, 
Who to thy mortal mother hast assign'd 
The kingdom o'er all trees, and arborets, 
And herbs, and flowers, giving her endless life, 
A Deity among the Deities ; 
While Coatlantona implores thy love 
To thine own people, they in fear approach || 

Thy awful fane, who know no fear beside, 1 

And offer up the worthiest sacrifice. 
The blood of heroes ! 

To the ready Chiefs 
He turn'd, and said. Now stretch your arms, and 

make 
The offering to the God. They their bare arms 
Stretched forth, and stabbed them with the aloe- 
Then in a golden vase Tezozomoc [point. 
Received the mingled streams, and held it up 
Toward the giant Idol, and exclaim'd. 
Terrible God ! Protector of our realm ! 
Receive thine incense ! Let the steam of blood 
Ascend to thee, delightful ! So mayst thou 
Still to thy chosen people lend thine aid; 
And these blaspheming strangers from the earth 
Be swept away ; as erst the monster race 
Of Mammuth, Heaven's fierce ministers of wrath, 
Who drain' d the lakes in thirst, and for their food 
Exterminated nations. And as when. 
Their dreadful ministry of death fulfill'd, 
Ipalnemoani, by whom we live. 
Bade thee go forth, and with thy lightnings fill 
The vault of Heaven, and with thy thunders rock 
The rooted earth, till of the monster race 
Only their monumental bones remain'd, — 
So arm thy favor'd people with thy might. 
Terrible God ! and purify the land 
From these blaspheming foes ! 

He said, and gave 
Ocellopan the vase. — Chiefs, ye have pour'd 
Your strength and courage to the Terrible God, 
Devoted to his service ; take ye now 
The beverage he hath hallow'd. In your youth 
Ye have quaff 'd manly blood, that manly thoughts 
Might ripen in your hearts ; so now with this. 
Which mingling from such noble veins hath flowed, 
Increase of valor drink, and added force. 
Ocellopan received the bloody vase. 
And drank, and gave in silence to his friend 
The consecrated draught ; then Tlalala 
Drain'd off the offering. Braver blood than this 
My lips can never taste ! quoth he ; but soon 
Grant me, Mexitli, a more grateful cup, — 
The Stranger's life ! 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



391 



Are all the rites perform'd ? 
Ocellopan inquired. Yea, all is done, 
Answer'd the Priest. Go ! and the guardian God 
Of Aztlan be your guide ! 

They left the fane. 
Lo ! as Tezozomoc was passing by 
The eternal fire, the eternal fire shot up 
A long blue flame. He started ; he exclaim'd, 
The God ! the God ! Tezcalipoca's Priest 
Echoed the welcome cry, The God ! the God ! 
For lo ! his footsteps mark the maize-strown floor. 
A mighty shout from all the multitudes 
Of Aztlan rose ; they cast into the fire 
The victims, whose last shrieks of agony 
Mingled unheeded with the cries of joy. 
Then louder from the spiral sea-shell's depth 
Swell'd the full roar, and from the hollow wood 
Peal'd deeper thunders. Round the choral band. 
The circling nobles, gay with gorgeous plumes, 
And gems which sparkled to the midnight fire, 
Moved in the solemn dance ; each in his hand, 
In measured movements lifts the feathery shield, 
And shakes a rattling ball to measured sounds. 
With quicker steps, the inferior chiefs without. 
Equal in number, but in just array. 
The spreading radii of the mystic wheel, 
Revolve ; and, outermost, the youths roll round, 
In motions rapid as their quicken'd blood. 
So thus with song and harmony the night 
Past on in Aztlan, and all hearts rejoiced. 



XL 



THE CAPTURE. 

Meantime from Aztlan, on their enterprise, 
Shedder of Blood and Tiger of the War, 
Ocellopan and Tlalala set forth. 
With chosen followers, through the silent night, 
Silent they travell'd on. After a way 
Circuitous and far through lonely tracks. 
They reach'd the mountains, and amid the shade 
Of thickets covering the uncultured slope, 
Their patient ambush placed. The chiefs alone 
Held on, till, winding in ascent, they reach'd 
The heights which o'er the Briton's mountain hold 
Impended ; there they stood, and by the moon. 
Who yet, with undiminished lustre, hung 
High in the dark blue firmament, from thence 
Explored the steep descent. Precipitous 
The rock beneath them lay, a sudden cliff", 
Bare and unbroken ; in its midway holes, 
Where never hand could reach, nor eye intrude, 
The eagle built her eyrie. Farther on, 
Its interrupted crags and ancient woods 
Offered a difficult way. From crag to crag, 
By rocky shelf, by trunk, or root, or bough, 
A painful toil and perilous, they past ; 
And now, stretch'd out amid the matted shrubs. 
Which, at the entrance of the valley, clothed 
The rugged bank, they crouch'd. 

By this the stars 
Grew dim ; the glow-worm hath put out her lamp ; 



The owls have ceased their n ight-song. On the top 
Of yon magnolia the loud turkey's voice 
Is heralding the dawn ; from tree to tree 
Extends the wakening watch-note, far and wide, 
Till the whole woodlands echo with the cry. 
Now breaks the morning ; but as yet no foot 
Hath mark'd the dews, nor sound of man is heard. 
Then first Ocellopan beheld, where, near, 
Beneath the shelter of a half-roof 'd hut, 
A sleeping stranger lay. He pointed him 
To Tlalala. The Tiger look'd around : 
None else was nigh. — Shall I descend, he said, 
And strike him ? Here is none to see the deed. 
We offered to the Gods our mingled blood 
Last night ; and now, I deem it, tliey present 
An offering which shall more propitiate tliem, 
And omen sure success. I will go down 
And kill ! 

He said, and, gliding like a snake, 
Where Caradoc lay sleeping, made his way. 
Sweetly slept he, and pleasant were his dreams 
Of Britain, and the blue-eyed maid he loved. 
The Azteca stood over him ; he knew 
His victim, and the power of vengeance gave 
Malignant joy. Once hast thou 'scaped my arm : 
But what shall save thee now .'' the Tiger thought, 
Exulting; and he raised his spear to strike. 
That instant, o'er the Briton's unseen harp 
The gale of morning past, and swept its strings 
Into so sweet a harmony, that sure 
It seem'd no earthly tone. The savage man 
Suspends his stroke; he looks astonish'd round; 
No human hand is near : — and hark ! again 
The aerial music swells and dies away. 
Then first the heart of Tlalala felt fear : 
He thought that some protecting spirit watch'd 
Beside the Stranger, and, abash'd, withdrew. 

A God protects him ! to Ocellopan, 
Whispering, he said. Didst thou not hear the 

sound 
Which enter'd into me, and fix'd my arm 
Powerless above him ? 

Was it not a voice 
From thine own Gods to strengthen thee, replied 
His sterner comrade, and make evident 
Their pleasure in the deed ? 

Nay! Tlalala 
Rejoin'd ; they speak in darkness and in storms : 
The thunder is their voice, that peals through 

heaven. 
Or, rolling underneath us, makes earth rock 
In tempest, and destroys the sons of men. 
It was no sound of theirs, Ocellopan ! 
No voice to hearten, — for I felt it pass 
Unmanning every limb ; yea, it relax'd 
The sinews of my soul. Shedder of Blood, 
I cannot lift my hand against the man. 
Go, if thy heart be stronger ! 

But meantime 
Young Caradoc arose, of his escape 
Unconscious; and by this the stirring sounds 
Of day began, increasing now, as all 
Now to their toil betake them. Some go fell 
The stately tree ; some from the trunk low-laid 



392 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Hew the huge boughs } here round the fire they char 

The stake-points ; here they level with a line 

The ground-plot, and infix the ready piles, 

Or, interknitting them with osiers, weave 

The wicker wall ; others along the lake, 

From its shoal waters, gather reeds and canes, — 

Light roofing, suited to the genial sky. 

The woodman's measured stroke, the regular saw. 

The wain slow-creaking, and the voice of man 

Answering his fellow, or in single toil, 

Cheering his labor with a cheerful song. 

Strange concert made to those fierce Aztecas, 

Who, beast-like, in their silent lurking-place 

Couch'd close and still, observant for their prey. 

All overseeing, and directing all, 
From place to place moved Madoc, and beneld 
The dwellings rise. Young Hoel at his side 
Ran on, best pleased when at his Uncle's side 
Courting indulgent love. And now they came 
Beside the half-roof 'd hut of Caradoc; 
Of all the mountain-dwellings that the last. 
The little boy, in boyish wantonness, 
Would quit his Uncle's hold, and haste away. 
With childhood's frolic speed, then laugh aloud, 
To tempt pursuit; now running to the huts, 
Now toward the entrance of the valley straits. 
But wheresoe'er he turned, Ocellopan, 
With hunter's eye, pursued his heedless course, 
In breath-suspending vigilance. Ah me ! 
The little wretch toward his lurking-place 
Draws near, and calls on Madoc ; and the Prince 
Thinks of no danger nigh, and follows not 
The childish lure ! nearer the covert now 
Young Hoel runs, and stops, and calls again ; 
Then like a lion, from his couching-place, 
Ocellopan leap'd forth, and seized his prey. 

Loud shriek'd the afirighted child, as in his arms 
The savage grasp'd him; startled at the cry, 
Madoc beheld him hastening through the pass. 
Quick as instinctive love can urge his feet 
He follows, and he now almost hath reach'd 
The encumber'd ravisher, and hope inspires 
New speed, — yet nearer now, and nearer still, 
And lo ! the child holds out his little arms ! 
That instant, as the Prince almost had laid 
His hand upon the boy, young Tlalala 
Leap'd on his neck, and soon, though Madoc's 

strength. 
With frantic fury, shook him from his hold. 
Far down the steep Ocellopan had fled. 
Ah ! what avails it now, that they, by whom 
Madoc was standing to survey their toil. 
Have miss'd their Chief, and spread the quick 

alarm .'' 
What now avails it, that, with distant aid, 
His gallant men come down ? Regarding nought 
But Hoel, but the wretched Llaian's grief, 
He rushes on ; and ever as he draws 
Near to the child, the Tiger Tlalala 
Impedes his way ; and now they reach the place 
Of ambush, and the ambush'd band arise. 
And Madoc is their prisoner. 

Caradoc, 



In vain thou leadest on the late pursuit ! 
In vain, Cadwallon, hath thy love alarm'd 
Caught the first sound of evil ! They pour out 
Tumultuous from the vale, a half-arm'd troop; 
Each with such weapons as his hasty hand 
Can seize, they rush to battle. Gallant men, 
Your valor boots not ! It avails not now. 
With such fierce onset that ye charge the foe, 
And drive with such full force the weapon home ! 
They, while ye slaughter them, impede pursuit j 
And far away, meantime, their comrades bear 
The captive Prince. In vain his noble heart 
Swells now with wild and suffocating rage ; 
In vain he struggles : — they have bound his limbs 
With the tough osier, and his struggles now 
But bind more close and cuttingly the band. 
They hasten on ; and while they bear the prize, 
Leaving their ill-doomed fellows in the fight — 
To check pursuit, foremost afar of all. 
With unabating strength, by joy inspired, 
Ocellopan to Aztlan bears the child. 



XII. 



HOEL. 

Good tidings travel fast. — The chief is seen; 

He hastens on ; he holds the child on high ; 

He shouts aloud. Through Aztlan spreads the 

news; 
Each to his neighbor tells the happy tale, — 
Joy, — joy to Aztlan ! the Blood-shedder comes ! 
Tlaloc has given his victim. 

Ah, poor child ! 
They from the gate swarm out to welcome thee ; 
Warriors, and men grown gray, and youths, and 

maids. 
Exulting, forth they crowd. The mothers throng 
To view thee, and, while thinking of tJiy doom. 
They clasp their own dear infants to the breast 
With deeper love, delighted think that thou 
Shalt suflfer for them. He, poor child, admires 
The strange array ! with wonder he beholds 
Their olive limbs, half bare, their plumy crowns, 
And gazes round and round, where all was new. 
Forgetful of his fears. But when the Priest 
Approach'd to take him from the Warrior's arms. 
Then Hoel scream'd, and from that hideous man 
Averting, to Ocellopan he turn'd. 
And would have clung to him, so dreadful late, 
Stern as he was, and terrible of eye. 
Less dreadful than the Priest, whose dark aspect 
Which nature with her harshest characters 
Had featured, art made worse. His cowl was 

white ; 
His untrimm'd hair, a long and loathsome mass. 
With cotton cords intwisted, clung with gum. 
And matted with the blood, which, every morn. 
He from his temples drew before the God, 
In sacrifice ; bare were his arms, and smear'd 
Black. But his countenance a stronger dread 
Than all the horrors of that outward garb. 
Struck with quick instinct to young Hoel's heart, 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



393 



It was a face whose settled sullenness 
No gentle feeling ever had disturb'd ; 
Which, when he probed a victim's living breast, 
Retained its hard composure. 

Such was he 
Who took the son of Llaian, heeding not 
Hiscries, and screams, and arms in suppliant guise 
Stretch'd out to all around, and strugglings vain. 
He to the Temple of the Water- God 
Convey'd his victim. By the threshold, there 
The ministering Virgins stood, a comely band 
Of high-born damsels, to the temple rites 
By pious parents vow'd. Gladly to them 
The little Hoel leap'd ; their gentle looks 
No fear excited ; and he gazed around, 
Pleased and surprised, unconscious to what end 
These things were tending. O'er the rush-strown 

floor 
They to the azure Idol led the boy, 
Now not reluctant, and they raised the hymn. 

God of the Waters ! at whose will the streams 
Flow in their wonted channel, and diffuse 
Their plenty round, the blood and life of earth ; 
At whose command they swell, and o'er their 

banks 
Burst with resistless ruin, making vain 
The toils and hopes of man, — behold this child ! 
O strong to bless, and mighty to destroy, 
Tlaloc ! behold thy victim ! so mayst thou 
Restrain the peaceful streams within their banks, 
And bless the labors of the husbandman. 

God of the Mountains ! at whose will the clouds 
Cluster around the heights ; who sendest them 
To shed their fertilizing showers, and raise 
The drooping herb, and o'er the thirsty vale 
Spread their green freshness ; at whose voice the 

hills 
Grow black with storms 5 whose wrath the thunder 

speaks ; 
Whose bow of anger shoots the lightning shafts. 
To blast the works of man ; — behold this child ! 
O strong to bless, and mighty to destroy, 
Tlaloc ! behold thy victim ! so mayst thou 
1; Lay by the fiery arrows of thy rage, 
I And bid the genial rains and dews descend. 

O thou. Companion of the powerful God, 
Companion and Beloved ! — when he treads 
The mountain-top, whose breath diffuses round 
The sweets of summer ; when he rides the waves, 
Whose presence is the sunshine and the calm, — 
Aiauh, O green-robed Goddess, see this child ! 
Behold thy victim ! so mayst thou appease 
The sterner mind of Tlaloc when he frowns. 
And Aztlan flourish in thy fostering smile. 
Young Spirits ! ye whom Aztlan's piety 
Hath given to Tlaloc, to enjoy with him. 
For aye, the cool delights of Tlalocan, — 
Young Spirits of the happy ; who have left 
Your Heaven to-day, unseen assistants here, — 
Behold your comrade ! see the chosen child, 
Who through the lonely cave of death must pass, 
Like you, to join you in eternal joy. 
50 



Now from the rush-strown temple they depart. 
They place their smiling victim in a car, 
Upon whose sides of pearly shell there play'd, 
Shading and shifting still, the rainbow light. 
On virgin shoulders is he borne aloft. 
With dance before, and song and music round ; 
And thus they seek, in festival array, 
The water-side. There lies the sacred bark, 
All gay with gold, and garlanded with flowers : 
The virgins with the joyous boy embark ; 
Ten boatmen urge them on ; the Priests behind 
Follow, and all the long solemnity. 
The lake is overspread with boats ; the sun 
Shines on the gilded prows, the feathery crowns, 
The sparkling waves. Green islets float along, 
Where high-born damsels, under jasmine bowers, 
Raise the sweet voice, to which the echoing oars, 
In modulated motion, rise and fall. 
The moving multitude along the shore 
Flows like a stream; bright shines the unclouded 

sky; 
Heaven, earth, and waters wear one face of joy. 
Young Hoel with delight beholds the pomp ; 
His heart throbs joyfully ; and if he thinks 
Upon his mother now, 'tis but to think 
How beautiful a tale for her glad ear 
He hath when he returns. Meantime the maids 
Weave garlands for his head, and raise the song. 

Oh ! happy thou, whom early from the world 
The Gods require ! not by the wasting worm 
Of sorrow canker'd, nor condemn'd to feel 
The pang of sickness, nor the wound of war, 
Nor the long miseries of protracted age ; 
But thus in childhood chosen of the God, 
To share his joys. Soon shall thy rescued soul, 
Child of the Stranger ! in his blissful world, 
Mix with the blessed spirits ; for not thine. 
Amid the central darkness of the earth. 
To endure the eternal void ; — not thine to live, 
Dead to all objects of eye, ear, or sense. 
In the long horrors of one endless night. 
With endless being curs'd. For thee the bowers 
Of Tlalocan have blossom'd with new sweets; 
For thee have its immortal trees matured 
The fruits of Heaven ; thy comrades even now 
Wait thee, impatient, in their fields of bliss ; 
The God will welcome thee, his chosen child, 
And Aiauh love thee with a mother's love. 
Child of the Stranger, dreary is thy way ! 
Darkness and Famine through the cave of Death 
Must guide thee. Happy thou, when on that night 
The morning of the eternal day shall dawn. 

So as they sung young Hoel's song of death, 
With rapid strength the boatmen plied their oars, 
And through the water swift they glided on ; 
And now to shore they drew. The stately bank 
Rose with the majesty of woods o'erhung. 
And rocks, or peering through the forest shade, 
Or rising from the lake, and with their bulk 
Glassing its dark, deep waters. Half way up, 
A cavern pierced the rock ; no human foot 
Had trod its depths, nor ever sunbeam reach'd 
Its long recesses and mysterious gloom ; 



3&4 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



To Tlaloc it was hallowed ; and the stone, 
Which closed its entrance, never was removed, 
Save when the yearly festival return'd. 
And in its womb a child was sepulchred, 
The living victim. Up the winding path, 
That to the entrance of the cavern led. 
With many a painful step the train ascend : 
But many a time, upon that long ascent. 
Young Hoel would have paused, with weariness 
Exhausted now. They urge him on, — poor child ! 
They urge him on ! — Where is Cadwallon's aid .'' 
Where is the sword of Ririd ? where the arm 
Of Madoc now .'' — Oh ! better had he lived. 
Unknowing and unknown, on Arvon's plain. 
And trod upon his noble father's grave. 
With peasant feet, unconscious ! — They have 

reach'd 
The cavern now, and from its mouth the Priests 
Roll the huge portal. Thitherward they force 
The son of Llaian. A cold air comes out ; — 
It chills him, and his feet recoil; — in vain 
His feet recoil ; — in vain he turns to fly. 
Affrighted at the sudden gloom that spreads 
Around; — the den is closed, and he is left 
In solitude and darkness, — left to die ! 



XIIL 



COATEL. 



That morn from Aztlan Coatel had gone. 

In search of flowers, amid the woods and crags, 

To deck the shrine of Coatlantona ; 

Such flowers as in the solitary wilds 

Hiding their modest beauty, made their worth 

More valued for its rareness. 'Twas to her 

A grateful task ; not only for she fled 

Those cruel rites, to which nor reverent use 

Nor frequent custom could familiarize 

Her gentle heart, and teach it to put off" 

All womanly feeling ; — but that from all eyes 

Escaped, and all obtrusive fellowship. 

She in that solitude might send her soul 

To where Lincoya with the Strangers dwelt. 

She from the summit of the woodland heights 

Gazed on the lake below. The sound of song 

And instrument, in soften'd harmony. 

Had reach'd her where she stray'd ; and she beheld 

The pomp, and listen'd to the floating sounds, 

A moment, with delight : but then a fear 

Came on her, for she knew with what design 

The Tiger and Ocellopan had sought 

The dwellings of the Cymry. — Now the boats 

Drew nearer, and she knew the Stranger's child. 

She watch'd them land below ; she saw them wind 

The ascent ; — and now from that abhorred cave 

The stone is roll'd away, — and now the child 

From light and life is cavern'd. Coatel 

Thought of his mother then, of all the ills 

Her fear would augur, and how worse than all 

Which even a mother's maddening fear could feign, 

His actual fate. She thought of this, and bow'd 

Her face upon her knees, and closed her eyes, 



Shuddering. Suddenly in the brake beside, 
A rustling startled her, and from the shrubs,, 
A Vulture rose. 

She moved toward the spot. 
Led by an idle impulse, as it seem'd. 
To see from whence the carrion bird had fled. 
The bushes overhung a narrow chasm 
Which pierced the hill : upon its mossy sides 
Shade-loving herbs and flowers luxuriant grew, 
And jutting crags made easy the descent. 
A little way descending, Coatel [heard, 

Stoop'd for the flowers, and heard, or thought she 
A feeble sound below. She raised her head. 
And anxiously she listen'd for the sound, 
Not without fear. — Feebly again, and like 
A distant cry, it came ; and then she thought, 
Perhaps it was the voice of that poor child, 
By the slow pain of hunger doom'd to die. 
She shudder'd at the thought, and breathed a groan 
Of unavailing pity ; — but the sound 
Came nearer, and her trembling heart conceived 
A dangerous hope. The Vulture from that chasm 
Had fled, perchance accustomed in the cave 
To seek his banquet, and by living feet 
Alarm'd : — there was an entrance then below ; 
And were it possible that she could save 
The Stranger's child, — Oh, what a joy it were 
To tell Lincoya that ! 

It was a thought 
Which made her heart with terror and delight 
Throb audibly. From crag to crag she past, 
Descending, and beheld a narrow cave 
Enter the hill. A little way the light 
Fell ; but its feeble glimmering she herself 
Obstructed half, as stooping in she went. 
The arch grew loftier, and the increasing gloom 
Fill'd her with more affright ; and now she paused ; 
For at a sudden and abrupt descent 
She stood, and fear'd its unseen depth ; her heart 
Fail'd, and she back had hasten'd ; but the cry 
Reach'd her again, the near and certain cry 
Of that most pitiable innocent. 
Again adown the dark descent she look'd. 
Straining her eyes ; by this the strengthen'd sight 
Had grown adapted to the gloom around. 
And her dilated pupils now received 
Dim sense of objects near. Something below. 
White in the darkness, lay ; it mark'd the depth ; 
Still Coatel stood dubious ; but she heard 
The wailing of the child, and his loud sobs; — 
Then, clinging to the rock with fearful hands. 
Her feet explored below, and twice she felt 
Firm footing, ere her fearful hold relax'd. 
The sound she made, along the hollow rock 
Ran echoing. Hoel heard it, and he came 
Groping along the side. A dim, dim light 
Broke on the darkness of his sepulchre ; 
A human form drew near him; — he sprang on, 
Screaming with joy, and clung to Coatel, 
And cried, Oh, take me from this dismal place ! 
She answer'd not ; she understood him not; 
But clasp'd the little victim to her breast. 
And shed delightful tears. 

But from that den 
Of darkness and of horror, Coatel 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



395 



Durst not convey the child, though in her heart 
There was a female tenderness which yearn 'd, 
As with maternal love, to cherish him. 
She hush'd his clamors, fearful lest the sound 
Might reach some other ear; she kiss'd away 
The tears that stream'd adown his little cheeks ; 
She gave him food, which in the morn she brought, 
For her own wants, from Aztlan. Some few words 
Of Britain's ancient language she had learn'd 
From her Lincoya, in those happy days 
Of peace, when Aztlan was the Stranger's friend : 
Aptly she learnt, what willingly he taught. 
Terms of endearment, and the parting words 
Which promised quick return. She to the child 
These precious words address'd ; and if itchanced 
Imperfect knowledge, or some difficult sound, 
Check'd her heart's utterance, then the gentle tone. 
The fond caress, intelligibly spake 
Affection's language. 

But when she arose. 
And would have climb'd the ascent, the affrighted 

boy 
Fast held her, and his tears interpreted 
The prayer to leave him not. Again she kiss'd 
His tears away ; again of soon return 
Assured and soothed him ; till reluctantly 
And weeping, but in silence, he unloosed 
His grasp ; and up the difficult ascent 
Coatel climb'd, and to the light of day 
Returning, with her flowers she hasten'd home. 



XIV. 
THE STONE OF SACRIFICE. 

Who comes to Aztlan, bounding like a deer 
Along the plain.'' — The herald of success; 
For, lo ! his locks are braided, and his loins 
Cinctured with white ; and see, he lifts the shield. 
And brandishes the sword. The populace 
Flock round, impatient for the tale of joy, 
And follow to the palace in his path. 
Joy ! joy ! the Tiger hath achieved his quest ! 
They bring a captive home ! — Triumphantly 
Coanocotzin and his Chiefs go forth 
To greet the youth triumphant, and receive 
The victim, whom the gracious gods have given, 
Sure omen and first fruits of victory. 
A woman leads the train, young, beautiful, — 
More beautiful for that translucent joy 
Flushing her cheek, and sparkling in her eye ; — 
Her hair is twined with festal flowers, her robe 
With flowing wreaths adorn'd ; she holds a child, 
He, too, bedeck'd and garlanded with flowers, 
And, lifting him, with agile force of arm. 
In graceful action, to harmonious step 
Accordant, leads the dance. It is the wife 
Of Tlalala, who, with his child, goes forth 
To meet her hero husband. 

And behold. 
The Tiger comes ! and ere the shouts and sounds 
Of gratulation cease, his followers bear 
The captive Prince. At that so welcome sight, 



Loud rose the glad acclaim ; nor knew they yet 

That he who there lay patient in his bonds, 

Expecting the inevitable lot. 

Was Madoc. Patient in his bonds he lay, 

Exhausted with vain efforts, hopeless now, 

And silently resign'd. But when the King 

Approach'd the prisoner, and beheld his face. 

And knew the Chief of Strangers, at that sound 

Electric joy shot through the multitude, 

And, like the raging of the hurricane, 

Their thundering transports peal'd. A deeper joy, 

A nobler triumph, kindled Tlalala, 

As, limb by limb, his eye survey'd the Prince, 

With a calm fierceness. And, by this, the Priests 

Approach'd their victim, clad in vestments white 

Of sacrifice, which from the shoulders fell, 

As from the breast, unbending, broad, and straight. 

Leaving their black arms bare. The blood-red 

robe. 
The turquoise pendent from his down-drawn lip. 
The crown of glossy plumage, whose green hue 
Vied with his emerald ear-drops, mark'd their 

Chief, 
Tezozomoc : his thin and ghastly cheek. 
Which — save the temple serpents, when he 

brought 
Their human banquet, — never living eye 
Rejoiced to see, became more ghastly now. 
As in Mexitli's name, upon the Prince 
He laid his murtherous hand. But, as he spake. 
Up darted Tlalala his eagle glance. — 
Away ! away ! he shall not perish so ! 
The warrior cried. — Not tamely, by the knife. 
Nor on the jasper stone, his blood shall flow ! 
The Gods of Aztlan love a Warrior Priest ! 
I am their Priest to-day ! 

A murmuring 
Ran through the train ; nor waited he to hear 
Denial thence ; but on the multitude 
Aloud he call'd : — When first our fathers seized 
This land, there was a savage chief who stopp'd 
Their progress. He had gained the rank he bore. 
By long probation : stripes, which laid his flesh 
All bleeding bare, had forced not one complaint; 
Not when the working bowels might be seen, 
One movement; hand-bound, he had been con- 
fined 
Where myriad insects on his nakedness 
Infix'd their venomous anger, and no start. 
No shudder, shook his frame ; last in a net 
Suspended, he had felt the agony 
Of fire, which to his bones and marrow pierced. 
And breathed the suffocating smoke which fill'd 
His lungs with fire, without a groan, a breath, 
A look betokening sense ; so gallantly 
Had he subdued his nature. This brave man 
Met Aztlan in the war, and put her Chiefs 
To shame. Our Elders have not yet forgot 
How from the slaughtered brother of their King 
He stripp'd the skin, and formed of it a drum. 
Whose sound affrighted armies. With this man 
My father coped in battle ; here he led him. 
An offering to the God ; and man to man, 
He slew him here in fight. I was a child, 
Just old enough to lift my father's shield ; 



396 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



But I remember, on that glorious day, 
When from the sacred combat he return' d, 
His red hands reeking with the hot heart's blood. 
How in his arms he took me, and besought 
The God whom he had served, to bless his boy, 
And make me like my father. Men of Aztlan, 
Mexitli heard his prayer ; — here I have brought 
The Stranger-Chief, the noblest sacrifice 
That ever graced the altar of the God ; 
Let then his death be noble ! so my boy 
Shall, in the day of battle, think of me ; 
And as I follow'd my brave father's steps, 
Pursue my path of glory. 

Ere the Priest 
Could frame denial, had the Monarch's look 
Given his assent. — Refuse not this, he said, 
O servant of the Gods ! He hath not here 
His arms to save him ; and the Tiger's strength 
Yields to no mortal might. Then for his sword 
He call'd, and bade Yuhidthiton address 
The Stranger-Chief. 

Yuhidthiton began, — 
The Gods of Aztlan triumph, and thy blood 
Must wet their altars. Prince, thou shalt not die 
The coward's death ; but, sworded, and in fight. 
Fall as becomes the valiant. Should thine arm 
Subdue in battle six successive foes. 
Life, liberty, and glory, will repay 
The noble conquest. Madoc, hope not this ! 
Strong are the brave of Aztlan ! 

Then they loosed 
The Ocean Chieftain's bonds ; they rent away 
His garments ; and with songs and shouts of joy. 
They led him to the Stone of Sacrifice. 
Round was that Stone of blood ; the half-raised arm 
Of one of manly growth, who stood below. 
Might rest upon its height; the circle small, 
An active boy might almost bound across. 
Nor needed for the combat ampler space ; 
For in the centre was the prisoner's foot 
Fast fetter'd down. Thus fetter'd, Madoc stood. 
He held a buckler, light and small, of cane 
O'erlaid with beaten gold ; his sword, the King, 
Honoring a noble enemy, had given, 
A weapon tried in war, — to Madoc 's grasp 
Strange and unwieldy : 'twas a broad, strong staff. 
Set thick with transverse stones, on either side 
Keen-edged as Syrian steel. But when he felt 
The weapon, Madoc call'd to mind his deeds 
Done on the Saxon in his father's land. 
And hope arose within him. Nor, though now 
Naked he stood, did fear for that assail 
His steady heart ; for often had he seen 
His gallant countrymen, with naked breasts, 
Rush on their iron-coated enemy. 
And win the conquest. 

Now hath Tlalala 
Array 'd himself for battle. First he donn'd 
A gipion, quilted close of gossampine ; 
O'er that a jointed mail of plates of gold, 
Bespotted like the tiger's speckled pride. 
To speak his rank ; it clad his arms half-way. 
Half-way his thighs ; but cuishes had he none. 
Nor gauntlets, nor feet-armor. On his helm 
There yawn'd the semblance of a tiger's head, 



The long, white teeth extended, as for prey ; 

Proud crest, to blazon his proud title forth. 

And now toward the fatal stage equipp'd 

For fight he went ; when, from the press behind, 

A warrior's voice was heard, and clad in arms, 

And shaking in his angry grasp the sword, 

Ocellopan rush'd on, and cried aloud. 

And for himself the holy combat claim'd. 

The Tiger, heedless of his clamor, sprung 

Upon the stone, and turn'd him to the war. 

Fierce leaping forward came Ocellopan, 

And bounded up the ascent, and seized his arm : — 

Why wouldst thou rob me of a deed like this .'' 

Equal our peril in the enterprise, 

Equal our merit ; — thou wouldst reap alone 

The guerdon ! Never shall my children lift 

Their little hands at thee, and say, Lo ! there 

The Chief who slew the White King ! — Tlalala, 

Trust to the lot, or turn on me, and prove, 

By the best chance to which the brave appeal. 

Who best deserves this glory ! 

Stung to wrath. 
The Tiger answer'd not; he raised his sword, 
And they had rushed to battle ; but the Priests 
Came hastening up, and by their common Gods, 
And by their common country, bade them cease 
Their impious strife, and let the lot decide 
From whom Mexitli should that day receive 
His noble victim. Both unsatisfied, 
But both obedient, heard. Two equal shafts. 
As outwardly they seem'd, the Paba brought ; 
His mantle hid their points ; and Tlalala 
Drew forth the broken stave. A bitter smile 
Darken 'd his cheek, as angrily he cast 
To earth the hostile lot. — Shedder of Blood, 
Thine is the first adventure ! he exclaim'd ; 
But thou mayst perish here ! — and in his heart 
The Tiger hoped Ocellopan might fal], 
As sullenly retiring from the stage. 
He mingled with the crowd. 

And now opposed 
In battle, on the Stone of Sacrifice, 
Prince Madoc and the Life-Destroyer stood. 
This clad in arms complete, free to advance 
In quick assault, or shun the threaten'd blow. 
Wielding his wonted sword ; the other, stripp'd, 
Save of that fragile shield, of all defence ; 
His weapon strange and cumbrous; and pinn'd 

down. 
Disabled from all onset, all retreat. 

With looks of greedy joy, Ocellopan 
Survey 'd his foe, and wonder'd to behold 
The breast so broad, the bare and brawny limbs, ; 
Of matchless strength. The eye of Madoc, too, 
Dwelt on his foe ; his countenance was calm. 
Something more pale than wonted ; like a man j 
Prepared to meet his death. The Azteca 
Fiercely began the fight; now here, now there, 
Aright, aleft, above, below, he wheel'd j 

The rapid sword : still Madoc 's rapid eye 
Pursued the motion, and his ready shield, 
In prompt interposition, caught the blow. 
Or turn'd its edge aside. Nor did the Prince 
Yet aim the sword to wound, but held it forth. 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



397 



Another shield, to save him, till his hand. 
Familiar with its weight and shape uncouth. 
Might wield it well to vengeance. Thus he stood, 
Baffling the impatient enemy, who now 
Wax'd wrathful, thus to waste, in idle strokes, 
Reiterate so oft, his bootless strength. 
And now yet more exasperate he grew ; 
For from the eager multitude was heard, 
Amid the din of undistinguished sounds, 
The Tiger's murmur'd name, as though they 

thought. 
Had he been on the Stone, ere this, besure, 
The Gods had tasted of their sacrifice, 
Now all too long delayed. Then fiercelier. 
And yet more rapidly, he drove the sword ; 
But still the wary Prince or met its fall. 
And broke the force, or bent him from the blow ; 
And now retiring, and advancing now, 
As one free foot permitted, still provoked. 
And baffled still the savage ; and sometimes 
With cautious strength did Madoc aim attack. 
Mastering each moment now with abler sway 
The acquainted sword. But, though as yet 

unharm'd 
In life or limb, more perilous the strife 
Grew momently ; for with repeated strokes. 
Battered and broken now, the shield hung loose ; 
And shouts of triumph from the multitude 
Arose, as piecemeal they beheld it fall, 
And saw the Prince exposed. 

That welcome sight, 
Those welcome sounds, inspired Ocellopan ; 
He felt each limb new-strung. Impatient now 
Of conquest long delay'd, with wilder rage 
He drives the weapon ; Madoc's lifted sword 
Received its edge, and shiver'd with the blow. 
A shriek of transport burst from all around ; 
For lo ! the White King, shieldless, weaponless. 
Naked before his foe ! That savage foe. 
Dallying with the delight of victory. 
Drew back a moment to enjoy the sight. 
Then yell'd in triumph, and sprang on to give 
The consummating blow. Madoc beheld 
The coming death ; he darted up his hand 
Instinctively to save, and caught the wrist 
In its mid fall, and drove with desperate force 
The splintered truncheon of his broken sword 
Full in the enemy's face. Beneath his eye 
It broke its way, and where the nasal nerves 
Branch in fine fibrils o'er their mazy seat. 
Burst through, and, slanting upward, in the brain 
Buried its jagged point. 

Madoc himself 
Stood at his fall astonished, at escape 
Unhoped, and strange success. The multitude 
Beheld, and they were silent, and they stood 
Gazing in terror. But far other thoughts 
Rose in the Tiger's heart; it was a joy 
To Tlalala ; and forth he sprung, and up 
The Stone of Sacrifice, and call'd aloud 
To bring the Prince another sword and shield. 
For his last strife. Then, in that interval, - 
Upon Ocellopan he fixed his eyes. 
Contemplating the dead, as though thereby 



To kindle in his heart a fiercer thirst 

For vengeance. Nor to Madoc was the sting 

Of anger wanting, when in Tlalala 

He knew the captive whom his mercy freed, 

The man whose ambush had that day destroyed 

Young Hoel and himself; — for sure he deem'd 

Young Hoel was with God, and he himself 

At his death day arrived. And now he grasp'd 

A second sword, and held another shield ; 

And from the Stone of Blood Ocellopan 

Was borne away ; and, fresh in arms, and fierce 

With all that makes a savage thirst for war, — 

Hope, vengeance, courage, superstitious hate, — 

A second foe came on. By this the Prince 

Could wield his weapon well; and dreading now 

Lest, in protracted combat, he might stand 

Again defenceless, he put forth his strength, 

As oft assailing as assailed, and watch'd 

So well the Tiger's motions, and received 

The Tiger's blows so warily, and aimed 

His own so fierce and fast, that in the crowd 

Doubt and alarm prevailed. Ilanquel grew 

Pale at her husband's danger ; and she clasp'd 

The infant to her breast, whom late she held 

On high, to see his victory. The throng 

Of the beholders silently look'd on ; 

And in their silence might at times be heard 

An indrawn breath of terror ; and the Priests 

Angrily murmured, that in evil hour, 

Coanocotzin had indulged the pride 

Of vaunting valor, and from certain death 

Reprieved the foe. 

But now a murmur rose 
Amid the multitude ; and they who stood 
So thickly throng'd, and with such eager eyes 
Late watch'd the fight, hastily now broke up. 
And with disorder'd speed and sudden arms. 
Ran to the city gates. More eager now. 
Conscious of what had chanced, fought Tlalala : 
And hope invigorated Madoc's heart ; 
For well he ween'd Cadwallon was at hand. 
Leading his gallant friends. Aright he ween'd; 
At hand Cadwallon was ! His gallant friends 
Came from the mountains with impetuous speed, 
To save or to revenge. Nor long endured 
The combat now : the Priests ascend the stone, 
And bid the Tiger hasten to defend 
His country and his Gods ; and, hand and foot, 
Binding the captive Prince, they bear him thence, 
And lay him in the temple. Then his heart 
Resign'd itself to death, and Madoc thought 
Of Llaian and Goervyl ; and he felt 
That death was dreadful. But not so the King 
Permitted ; but not so had Heaven decreed ; 
For noble was the King of Aztlan's heart. 
And pure his tongue from fixlsehood : he had said. 
That by the warrior's death shoiild Madoc die ; 
Nor dared the Pabas violently break 
The irrevocable word. There Madoc lay 
In solitude ; the distant battle reach'd 
His ear ; inactive and in bonds he lay, 
Expecting the dread issue, and almost 
Wish'd for the perils of the fight again. 



398 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



XV. 



THE BATTLE. 



Not unprepared Cadwallon found the sons 

Of Aztlan, nor defenceless were her walls ; 

But when the Britons' distant march was seen, 

A ready army issued from her gates, 

And dight themselves to battle : these the King 

Coanocotzin had, with timely care, 

And provident for danger, thus arrayed. 

Forth issuing from the gates, they met the foe, 

And with the sound of sonorous instruments, 

And with their shouts, and screams, and yells, 

drove back 
The Britons' fainter war-c -y, as the swell 
Of ocean, flowing onward, up its course 
Repels the river-stream. Their darts and stones 
Fell like the rain drops of the summer-shower, 
So fast, and on the helmet and the shield. 
On the strong corselet and the netted mail, 
So innocent they fell. But not in vain 
The bowmen of Deheubarth sent, that day, 
Their iron bolts abroad ; those volant deaths 
Descended on the naked multitude. 
And through the chieftain's quilted gossampine, 
Through feathery breastplate and effulgent gold. 
They reach'd the life. 

But soon no interval 
For archers' art was left, nor scope for flight 
Of stone from whirling sling : both hosts, alike 
Impatient for the proof of war, press on ; 
The Aztecas, to shun the arrowy storm, 
The Cymry, to release their Lord, or heap 
Aztlan in ruins, for his monument. 
Spear against spear, and shield to shield, and breast 
To breast, they met ; equal in force of limb, 
And strength of heart, in resolute resolve 
And stubborn effort of determined wrath : 
The few, advantaged by their iron mail ; 
The weaklier arm'd, of near retreat assured 
And succor close at hand, in tenfold troops 
Their foemen overnumbering. And of all 
That mighty multitude, did every man 
Of either host, alike inspired by all 
That stings to will and strengthens to perform. 
Then put forth all his power ; for well they knew 
Aztlan that day must triumph or must fall. 
Then sword and mace on helm and buckler rang, 
And hurtling javelins whirr'd along the sky. 
Nor when they hurled the javelin, did the sons 
Of Aztlan, prodigal of weapons, loose 
The lance, to serve them for no second stroke ; 
A line of ample measure still retain'd 
The missile shaft ; and when its blow was spent, 
Swiftly the dexterous spearman coiled the string. 
And sped again the artificer of death. 
Rattling, like summer hailstones, they descend. 
But from the Britons' iron panoply, 
Baffled and blunted, fell; nor more avail'd 
The stony falchion there, whose broken edge 
Inflicts no second wound ; nor profited, 
On the strong buckler or the crested helm. 
The knotty club; though fast, in blinding showers. 



Those javelins fly, those heavy weapons fall 
With stunning weight. Meantime, with wonted 

strength. 
The men of Gwyneth through their fenceless foes 
Those lances thrust, whose terrors had so oft 
Affrayed the Saxons, and whose home-driven 

points 
So oft had pierced the Normen's knightly arms. 
Little did then his pomp of plumes bestead 
The Azteca, or glittering pride of gold. 
Against the tempered sword ; little his casque, 
Gay with its feathery coronal, or dress'd 
In graven terrors, when the Britons' hand 
Drove in through helm and head the short-piked 

mace ; 
Or swung its iron weights with shattering sway, 
Which, where they struck, destroyed. Beneath 

those arms 
The men of Aztlan fell ; and whoso dropp'd 
Dead or disabled, him his comrades bore 
Away with instant caution, lest the sight 
Of those whom they had slaughtered might inspire 
The foe with hope and courage. Fast they fell, 
And fast were resupplied, man after man 
Succeeding to the death. Nor in the town 
Did now the sight of their slain countrymen, 
Momentarily carried in and piled in heaps. 
Awake one thought of fear. Hark ! through the 

streets 
Of Aztlan, how from house to house, and tower 
To tower, reiterate, Paynalton's name 
Calls all her sons to battle ! at whose name 
All must go forth, and follow to the field 
The Leader of the Armies of the Gods, 
Whom, in his unseen power, Mexitli now 
Sends out to lead his people. They, in crowds, 
Throng for their weapons to the House of Arms, 
Beneath their guardian Deity preserved. 
Through years of peace ; and there the Pabas stood 
Within the temple-court, and dealt around 
The ablution of the Stone of Sacrifice, 
Bidding them, with the holy beverage, 
Lnbibe diviner valor, strength of arm 
Not to be wearied, hope of victory. 
And certain faith of endless joy in Heaven, 
Their sure reward. — Oh, happy, cried the Priests, 
Your brethren who have fallen ! already they 
Have joined the company of blessed souls ; 
Already they, with song and harmony. 
And in the dance of beauty, are gone forth, 
To follow down his western path of light 
Yon Sun, the Prince of Glory, from the world 
Retiring to the Palace of his rest. 
Oh, happy they, who, for their country's cause. 
And for their Gods, shall die the brave man's 

death ! 
Them will their country consecrate with praise ! 
Them will the Gods reward ! — They heard the 

Priests 
Intoxicate, and from the gate swarmed out, 
Tumultuous, to the fight of martyrdom. 

But when Cadwallon every moment saw 
The enemies increase, and with what rage 
Of drunken valor to the fight they rush'd, 



MADOC IN AZTLAJS. 



399 



He, against that impetuous attack, 

As best he could, providing, form'd the troops 

Of Britain into one collected mass : 

Three equal sides it offered to the foe. 

Close and compact ; no multitude could break 

The condensed strength ; its narrow point 

press'd on. 
Entering the throng's resistance, like a wedge, 
Still from behind impell'd. So, thoughtthe Chief, 
Likeliest the gates of Aztlan might bo gain'd, 
And Hoel and the Prince preserved, if yet 
They were among mankind. Nor could the force 
Of hostile thousands break that strength con- 
densed. 
Against whose iron sides the stream of war 
Roll'd unavailing, as the ocean waves 
Which idly round some insulated rock 
Foam furious, warning with their silvery smoke 
The mariner far off. Nor could the point 
Of that compacted body, though it bore 
Right on the foe, and with united force 
Press'd on to enter, through the multitude 
Win now its difficult way ; as where the sea 
Pours through some strait its violent waters, swoln 
By inland fresh, vainly the oarmen there 
With all their weight and strength essay to drive 
Their galley through the pass, the stress and strain 
Availing scarce to stem the impetuous stream. 

And hark ! above the deafening din of fight 
Another shout, heard like the thunder-peal, 
Amid the war of winds ! Lincoya comes, 
Leading the mountain-dwellers. From the shock 
Aztlan recoil'd. And now a second troop 
Of Britons to the town advanced, for war 
Impatient and revenge. Cadwallon those, 
With tidings of their gallant Prince enthrall'd. 
Had summoned from the ships. That dreadful tale 
Roused them to fury. Not a man was left 
To guard the fleet ; for who could have endured 
That idle duty ? who could have endured 
The long, inactive, miserable hours, 
And hope, and expectation, and the rage 
Of maddening anguish.'' Ririd led them on} 
In whom a brother's love had call'd not up 
More spirit-stirring pain, than trembled now 
In every British heart ; so dear to all 
Was Madoc. On they came ; and Aztlan then 
Had fled appall'd ; but in that dangerous hour 
Her faith preserved her. From the gate her Priests 
Rush'd desperate out, and to the foremost rank 
Forced their wild way, and fought with martyr zeal. 
Through all the host contagious fury spread ; 
Nor had the sight that hour enabled them 
To mightier efforts, had Mexitli, clad 
In all his imaged terrors, gone before 
Their way, and driven upon his enemies 
His giant club destroying. Then more fierce 
The conflict grew; the din of arms, the yell 
Of savage rage, the shriek of agony. 
The groan of death, commingled in one sound 
Of undistinguished horrors : while the Sun, 
Retiring slow beneath the plain's far verge. 
Shed o'er the quiet hills his fading light. 



XVI. 

THE WOMEN. 

Silent and solitary is thy vale, 

Caermadoc, and how melancholy now 

That solitude and silence ! — Broad noon-day, 

And not a sound of human life is there ! 

The fisher's net, abandoned in his haste, 

Sways idly in the waters ; in the tree, 

Where its last stroke had pierced, the hatchet 

hangs : 
The birds, beside the mattock and the spade. 
Hunt in the new-turn'd mould, and fearlessly 
Fly through the cage-work of the imperfect wall ; 
Or through the vacant dwelling's open door, 
Pass and repass secure. 

In Madoc's house. 
And on his bed of reeds, Goervyl lies^ 
Her face toward the ground. She neither weeps, 
Nor sighs, nor groans ; too strong her agony 
For outward sign of anguish, and for prayer 
Too hopeless was the ill ; and though, at times. 
The pious exclamation past her lips. 
Thy will be done ! yet was that utterance 
Rather the breathing of a broken heart. 
Than of a soul resigned. Mervyn, beside, 
Hangs over his dear mistress silently, 
Having no hope or comfort to bestow, 
Nor aught but sobs and unavailing tears. 
The women of Caermadoc, like a flock 
Collected in their panic, stand around 
The house of their lost leader ; and they too 
Are mute in their despair. Llaian alone 
Is absent; wildly hath she wander'd forth 
To seek her child ; and such the general woe, 
That none hath mark'd her absence. Yet have 

they, 
Thotigh unprotected thus, no selfish fear ; 
The sudden evil had destroyed all thought, 
All sense, of present danger to themselves. 
All foresight. 

Yet new terrors ! Malinal, 
Panting with speed, bursts in, and takes the arms 
Of Madoc down. Goervyl, at that sound, 
Started in sudden hope ; but when she saw 
The Azteca, she uttered a faint scream 
Of wrongful fear, remembering not the proofs 
Of his tried truth, nor recognizing aught 
In those known features, save their hostile hue. 
But he, by worser fear abating soon 
Her vain alarm, exclaim'd, I saw a band 
Of Hoamen coming up the straits, for ill, 
Besure, for Amalahta leads them on. 
Buckle this harness on, that, being arm'd, 
I may defend the entrance. 

Scarce had she 
Fastened the breastplate with hor trembling hands, 
When, flying from the sight of men in arms, 
The women crowded in. Hastily he seized 
The shield and spear, and on the threshold took 
His stand; but,waken'd now to provident thought, 
Goervyl, following, helm'd him. There was now 



400 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



No time to gird the bauldric on ; she held 
Her brother's sword, and bade him look to her 
For prompt supply of weapons ; in herself 
Being resolved not idly to abide, 
Nor unprepared of hand or heart to meet 
The issue of the danger, nor to die 
Reluctant now. 

Rightly had they divined 
The Hoaman's felon purpose. When he heard 
The fate of Madoc, from his mother's eye 
Pie mask'd his secret joy, and took his arms. 
And to the rescue, with the foremost band. 
Set forth. But soon upon the way, he told 
The associates of his crime, that now their hour 
Of triumph was arrived • Caermadoc, left 
Defenceless, would become, with all its wealth, 
The spoiler's easy prey — raiment, and arms. 
And iron ; skins of that sweet beverage, 
Which to a sense of its own life could stir 
The joyful blood ; the women, above all. 
Whom to the forest they might bear away, 
To be their slaves, if so their pleasure was ; 
Or, yielding them to Aztlan, for such prize 
Receive a royal guerdon. Twelve there were. 
Long leagued with him in guilt, who turn'd aside : 
And they have reach' d Caermadoc now, and now 
Rush onward where they see the women fly ; 
When, on the threshold, clad in Cimbric arms, 
And with long lance protended, Malinal 
Rebuffs them from the entrance. At that sight 
Suddenly quail'd, they stood, as midnight thieves 
Who find the master waking ; but erelong, 
Gathering a boastful courage, as they saw 
No other guard, press'd forward, and essay'd 
To turn his spear aside. Its steady point. 
True to the impelling strength, held on, and thrust 
The foremost through the breast, and breath and 

blood 
Followed the re-drawn shaft. Nor seem'd the strife 
Unequal now, though, with their numbers, they 
Beleaguer'd in half-ring the door, where he, 
The sole defender, stood. From side to side 
So well and swiftly did he veer the lance. 
That every enemy beheld its point 
Aim'd at himself direct. But chief on one 
Had Malinal his deadly purpose fix'd, 
On Amalahta ; by his death to quell 
The present danger, and cut off the root 
Of many an evil, certain else to spring 
From that accursed stock. On him his eye 
Turn'd with more eager wilfulness, and dwelt 
With keener ken ; and now, with sudden step 
Bending his body on, at him he drives 
The meditated blow ; but that ill Prince, 
As chiefly sought, so chiefly fearing, swerved 
Timely aside ; and ere the Azteca 
Recovered from the frustrate aim, the spear 
Was seized, and from his hold by stress and weight 
Of numbers wrench'd. He, facing still the foe, 
And holding at arm's length the targe, put back 
His hand, and called Goervyl, and from her 
Received the sword; — in time, for the enemy 
Press'd on so near, that, having now no scope 
To raise his arm, he drove the blade straight on. 
It entered at the mouth of one who stood 



With face aslant, and glanced along the teeth 

Through to the ear, then, slivering downward, left 

llae cheek-flap dangling. He, in that same point 

Of time, as if a single impulse gave 

Birth to the double action, dash'd his shield 

Against another's head, with so fierce swing 

And sway of strength, that his third enemy 

Fell at his feet. Astounded by such proof 

Of prowess, and by unexpected loss 

Dismayed, the foe gave back, beyond the reach 

Of his strong arm ; and there awhile they stood, 

Beholding him at bay, and counselling 

How best to work their vengeance upon him, 

Their sole opponent. Soon did they behold 

The vantage, overlook'd by hasty hope. 

How vulnerable he stood, his arms and thighs 

Bare for their butt. At once they bent their bows ; 

At once ten arrows fled; seven, shot in vain. 

Rung on his shield ; but, with unhappier mark, 

Two shafts hung quivering in his leg ; a third 

Below the shoulder pierced. Then Malinal 

Groan'd, not for anguish of his wounds, but grief 

And agony of spirit ; yet resolved 

To his last gasp to guard that precious post, 

Nor longer able to endure afoot. 

He, falling on his knees, received unharm'd 

Upon the shield, now ample for defence. 

Their second shower, and still defied the foe. 

But they, now sure of conquest, hasten'd on 

To thrust him down ; and he too felt his strength 

Ebbing away. Goervyl, in that hour 

Of horror and despair, collected still. 

Caught him, and by the shoulders drew him in; 

And, calling on her comrades, with their help 

Shut to the door in time, and with their weight 

Secured it, not their strength ; for she alone, 

Found worthy of her noble ancestry, 

In this emergence felt her faculties 

All present, and heroic strength of heart. 

To cope with danger and contempt of death. 

Shame on ye, British women ! shame ! exclaira'd 

The daughter of King Owen, as she saw 

The trembling hands and bloodless countenance 

Pale as sepulchral marble ; silent some ; 

Others with womanish cries lamenting now 

That ever, in unhappy hour, they left 

Their native land; — a pardonable fear; 

For hark, the war-whoop ! sound, whereto the 

Of tigers or hyenas, heard at night [howl 

By captive from barbarian foes escaped, 

And wandering in the pathless wilderness, 

Were music. Shame on ye ! Goervyl cried ; 

Think what your fathers were, your husbands what, 

And what your sons should be ! These savages 

Seek not to wreak on ye immediate death ; 

So are ye safe, if safety such as this 

Be worth a thought ; and in the interval 

We yet may gain, by keeping to the last 

This entrance, easily to be maintain'd 

By us, though women, against foes so few ; — 

Who knows what succor chance, or timely 

thought 
Of our own friends may send, or Providence, 
Who slumbereth not .'' — While thus she spake, a 

hand 



1 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



401 



In at the window came, of one who sought 

That way to win the entrance. She drew out 

The arrow through the arm of Malinal, 

With gentle care, — the readiest weapon that, — 

And held it short above the bony barb, 

And, adding deeds to words, with all her might 

She stabbed it through the hand. The sudden 

pain 

Provoked a cry, and back the savage fell, 
Loosening his hold, and maim'd for further war. 
Nay ! leave that entrance open ! she exclaim'd 
To one who would have closed it, — who comes 

next 

Shall not go thence so cheaply ! — for she now 
Had taken up a spear to guard that way. 
Easily guarded, even by female might. 
O heart of proof! what now avails thy worth 
And excellent courage ? for the savage foe. 
With mattock and with spade, for other use 
Design'd, hew now upon the door, and rend 
The wattled sides ; and they within shrink back, 
For now it splinters through, — and lo, the way 
Is open to the spoiler ! 

Then once more, 
Collecting his last strength, did Malinal 
Rise on his knees, and over him the maid 
Stands with the ready spear, she guarding him 
Who guarded her so well. Roused to new force 
By that example d valor, and with will 
To achieve one service yet before he died, — 
If death indeed, as sure he thought, were nigh, — 
Malinal gathered up his fainting powers ; 
And reaching forward, with a blow that threw 
His body on, upon the knee he smote 
OneHoaman more, and brought him to the ground. 
The foe fell over him ; but he, prepared. 
Threw him with sudden jerk aside, and rose 
Upon one hand, and with the other plunged 
Between his ribs the mortal blade. Meantime 
Amalahta, rushing in blind eagerness 
To seize Goervyl, set at nought the power 
Of female hands, and stooping as he came. 
Beneath her spear-point, thought with lifted arm 
To turn the thrust aside. But she drew back. 
And lowered at once the spear, with aim so sure. 
That on the front it met him, and ploughed up 
The whole scalp-length. He, blinded by the blood. 
Staggered aside, escaping by that chance 
A second push, else mortal. And by this. 
The women, learning courage from despair, 
And by Goervyl's bold example fired, 
Took heart, and rushing on with one accord. 
Drove out the foe. Then took they hope ; for then 
They saw but seven remain in plight for war ; 
And, knowing their own number, in the pride 
Of strength, caught up stones, staves, or axe, or 

spear. 
To hostile use converting whatsoe'er 
The hasty hand could seize. Such fierce attack 
Confused the ruffian band ; nor had they room 
To aim the arrow, nor to speed the spear, 
Each now beset by many. But their Prince, 
Still mindful of his purport, call'd to them — 
Secure my passage while I bear away 
The White King's Sister ; having her, the law 
51 



Of peace is in our power. — And on he went 

Toward Goervyl, and, with sudden turn, 

While on another foe her eye was fix'd. 

Ran in upon her, and stoop'd down, and clasp'd 

The maid above the knees, and throwing her 

Over his shoulder, to the valley straits 

Set off"; — ill seconded in ill attempt ; 

For now his comrades are too close beset 

To aid their Chief, and Mervyn hath beheld 

His lady's peril. At the sight, inspired 

With force, as if indeed that manly garb 

Had clothed a manly heart, the Page ran on, 

And with a bill-hook striking at his ham, 

Cut the back sinews. Amalahta fell ; 

The Maid fell with him : and she first hath risen, 

While, grovelling on the earth, he gnash'd his teeth 

For agony. Yet, even in those pangs, 

Remembering still revenge, he turn'd and seized 

Goervyl's skirt, and pluck'd her to the ground, 

And roll'd himself upon her, and essayed 

To kneel upon her breast ; but she clinch'd fast 

His bloody locks, and drew him down aside. 

Faint now with anguish, and with loss of blood ; 

And Mervyn, coming to her help again. 

As once again he rose, around the neck 

Seized him, with throttling grasp, and held him 

down, — 
Strange strife and horrible, — till Malinal 
Crawl'd to the spot, and thrust into his groin 
The mortal sword of Madoc ; he himself, 
At the same moment, fainting, now no more 
By his strong will upheld, the service done. 
The few surviving traitors, at the sight 
Of their fallen Prince and Leader, now too late 
Believed that some diviner power had given 
These female arms strength for their overthrow, 
Themselves proved weak before them, as, of late, 
Their God, by Madoc crush'd. 

Away they fled 
Toward the valley straits ; but in the gorge 
Erillyab met their flight : and then her heart. 
Boding the evil, smote her, and she bade 
Her people seize, and bring them on in bonds, 
For judgment. She herself, with quicken'd pace, 
Advanced, to know the worst ; and o'er the dead 
Casting a rapid glance, she knew her son. 
She knew him by his garments, by the work 
Of her own hands ; for now his face, besmeared 
And black with gore, and stiffened in its pangs, 
Bore of the life no semblance. — God is good ! 
She cried, and closed her eyelids, and her lips 
Shook, and her countenance changed. But in her 

heart 
She quell'd the natural feeling. — Bear away 
These wretches ! to her followers she exclaim'd ; 
And root them from the earth. Then she ap- 
proach 'd 
Goervyl, who was pale and trembling now, 
Exhausted with past effort ; and she took 
Gently the maiden's tremulous hand, and said, 
God comfort thee, my Sister ! At that voice 
Of consolation, from her dreamy state, 
Goervyl to a sense of all her wod 
Awoke, and burst into a gush of tears 
God comfort thee, my Sister ! cried the Queen, 



402 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Even as He strengthens me. I would not raise 
Deceitful hope, — but in His Hand, even yet, 
The issue hangs , and He is merciful. 

Yea, daughter of Aberfraw, take thou hope ! 
For Madoc lives ! — he lives to wield the sword 
Of righteous vengeance, and accomplish all. 



XVII. 

THE DELIVERANCE. 

Madoc, meantime, in bonds and solitude, 

Lay listening to the tumult. How his heart 

Panted ! how then, with fruitless strength, he strove 

And struggled for enlargement, as the sound 

Of battle from without the city came ; 

While all things near were still, nor foot of man. 

Nor voice, in that deserted part, were heard. 

At length one light and solitary step 

Approach'd the place ; a woman cross'd the door; 

From Madoc's busy mind her image pass'd 

Quick as the form that caused it ; but not so 

Did the remembrance fly from Coatel, 

That Madoc lay in bonds. That thought possess'd 

Her soul, and made her, as she garlanded 

The fane of Coatlantona with flowers, 

Tremble in strong emotion. 

It was now 
The hour of dusk ; the Pabas all were gone. 
Gone to the battle ; — none could see her steps ; 
The gate was nigh. A momentary thought 
Shot through her ; she delay'd not to reflect. 
But hastened to the Prince, and took the knife 
Of sacrifice, which by the altar hung. 
And cut his bonds, and with an eager eye, 
Motioning haste and silence, to the gate 
She led him. Fast along the forest way. 
And fearfully, he followed to the chasm. 
She beckon'd, and descended, and drew out 
From underneath her vest, a cage, or net 
It rather might be called, so fine the twigs 
Which knit it, where, confined, two fire-flies gave 
Their lustre. By that light did Madoc first 
Behold the features of his lovely guide ; 
And through the entrance of the cavern gloom. 
He followed in full trust. 

Now have they reach'd 
The abrupt descent ; there Coatel held forth 
Her living lamp, and turning, with a smile 
Sweet as good Angels wear when they present 
Their mortal charge before the throne of Heaven, 
She show'd where little Hoel slept below. 
Poor child ! he lay upon that very spot. 
The last whereto his feet had follow'd her ; 
And, as he slept, his hand was on the bones 
Of one who years agone had perish'd there. 
There, on the place where last his wretched eyes 
Could catch the gleam of day. But when the 

voice. 
The well-known voice of Madoc wakened him, — 
His Uncle's voice, — he started, with a scream 
Which echoed thro' the cavern's winding length. 



And stretch'd his arms to reach him. Madoc 

hush'd 
The dangerous transport, raised him up the ascent, 
And followed Coatel again, whose face, 
Though tears of pleasure still were coursing down, 
Betokened fear and haste. Adown the wood 
They went; and, coasting now the lake, her eye 
First what they sought beheld, a light canoe, 
Moor'd to the bank. Then in her arms she took 
The child, and kiss'd him with maternal love. 
And placed him in the boat ; but when the Prince, 1 
With looks, and gestures, and imperfec* words, j 
Such as the look, the gesture, well explain'd, j 

Urged her to follow, doubtfully she stood : j 

A dread of danger, for the thing she had done, V| 
Came on her, and Lincoya rose to mind. ||i 

Almost she had resolved ; but then she thought 
Of her dear father, whom that flight would leave 
Alone in age ; how he would weep for her, 
As one among the dead, and to the grave 
Go sorrowing ; or, if ever it were known 
What she had dared, that on his head the weight 
Of punishment would fall. That dreadful fear 
Resolved her, and she waved her head, and raised 
Her hand, to bid the Prince depart in haste, 
With looks whose painful seriousness forbade 
All further effort. Yet unwillingly. 
And boding evil, Madoc from the shore 
Push'd off" his little boat. She on its way 
Stood gazing for a moment, lost in thought, 
Then struck into the woods. 

Swift through the lake 
Madoc's strong arm impell'd the light canoe. 
Fainter and fainter to his distant ear 
The sound of battle came ; and now the Moon 
Arose in heaven, and poured o'er lake and land 
A soft and mellowing ray. Along the shore 
Llaian was wandering with distracted steps. 
And groaning for her child. She saw the boat 
Approach ; and as on Madoc's naked limbs. 
And on his countenance, the moonbeam fell, 
And as she saw the boy in that dim light, 
It seemed as though the Spirits of the dead 
Were moving on the waters; and she stood 
With open lips that breathed not, and fix'd eyes, 
W^atching the unreal shapes : but when the boat 
Drew nigh, and Madoc landed, and she saw 
His step substantial, and the child came near, 
Unable then to move, or speak, or breathe, 
Down on the sand she sank. 

But who can tell, 
Who comprehend, her agony of joy. 
When, by the Prince's care restored to sense. 
She recognized her child, she heard the name 
Of mother from that voice, which, sare, she 

thought 
Had pour'd upon some Priest's remorseless ear 
Its last vain prayer for life ? No tear relieved 
The insupportable feeling that convulsed 
Her swelling breast. She look'd, and look'd, and 

felt 
The child, lest some delusion should have mock'd 
Her soul to madness ; then the gushing joy 
Burst forth, and with caresses and with tears 
She mingled broken prayers of thanks to Heaven. 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



403 



And now the Prince, when joy had had its 
course, 

Said to her, Knowest thou the mountain path ? 
For I would to the battle. But at that, 
A sudden damp of dread came over her. 
O leave us not ! she cried ; lest haply ill 
Should have befallen ; for 1 remember, now, 
How in the woods I spied a savage band 
Making towards Caermadoc. God forefend 
The evil that I fear ! — What ! Madoc cried. 
Were ye then left defenceless .? — She replied, 
All ran to arms : there was no time for thought, 
Nor counsel, in that sudden ill ; nor one 
Of all thy people, who could, in that hour, 
Have brook'd home-duty, when thy life or death 
Hung on the chance. 

Now God be merciful ! 
Said he ; for of Goervyl then he thought. 
And the cold sweat started at every pore. 
Give me the boy ! — he travels all too slow. 
Then in his arms he took him, and sped on. 
Suffering more painful terrors than of late 
His own near death provoked. They held their 

way 
In silence up the heights ; and, when at length 
They reached the entrance of the vale, the Prince 
Bade her remain, while he went on, to spy 
The footsteps of the spoiler. Soon he saw 
Men, in the moonlight, stretch'd upon the ground ; 
And quickening then his pace, in worst alarm, 
Along the shade, with cautious step, he moved 
Toward one, to seize his weapons : 'twas a corpse ; 
Nor whether, at the sight, to hope or fear 
Yet knew he. But anon, a steady light, 
As of a taper, seen in his own home. 
Comforted him ; and, drawing nearer now. 
He saw his sister on her knees, beside 
The rushes, ministering to a wounded man. 
Safe that the dear one lived, then back he sped 
With joyful haste, and summon'd Llaian on. 
And in loud talk advanced. Erillyab first 
Came forward at the sound; for she had faith 
To trust the voice. — They live! they live! she 

cried ; 
God hath redeem'd them ! — Nor the Maiden yet 
Believed the actual joy ; like one astound. 
Or as if struggling with a dream, she stood. 
Till he came close, and spread his arms, and call'd, 
Goervyl ! — and she fell in his embrace. 



But Madoc lingered not ; his eager soul 
Was in the war : in haste he donn'd his arms; 
And as he felt his own good sword again. 
Exulting played his heart. — Boy, he exclaim'd 
To Mervyn, arm thyself, and follow me ! 
For in this battle we shall break the power 
Of our blood-thirsty foe : and, in thine age, 
Wouldst thou not wish, when young men crowd 

around. 
To hear thee chronicle their fathers' deeds, 
Wouldst thou not wish to add, — And I, too, fought 
In that day's conflict .? 

Mervyn's cheek turn'd pale 
A moment, then, with terror all suffused. 
Grew fever-red. Nay, nay, Goervyl cried, 



He is too young for battles ! — But the Prince, 
With erring judgment, in that fear-flush' d cheek 
Beheld the glow of enterprising hope. 
And youthful courage. I was such a boy. 
Sister ! he cried, at Counsyllt ; and that day. 
In my first field, with stripling arm, smote down 
Many a tall Saxon. Saidst thou not but now, 
How bravely, in the fight of yesterday. 
He flesh'd his sword, — and wouldst thou keep 

him here. 
And rob him of his glory ^ See his cheek ! 
How it hath crimson'd at the unworthy thought ! 
Arm ! arm ! and to the battle I 

How her heart 
Then panted ! how, w^ith late regret, and vain, 
Senena wished Goervyl then had heard 
The secret, trembling on her lips so oft. 
So oft by shame withheld. She thought that now 
She could have fallen upon her Lady's neck. 
And told her all ; but when she saw the Prince, 
Imperious shame forbade her, and she felt 
It were an easier thing to die than speak. 
Avail'd not now regret or female fear ! 
She mail'd her delicate limbs ; beneath the plate 
Compress'd her bosom; on her golden locks 
The helmet's overheavy load she placed ; 
Hung from her neck the shield ; and, though the 

sword. 
Which swung beside her, lightest she had chosen, 
Though in her hand she held the slenderest spear, 
Alike unwieldy for the maiden's grasp. 
The sword and ashen lance. But as she touch'd 
The murderous point, an icy shudder ran 
Through every fibre of her trembling frame ; 
And, overcome by woma.nly terror, then. 
The damsel to Goervyl turn'd, and let 
The breastplate fall, and on her bosom placed 
The Lady's hand, and hid her face, and cried, 
Save me ! The warrior, who beheld the act. 
And heard not the low voice, with angry eye 
Glow'd on the seemly boy of feeble heart. 
But, in Goervyl, joy had overpower'd 
The wonder ; joy, to find the boy she loved 
Was one to whom her heart with closer love 
Might cling ; and to her brother she exclaim'd, 
She must not go ! We women in the war 
Have done our parts. 

A moment Madoc dwelt 
On the false Mervyn, with an eye from whence 
Displeasure did not wholly pass away. 
Nor loitering to resolve Love's riddle now, 
To Malinal he turn'd, where on his couch 
The wounded youth was laid — True friend, said he, 
And brother mine, — for truly by that name 
I trust to greet thee, — if in tliis near fight. 
My hour should overtake me, — as who knows 
The lot of war ^ — Goervyl hath my charge 
To quite thee for thy service with herself; 
That so thou mayest raise up seed to me 
Of mine own blood, who may inherit here 
The obedience of thy people and of mine — 
Malinal took his hand, and to his lips 
Feebly he press'd it, saying, One boon more. 
Father and friend, 1 ask ! — if thou shouldst meet 
Yuhidthiton in battle, think of me 



404 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



XVIII. 

THE VICTORY. 

Merciful God ! how horrible is night 

Upon the plain of Aztlan ! there the shout 

Of battle, the barbarian yell, the bray 

Of dissonant instruments, the clang of arms, 

The shriek of agony, the groan of death, 

In one wild uproar and continuous din. 

Shake the still air ; while, overhead, the Moon, 

Regardless of the stir of this low world. 

Holds on her heavenly way. Still unallay'd 

By slaughter raged the battle, unrelax'd 

By lengthened toil ; anger supplying still 

Strength undiminish'd for the desperate strife. 

And lo ! where, yonder, on the temple top. 

Blazing aloft, the sacrificial fire, 

Scene more accurst and hideous than the war, 

Displays to all the vale ; for whosoe'er 

That night the Aztecas could bear away, 

Hoaman or Briton, thither was he borne ; 

And as they stretch'd him on the stone of blood, 

Did the huge tambour of the God, with voice 

Loud as the thunder-peal, and heard as far, 

Proclaim the act of death, more visible 

Than in broad day-light, by those midnight fires 

Distinctlier seen. Sight that with horror fill'd 

The Cymry, and to mightier efforts roused. 

Howbeit, this abhorred idolatry 

Work'd for their safety; the deluded foes. 

Obstinate in their faith, forbearing still 

The mortal stroke, that they might to the God 

Present the living victim, and to him 

Let the life flow. 

And now the orient sky 
Glow'd with the ruddy morning, when the Prince 
Came to the field. He lifted up his voice, 
And shouted, Madoc ! Madoc ! They who heard 
The cry, astonish'd, turn'd ; and when they saw 
The countenance his open helm disclosed. 
They echoed, Madoc ! Madoc ! Through the host 
Spread the miraculous joy — He lives ! he lives ! 
He comes himself in arms ! — Lincoya heard. 
As he had raised his arm to strike a foe. 
And stay'd the stroke, and thrust him off, and cried. 
Go tell the tidings to thy countrymen, 
Madoc is in the war ! Tell them his God 
Hath set the White King free ! Astonishment 
Seized on the Azteca ; on all who heard. 
Amazement and dismay ; and Madoc now 
Stood in the foremost battle, and his sword — 
His own good sword — flash'd like the sudden 

death 
Of lightning in their eyes. 

The King of Aztlan 
Heard and beheld, and in his noble heart 
Heroic hope arose. Forward he moved, 
And in the shock of battle, front to front, 
Encountered Madoc. A strong-statured man 
Coanocotzin stood, one well who knew 
The ways of war, and never yet in fight 
Had found an equal foe. Adown his back 
Hung the long robe of feathered royalty ; 



Gold fenced his arms and legs ; upon his helm 
A sculptured snake protends the arrowy tongue ; 
Around a coronal of plumes arose. 
Brighter than beam the rainbow hues of light, 
Or than the evening glories which the sun 
Slants o'er the moving, many-color'd sea — 
Such their surpassing beauty ; bells of gold 
Emboss'd his glittering helmet, and where'er 
Their sound was heard, there lay the press of war, 
And Death was busiest there. Over the breast 
And o'er the golden breastplate of the King, 
A feathery cuirass, beautiful to eye. 
Light as the robe of peace, yet strong to save ; 
For the sharp falchion's baffled edge would glide 
From its smooth softness. On his arm he held 
A buckler overlaid with beaten gold ; 
And so he stood, guarding his thighs and legs, 
His breast and shoulders also, with the length 
Of his broad shield. 

Opposed, in mail complete, 
Stood Madoc in his strength. The flexile chains 
Gave play to his full muscles, and displayed 
How broad his shoulders, and his ample breast. 
Small was his shield, there broadest where it fenced 
The well of life, and gradual to a point 
Lessening, steel-strong, and wieldy in his grasp. 
It bore those blazoned eaglets, at whose sight, 
Along the Marches, or where holy Dee 
Through Cestrian pastures rolls his tamer stream, 
So oft the yeoman had, in days of yore. 
Cursing his perilous tenure, wound the horn, 
And warden from the castle-tower rung out 
The loud alarum-bell, heard far and wide. 
Upon his helm no sculptured dragon sat, 
Sat no fantastic terrors ; a white plume 
Nodded above, far-seen, floating like foam 
Upon the stream of battle, always where 
The tide ran strongest. Man to man opposed. 
The Sea Lord and the King of Aztlan stood. 

Fast on the intervening buckler fell 
The Azteca's stone falchion. Who hath watch'd 
The midnight lightnings of the summer storm. 
That with their awful blaze irradiate heaven. 
Then leave a blacker night .? So quick, so fierce, 
Flash'd Madoc's sword, which, like the serpent's 

tongue. 
Seemed double, in its rapid whirl of light. 
Unequal arms ! for on the British shield 
Avail'd not the stone falchion's brittle edge, 
And in the golden buckler, Madoc's sword 
Bit deep. Coanocotzin saw, and dropp'd 
The unprofitable weapon, and received [force, 
His ponderous club, — that club, beneath whose 
Driven by his father's arm, Tepollomi 
Had fallen subdued, — and fast and fierce he drove 
The massy weight on Madoc. From his shield, 
The deadening force communicated ran 
Up his stunn'd arm; anon, upon his helm. 
Crashing, it came ; — his eyes shot fire, his brain 
Swam dizzy, — he recoils, — he reels, — again 
The club descends. 

That danger to himself 
Recall'd the Lord of Ocean. On he sprung. 
Within the falling weapon's curve of death. 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



405 



Shunning its frustrate aim, and breast to breast 
He grappled with the King. The phant mail 
Bent to his straining limbs, while plates of gold, 
The feathery robe, the buckler's amplitude, 
Cumbered the Azteca, and from his arm, 
Clinch'd in the Briton's mighty grasp, at once 
He dropp'd the impeding buckler, and let fall 
The unfastened club; which when the Prince 

beheld, 
He thrust him off, and drawing back, resumed 
The sword that from his wrist suspended hung, 
And twice he smote the King; twice from the quilt 
Of plumes the iron glides ; and lo ! the King — 
So well his soldiers watch their monarch's need — 
Shakes in his hand a spear. 

But now a cry 
Burst on the ear of Madoc, and he saw 
Through opening ranks, where Urien was convey 'd, 
A captive, to his death. Grief, then, and shame, 
And rage, inspired him. With a mighty blow 
He cleft Coanocotzin's helm ; exposed 
The monarch stood ; — again the thunder-stroke 
Came on him, and he fell. — The multitude, 
Forgetful of their country and themselves. 
Crowd round theirdying King. Madoc, whose eye 
Still follow'd Urien, call'd upon his men, 
And through the broken army of the foe, 
Press'd to his rescue. 

But far off the old man 
Was borne with furious speed. Ririd alone 
Pursued his path, and through the thick of war 
Close on the captors, with avenging sword, 
Follow'd right on, and through the multitude, 
And through the gate of Aztlan, made his way. 
And through the streets, till from the temple-mound. 
The press of Pabas and the populace 
Repell'd him, while the old man was hurried up. 
Hark ! that infernal tambou.r ! o'er the lake 
Its long, loud thunders roll, and through the hills. 
Awakening all their echoes. Ye accurs'd. 
Ye blow the fall too soon ! Ye Dogs of Hell, 
The Hart is yet at bay ! — Thus long the old man. 
As one exhausted or resign'd, had lain, 
Resisting not ; but at that knell of death, 
Springing with unexpected force, he freed 
His feet, and shook the Pabas from their hold, 
And, with his armed hand, between the eyes 
Smote one so sternly, that to earth he fell. 
Bleeding, and all astound. A man of proof 
Was Urien in his day, thought worthiest. 
In martial thewes and manly discipline. 
To train the sons of Owen. He had lost 
Youth's supple sleight ; yet still the skill remain'd, 
And in his stifFen'd limbs a strength, which yet 
Might put the young to shame. And now he set 
His back against the altar, resolute 
Not as a victim by the knife to die, 
But in the act of battle, as became 
A man grown gray in arms ; and in his heart 
There was a living hope ; for now he knew 
That Madoc lived, nor could the struggle long 
Endure against that arm. 

Soon was the way 
Laid open by the sword ; for side by side 
The brethren of Aberfraw mow'd their path ; 



And, following close, the Cymry drive along, 

Till on the summit of the mound their cry 

Of victory rings aloud. The temple floor, 

So often which had reek'd with innocent blood, 

Reeks now with righteous slaughter. Franticly, 

In the wild fury of their desperate zeal. 

The Priests crowd round the God, and with their 

knives 
Hack at the foe, and call on him to save ; — 
At the Altar, at the Idol's feet they fall. 
Nor with less frenzy did the multitude 
Flock to defend their God. Fast as they fell, 
New victims rush'd upon the British sword ; 
And sure that day had rooted from the earth 
The Aztecas, and on their conquerors drawn 
Promiscuous ruin, had not Madoc now 
Beheld from whence the fearless ardor sprang ; — 
They saw Mexitli ; momently they hoped 
That he would rise in vengeance. Madoc seized 
A massy club, and from his azure throne 
Shattered the giant idol. 

At that sight 
The men of Aztlan pause ; so was their pause 
Dreadful, as when a multitude expect [saw 

The Earthquake's second shock. But when they 
Earth did not open, nor the temple fall. 
To crush their impious enemies, dismay'd, 
They felt themselves forsaken by their Gods ; 
Then from their temples and their homes they fled, 
And, leaving Aztlan to the conqueror, 
Sought the near city, whither they had sent 
Their women, timely saved. 

' But Tlalala, 
With growing fury as the danger grew, 
Raged in the battle ; but Yuhidthiton 
Still with calm courage, till no hope remain'd, 
Fronted the rushing foe. When all was vain. 
When back within the gate Cadwallon's force 
Resistless had compell'd them, then the Chief 
Call'd on the Tiger — Let us bear from hence 
The dead Ocellopan, the slaughter'd King ; 
Not to the Strangers should their bones be left, 
O Tlalala ! — The Tiger wept with rage. 
With generous anger. To the place of death. 
Where, side by side, the noble dead were stretch'd, 
They fought their way. Eight warriors join'd their 

shields ; 
On these — a bier which well beseem'd the dead — 
The lifeless Chiefs were laid. Yuhidthiton 
Call'd on the people — Men of Aztlan ! yet 
One effort more ! Bear hence Ocellopan ; 
Bear hence the body of your noble King ! 
Not to the Strangers should their bones be left ! 
That whoso heard, with wailing and loud cries, 
Press'd round the body-bearers ; few indeed, 
For few were they who in that fearful hour 
Had ears to hear, — but with a holy zeal. 
Careless of death, around the bier they ranged 
Their bulwark breasts. So toward the farther gate 
They held their steady way, while outermost. 
In unabated valor, Tlalala 
Faced, with Yuhidthiton, the foe's pursuit. 
Vain valor then, and fatal piety, 
As the fierce conquerors bore on their retreat. 
If Madoc had not seen their perilous strife : 



406 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Remembering Malinal, and in his heart 
Honoring a gallant foe, he call'd aloud, 
And bade his people cease the hot pursuit. 
So, through the city gate, they bore away 
The dead; and, last of all their countrymen, 
Leaving their homes and temples to the foe, 
Yuhidthiton and Tlalala retired. 



XIX. 
THE FUNERAL. 

Southward of Aztlan stood, beside the Lake, 
A city of the Aztecas, by name 
Patamba. Thither, from the first alarm. 
The women and infirm old men were sent, 
And children : thither they who from the fight, 
And from the fall of Aztlan, had escaped. 
In scattered bands, repair'd. Their City lost. 
Their Monarch slain, their Idols overthrown, — ■ 
These tidings spread dismay ; but to dismay 
Succeeded horror soon, and kindling rage ; 
Horror, by each new circumstance increased, 
By numbers, rage imbolden'd. Lo ! to the town. 
Lamenting loud, a numerous train approach, 
Like mountain torrents, swelling as they go. 
Borne in the midst, upon the bier of shields. 
The noble dead were seen. To tenfold grief 
That spectacle provoked, to tenfold v/rath 
That anguish stung them. With their yells and 

groans 
Curses are mix'd, and threats, and bitter vows 
Of vengeance full and speedy. From the wreck 
Of Aztlan who is saved.'' Tezozomoc, 
Chief servant of the Gods, their favored Priest, 
The voice by whom they speak ; young Tlalala, 
Whom even defeat with fresher glory crowns; 
And full of fame, their country's rock of strength, 
Yuhidthiton : him to their sovereign slain 
Allied in blood, mature in wisdom him, 
Of valor unsurpassable, by all 
Beloved and honor' d, him the general voice 
Acclaims their King ; him they demand, to lead 
Their gathered force to battle, to revenge 
Their Lord, their Gods, their kinsmen, to redeem 
Their altars and their country. 

But the dead 
First from the nation's gratitude require 
The rites of death. On mats of mountain palm. 
Wrought of rare texture and of richest hues, 
The slaughter'd warriors, side by side, were laid ; 
Their bodies wrapp'd in many-color'd robes 
Of gossampine, bedeck'd with gems and gold. 
The livid paleness of the countenance, 
A mask conceal'd, and hid their ghastly wounds. 
The Pabas stood around, and one by one, 
Placed in their hands the sacred aloe leaves, 
With mystic forms and characters inscribed ; 
And as each leaf was given, Tezozomoc 
Address'd the dead — So may ye safely pass 
Between the mountains, which in endless war 
Hurtle, with horrible uproar, and frush 
Of rocks that meet in battle. Arm'd with this, 



In safety shall ye walk along the road, 
Where the Great Serpent from his lurid eyes 
Shoots lightning, and across the guarded way 
Vibrates his tongue of fire. Receive the third, 
And cross the waters where the Crocodile 
In vain expects his prey. Your passport this 
Through the Eight Deserts; through the Eighti 

Hills this; 
And this be your defence against the Wind, 
Whose fury sweeps like dust the uprooted rocks, 
Whose keenness cuts the soul. Ye noble Dead, 
Protected with these potent amulets. 
Soon shall your Spirits reach triumphantly 
The Palace of the Sun I 

The funeral train 
Moved to Mexitli's temple. First on high 
The noble dead were borne ; in loud lament 
Then follow'd all by blood allied to them, 
Or by affection's voluntary ties 
Attach'd more closely, brethren, kinsmen, wives., 
The Peers of Aztlan, all who from the sword 
Of Britain had escaped, honoring the rites, 
Came clad in rich array, and bore the arms 
And ensigns ot the dead. The slaves went last, 
And dwarfs, the pastime of the living chiefs, 
In life their sport and mockery, and in death 
Their victims. Wailing and with funeral hymns. 
The long procession moved. Mexitli's Priest, Jj 
With all his servants, from the temple-gate 1 

Advanced to meet the train. Two piles were built 
Within the sacred court, of odorous wood. 
And rich with gums ; on these, with all their robes, 
Their ensigns, and their arms, they laid the dead, 
Then lit the pile. The rapid light ran up ; J 

Up flamed the fire ; and o'er the darken'd sky 1 
Sweet clouds of incense curl'd. 

The Pabas then 
Perform'd their bloody office. First they slew 
The women whom the slaughter'd most had loved, 
Who most had loved the dead. Silent they went 
Toward the fatal stone, resisting not. 
Nor sorrowing, nor dismay'd, but, as it seem'd, 
Stunn'd, senseless. One alone there was, whose 

cheek 
Was flush'd, whose eye was animate with fire : 
Her most in life Coanocotzin prized. 
By ten years' love endear'd, his counsellor, 
His friend, the partner of his secret thoughts; 
Such had she been, such merited to be. 
She, as she bared her bosom to the knife, 
Call'd on Yuhidthiton — Take heed, O King! 
Aloud she cried, and pointed to the Priests; 
Beware these wicked men ! they to the war 
Forced my dead Lord — Thou knowest, and I know. 
He loved the Strangers ; that his noble mind, 
Enlighten'd by their lore, had willingly 
Put down these cursed altars ! — As she spake, 
They dragg'd her to the stone. — Nay ! nay ! she 

cried. 
There needs not force ! I go to join my Lord ! 
His blood and mine be on 370U ! — Ere she ceased, 
The knife was in her breast. Tezozomoc, 
Trembling with rage, held up toward the Sun 
Her reeking heart. 

The dwarfs and slaves died last 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



407 



That bloody office done, they gathered up 
The ashes of the dead, and coffer 'd them 
Apart ; the teeth with them, which unconsumed 
Among the ashes lay, a single lock 
Shorn from the corpse, and his lip-emerald, 
Now held to be the Spirit's flawless heart. 
In better worlds. The Priest then held on high 
iThe little ark which shrined his last remains, 
I And call'd upon the people ; — Aztecas, 
I This was your King, the bountiful, the brave, 
Coanocotzin ! Men of Aztlan, hold 
His memory holy ! learn from him to love 
Your country and your Gods ; for them to live 
Like him, like him to die. So from yon Heaven, 
Where in the Spring of Light his Spirit bathes, 
Often shall he descend ; hover above 
On evening clouds, or plumed with rainbow wings. 
Sip honey from the flowers, and warble joy. 
Honor his memory ! emulate his worth ! 
So saying, in the temple-tower he laid 
The relics of the King. 

These duties done. 
The living claim their care. His birth, his deeds. 
The general love, the general voice, have mark'd 
Yuhidthiton for King. Bareheaded, bare 
lOf foot, of limb, scarfed only round the loins, 
iThe Chieftain to Mexitli's temple moved. 
And knelt before the God. Tezozomoc 
King over Aztlan there anointed him, 
And over him, from hallowed cedar-branch, 
Sprinkled the holy water. Then the Priest 
In a black garment robed him, figured white 
With skulls and bones, a garb to emblem war, 
Slaughter, and ruin, his imperial tasks. 
Next in his hand the Priest a censer placed ; 
And while he knelt, directing to the God 
The steaming incense, thus address'd the King : 
IChosen by the people, by the Gods approved. 
Swear to protect thy subjects, to maintain 
'The worship of thy fathers, to observe 
Their laws, to make the Sun pursue his course, 
The clouds descend in rain, the rivers hold 
Their wonted channels, and the fruits of earth 
To ripen in their season ; Swear, O King ! 
And prosper, as thou boldest good thine oath. 
He raised his voice, and swore. Then on his brow 
Tezozomoc the crown of Aztlan placed ; 
And in the robe of emblem'd royalty, 
Preceded by the golden wands of state, 
Yuhidthiton went forth, anointed King. 



XX. 

THE DEATH OF COATEL. 

When now the multitude beheld their King, 
In gratulations of reiterate joy 
They shout his name, and bid him lead them on 
To vengeance. But to answer that appeal 
Tezozomoc advanced. — Oh! go not forth, 
Cried the Chief Paba, till the land be purged 
From her offence ! No God will lead ye on, 
While there is guilt in Aztlan. Let the Priests 



Who from the ruined city have escaped. 
And all who in her temples have perform'd 
The ennobling service of her injured Gods, 
Gather together now. 

He spake ; the train 
Assembled, priests and matrons, youths and maids. 
Servants of Heaven ! aloud the Arch-Priest began, 
The Gods had favor'd Aztlan; bound for death 
The White King lay : our countrymen were strong 
In battle, and the conquest had been ours, — 
I speak not from myself, but as the Powers, 
Whose voice on earth I am, impel the truth, — 
The conquest had been ours ; but treason lurk'd 
In Aztlan, treason and foul sacrilege ; 
And therefore were her children in the hour 
Of need abandon'd ; therefore were her youth 
Cut down, her altars therefore overthrown. 
The White King, whom ye saw upon the Stone 
Of Sacrifice, and whom ye held in bonds. 
Stood in the foremost fight and slew your Lord. 
Not by a God, O Aztecas, enlarged 
Broke he his bondage ! by a mortal hand. 
An impious, sacrilegious, traitorous hand, 
Your city was betray'd, your King was slain, 
Your shrines polluted. The insulted Power, 
He who is terrible, beheld the deed; 
And now he calls for vengeance. 

Stern he spake, 
And from Mexitli's altar bade the Priest 
Bring forth the sacred water. In his hand 
He took the vase, and held it up, and cried, 
Accurs'd be he who did this deed ! Accurs'd 
The father who begat him, and the breast 
At which he fed ! Death be his portion now, 
Eternal infamy his lot on earth, 
His doom eternal horrors ! Let his name, 
From sire to son, be in the people's mouth. 
Through every generation ! Let a curse 
Of deep, and pious, and effectual hate, 
Forever follow the detested name ; 
And every curse inflict upon his soul 
A stab of mortal anguish. 

Then he gave 
The vase. — Drink one by one ! the innocent 
Boldly; on them the water hath no power; 
But let the guilty tremble ! it shall flow 
A draught of agony and death to him, 
A stream of fiery poison. 

Coatel ! 
What were thy horrors when the fatal vase 
Pass'd to thy trial, — when Tezozomoc 
Fixed his keen eye on thee ! A deathiness 
Came over her, — her blood ran back, — her joints 
Shook like the palsy, and the dreadful cup 
Dropp'd from her conscious hold. The Priest ex- 
claim' d. 
The hand of God ! the avenger manifest ! 
Drag her to the altar ! — At that sound of death, 
The life forsook her limbs, and down she fell, 
Senseless. They dragg'd her to the Stone of Blood, 
All senseless as she lay ; — in that dread hour 
Nature was kind. 

Tezozomoc then cried, 
Bring forth the kindred of this wretch accursed. 
That none pollute the earth ! An aged Priest 



408 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Came forth, and answered, There is none but I, 
The father of the dead. 

To death Avith him ! 
Exclaim'd Tezozomoc; to death with him; 
And purify the nation ! — But the King 
Permitted not that crime. — Chief of the Priests, 
If he be guilty, let the guilty bleed, 
Said he ; but never, while 1 live and reign, 
The innocent shall suffer. Hear him speak ! 

Hear me ! the old man replied. That fatal day 
I never saw my child. At morn she left 
The city, seeking flowers to dress the shrine 
Of Coatlantona; and that at eve 
I stood among the Pabas in the gate. 
Blessing our soldiers, as they issued out. 
Let them who saw bear witness. — Two came forth. 
And testified Aculhua spake the words 
Of truth. 

Full well I know, the old man pursued, 
My daughter loved the Strangers, — that her heart 
Was not with Aztlan ; but not 1 the cause ! 
Ye all remember how the Maid was given, — 
She being, in truth, of ail our Maids the flower, — 
In spousals to Lincoya, him who fled 
From sacrifice. It was a misery 
For me to see my only child condemn'd 
In early widowhood to waste her youth, — 
My only, and my beautifulest girl ! 
Chief of the Priests, you order'd; I obey'd. 
Not mine the fault, if, when Lincoya fled, 
And fought among the enemies, her heart 
Was with her husband. 

He is innocent ! 
He shall not die ! Yuhidthiton exclaim'd. 
Nay, King Yuhidthiton ! Aculhua cried, 
I merit death. My country overthrown. 
My daughter slain, alike demand on me 
That justice. When her years of ministry, 
Vow'd to the temple, had expired, my love. 
My selfish love, still suffer'd her to give 
Her youth to me, by filial piety 
In widowhood detain'd. That selfish crime 
Heavily, — heavily, — do I expiate ! 
But I am old ; and she was all to me. 
O King Yuhidthiton, I ask for death ; 
In mercy, let me die ! cruel it were 
To bid me waste away alone in age. 
By the slow pain of grief. — Give me tlie knife 
Which pierced my daughter's bosom ! 

The old man 
Moved to the altar ; none opposed his way ; 
With a firm hand he buried in his heart 
The reeking flint, and fell upon his child. 



XXI. 



THE SPORTS. 



A TRANSITORY gloom that sight of death 
Impressed upon the assembled multitude ; 
But soon the brute and unreflecting crew 
Turn'd to their sports. Some bare their olive limbs, 



And in the race contend ; with hopes and fears 
Which rouse to rage, some urge the mimic war. 
Here one upon his ample shoulders bears 
A comrade's weight, upon whose head a third 
Stands poised, like Mercury in act to fly. 
Two others balance here on their shoulders 
A bifork'd beam, while on its height a third 
To nimble cadence shifts his glancing feet. 
And shakes a plume aloft, and wheels around 
A wreath of bells with modulating sway. i 

Here round a lofty mast the dancers move 
Quick, to quick music ; from its top aflix'd, 
Each holds a colored cord, and as they weave 
The complex crossings of the mazy dance, 
The checker'd network twists around the tree 
Its intertexture of harmonious hues. 

But now a shout went forth ; the Fliers mount, 
And from all meaner sports the multitude 
Flock to their favorite pastime. In the ground. 
Branchless and bark'd, the trunk of some tall nine 
Is planted ; near its summit a square frame ; 
Four cords pass through the perforated square, 
And fifty times and twice around the tree, 
A mystic number, are entwined above. 
Four Aztecas, equipp'd with wings, ascend. 
And round them bind the ropes ; anon they wave 
Their pinions, and upborne on spreading plumes, 
Launch on the air, and wheel in circling flight, 
The lengthening cords untwisting as they fly. j 
A fifth above, upon the perilous point ! 

Dances, and shakes a flag; and on the frame. 
Others the while maintain their giddy stand, ' 
Till now, with many a round, the wheeling cords ; 
Draw near their utmost length, and toward the: 

ground 
The aerial circlers speed ; then down the ropes 
They spring, and on their way from line to line 
Pass, while the shouting multitude endure 
A shuddering admiration. 

On such sports, 
Their feelings centred in the joy of sight. 
The multitude stood gazing, when a man, 
Breathless, and with broad eyes, came running onr 
His pale lips trembling, and his bloodless cheek 
Like one who meets a lion in his path. 
The fire ! the fire ! the temple ! he exclaim'd ; 
Mexitli ! — They, astonish'd at his words. 
Hasten toward the wonder, — and behold ! 
The inner fane is sheeted white with fire. 
Dumb with affright they stood ; the inquiring Kinj: 
Look'd to Tezozomoc; the Priest replied, 
I go ! the Gods protect me ; — and therewith 
He entered boldly in the house of flame. 
But instant bounding with inebriate joy. 
He issues forth — The God ! the God ! he cries", 
Joy! — joy! — the God! — the visible hand oil 

Heaven ! 
Repressing then his transport — Ye all know 
How that in Aztlan Madoc's impious hand 
Destroyed Mexitli's image ; — it is here. 
Unbroken, and the same ! — Toward the gate 
They press; they see the Giant Idol there, 
The serpent girding him, his neck with hearts 
Beaded, and in his hand the club, — even such 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



409 



As oft in Aztlan, on his azure throne, 

They had adored the God, they see him now, 

Unbroken and the same ! — Again the Priest 

Enter'd; again a second joy inspired 

To frenzy all around ; — for forth he came. 

Shouting with new delight, — for in his hand 

The banner of the nation he upheld, 

That banner to their fathers sent from Heaven, 

By them abandoned to the conqueror. 

He motion'd silence, and the crowd were still. 
People of Aztlan ! he began, when first 
Your fathers from their native land went forth. 
In search of better seats, this banner came 
From Heaven. The Famine and the Pestilence 
Had been among them ; in their hearts the spring 
Of courage was dried up : with midnight fires 
Radiate, by midnight thunders heralded, 
This banner came from Heaven ; and with it came 
Health, valor, victory. Aztecas ! again 
t The God restores the blessing. To the God 
I Move now in solemn dance of grateful joy ; 
Exalt for him the song. 

They form'd the dance. 
They raised the hymn, and sung Mexitli's praise. 
Glory to thee, the Great, the Terrible, 
Mexitli, guardian God ! — From whence art thou, 
O Son of Mystery ? From whence art thou. 
Whose sire thy Mother knew not.? She at eve 
Walk'd in the temple court, and saw from heaven 
A plume descend, as bright and beautiful. 
As if some spirit had imbodied there 
The rainbow hues, or dipp'd it in the light 
Of setting suns. To her it floated down ; 
She placed it in her bosom, to bedeck 
The altar of the God ; she sought it there ; 
Amazed she found it not ; amazed she felt 
Another life infused. — From whence art thou, 
O Son of Mystery ? From whence art thou. 
Whose sire thy Mother knew not ? 

Grief was hers, 
Wonder and grief, for life was in her womb. 
And her stern children with revengeful eyes 
Beheld their mother's shame. She saw their 

frowns, 
She knew their plots of blood. Where shall she 

look 

For succor, when her sons conspire her death ? 
Where hope for comfort, when her daughter whets 
The impious knife of murder.'' — From her womb 
The voice of comfort came, the timely aid : 
Already at her breast the blow was aim'd. 
When forth Mexitli leap'd, and in his hand 
The angry spear, to punish and to save. 
Glory to thee, the Great, the Terrible, 
Mexitli, guardian God ! 

Arise and save, 
Mexitli, save thy people ! Dreadful one, 
Arise, redeem thy city, and revenge ! 
An impious, an impenetrable foe. 
Hath blacken' d thine own altars with the blood 
Of thine own priests ; hath dash'd thine Image 

down, 
[n vain did valor's naked breast oppose 
Their mighty arms ; in vain the feeble sword 
52 



On their impenetrable mail was driven. 
Not against thee. Avenger, shall those arms 
Avail, nor that impenetrable mail 
Resist the fiery arrows of thy wrath. 



XXII. 
THE DEATH OF LINCOYA. 

Aztlan, meantime, presents a hideous scene 
Of slaughter. The hot sunbeam, in her streets, 
Parch'd the blood pools ; the slain were heap'd in 

hills ; 
The victors, stretch'd in every little shade. 
With unhelm'd heads, reclining on their shields, 
Slept the deep sleep of weariness. Erelong, 
To needful labor rising, from the gates 
They drag the dead ; and with united toil, 
They dig upon the plain the general grave. 
The grave of thousands, deep, and wide, and long. 
Ten such they delved, and o'er the multitudes 
Who levell'd with the plain the deep-dug pits, 
Ten monumental hills they heap'd on high. 
Next, horror heightening joy, they overthrew 
The skull-built towers, the files of human heads, 
And earth to earth consign 'd them. To the flames 
They cast the idols, and upon the wind 
Scatter'd their ashes; then the temples fell. 
Whose black and putrid walls were scaled with 

blood. 
And not one stone of those accursed piles 
Was on another left. 

Victorious thus 
In Aztlan, it behoved the Cymry now 
There to collect their strength, and there await, 
Or thence with centred numbers urge, the war. 
For this was Ririd missioned to the ships ; 
For this Lincoya from the hills invites 
Erillyab and her tribe. There did not breathe, 
On this wide world a happier man that day 
Than young Lincoya, when from their retreat 
He bade his countrymen come repossess 
The land of their forefathers ; proud at heart 
To think how great a part himself had borne 
In their revenge, and that beloved one. 
The gentle savior of the Prince, whom well 
He knew his own dear love, and for the deed 
Still dearer loved the dearest. Round the youth, 
Women and children, the infirm and old. 
Gather to hear his tale ; and as they stood 
With eyes of steady wonder, outstretch'd necks, 
And open lips of listening eagerness. 
Fast play'd the tide of triumph in his veins, 
Flush'dhis brown cheek, and kindled his dark eye. 

And now, reposing from his toil awhile, 
Lincoya, on a crag above the straits. 
Sat underneath a tree, whose twinkling leaves 
Sung to the gale at noon. Ayayaca 
Sat by him in the shade ; the old man had loved 
The youth beside him from his boyhood up. 
And still would call him boy. They sat and watch'd 



410 



MADOC IN AZTLAM, 



The laden bisons winding down the way, 
The multitude who now with joy forsook 
Their desolated dwellings ; and their talk 
Was of the days of sorrow, when they groan'd 
Beneath the intolerable yoke, till sent 
By the Great Spirit o'er the pathless deep 
Prince Madoc the Deliverer came to save. 
As thus they communed, came a woman up, 
Seeking Lincoya ; 'twas Aculhua's slave. 
The nurse of Coatel. Her wretched eye, 
Her pale and livid countenance, foretold 
Some tale of misery, and his life-blood ebb'd 
In ominous fear. But when he heard her words 
Of death, he seized the lance, and raised his arm 
To strike the blow of comfort. 

The old man 
Caught his uplifted hand — O'erhasty boy. 
Quoth he, regain her yet, if she was dear ! 
Seek thy beloved in the Land of Souls, 
And beg her from the Gods. The Gods will hear, 
And, in just recompense of love so true, 
Restore their charge. 

The miserable youth 
Turned at his words a hesitating eye. 
I knew a prisoner, — so the old man pursued. 
Or hoping to beguile the youth's despair 
With tales tliat suited the despair of youth. 
Or credulous himself of what he told, — 
I knew a prisoner once who welcomed death 
With merriment, and songs, and joy of heart, 
Because, he said, the friends whom he loved best 
Were gone before him to the Land of Souls ; 
Nor would they, to resume their mortal state. 
Even when the Keeper of the Land allowed, 
Forsake its pleasures; therefore he rejoiced 
To die and join them there. I question'd him 
How of these hidden things unknowable 
So certainly he spake. The man replied, 
One of our nation lost the maid he loved. 
Nor would he bear his sorrow, — being one 
Into whose heart fear never found a way, — 
But to the Country of the Dead pursued 
Her spirit. Many toils he underwent, 
And many dangers gallantly surpass 'd, 
Till to the Country of the Dead he came. 
Gently the Guardian of the Land received 
The living suppliant; listen'd to his prayer, 
And gave him back the Spirit of the Maid. 
But from that happy country, from the songs 
Of joyance, from the splendor-sparkling dance. 
Unwillingly compell'd, the Maiden's Soul 
Loathed to return ; and he was warn'd to guard 
The subtle captive well and warily, 
Till, in her mortal tenement relodged. 
Earthly delights might win her to remain 
A sojourner on earth. Such lessoning 
The Ruler of the Souls departed gave ; 
And mindful of his charge, the adventurer brought 
His subtle captive home. There underneath 
The shelder of a hut, his friends had watch'd 
The Maiden's corpse, secured it from the sun, 
And fann'd away the insect swarms of heaven. 
A busy hand marr'd all the enterprise ; 
Curious to see the Spirit, he unloosed 
The knotted bag which held her, and she fled. 



Lincoya, thou art brave ; where man has gone 
Thou wouldst not fear to follow ! 

Silently 
Lincoya listen'd, and with unmoved eyes ; 
At length he answered. Is the journey long ? 
The old man replied, A way of many moons. 
I know a shorter path ! exclaimed the youth ; 
And up he sprung, and from the precipice 
Darted: a moment, — and Ayayaca heard 
His body fall upon the rocks below. 



XXIII. 



CARADOC AND SENENA. 

Maid of the golden locks, far other lot 

May gentle Heaven assign thy happier love, 

Blue-eyed Senena ! — She, though not as yet 

Had she put off her boy-habiliments, 

Had told Goervyl all the history 

Of her sad flight, and easy pardon gain'd 

From that sweet heart, for guile which meant 

no ill. 
And secrecy, in shame too long maintain'd. 
With her dear Lady now, at this still hour 
Of evening is the seeming page gone forth. 
Beside Caermadoc mere. They loitered on. 
Along the windings of its grassy shore. 
In such free interchange of inward thought 
As the calm hour invited ; or at times. 
Willingly silent, listening to the bird 
Whose one repeated melancholy note, 
By oft repeating melancholy made. 
Solicited the ear ; or gladlier now 
Hearkening that cheerful one, who knoweth all 
The songs of all the winged choristers. 
And in one sequence of melodious sounds 
Fours all their music. But a wilder strain 
At fits came o'er the water ; rising now, 
Now with a dying fall, in sink and swell 
More exquisitely sweet than ever art 
Of man evoked from instrument of touch, 
Or beat, or breath. It was the evening gale. 
Which, passing o'er the harp of Caradoc, 
Swept all its chords at once, and blended all 
Their music into one continuous flow. 
The solitary Bard, beside his harp, 






Lean'd underneath a tree, whose spreading boughs, 
With broken shade that shifted to the breeze, 
Play'd on the waving waters. Overhead 
There was the leafy murmur, at his foot i 

The lake's perpetual ripple ; and from far. 
Borne on the modulating gale, was heard j 

The roaring of the mountain cataract — ' 

A blind man would have loved the lovely spot. 

Here was Senena by her Lady led. 
Trembling, but not reluctant. They drew nigh. 
Their steps unheard upon the elastic moss, 
Till playfully Goervyl, with quick touch, 
Ran o'er the harp-strings. At the sudden sound i|. 
He rose. — Hath, then, thy hand, quoth she, O! 
Bard, 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



411 



Forgot its cunning, that the wind should be 
Thine harper ? — Come ! one strain for Britain's 

sake; 
And let the theme be Woman ! — He replied, 
But if the strain offend, O Lady fair, 
Blame thou the theme, not me ! — Then to the harp 
He sung, — Three things a wise man will not 

trust. 
The Wind, the Sunshine of an April day, 
And Woman's plighted faith. I have beheld 
The Weathercock upon the steeple-point 
Steady from morn till eve ; and I have seen 
The bees go forth upon an April morn. 
Secure the sunshine will not end in showers ; 
But when was Woman true ? 

False Bard ! thereat, 
With smile of playful anger, she exclaim'd, 
False Bard ! and slanderous song ! Were such 

thy thoughts 
Of woman, when thy youthful lays were heard 
In Heilyn's hall ? — But at that name his heart 
Leap'd, and his cheek with sudden flush was fired ; 
In Heilyn's hall, quoth he, I learn'd the song. 
There was a Maid, who dwelt among the hills 
Of Arvon, and to one of humbler birth 
Had pledged her troth — nor rashly, nor be- 
guiled ; — 
They had been playmates in their infancy, 
And she in all his thoughts had borne a part. 
And all his joys. The Moon and all the Stars 
Witness'd their mutual vows ; and for her sake . 
» The song was framed ; for, in the face of day, 
She broke them. — But her name .'' Goervyl ask'd ; 
Quoth he. The poet loved her still too well, 
To couple it with shame. 

O fate unjust 
Of womankind ! she cried ; our virtues bloom, 
Like violets, in shade and solitude, 
While evil eyes hunt all our failings out 
For evil tongues to bruit abroad in jest. 
And song of obloquy ! — I knew a Maid, 
And she, too, dwelt in Arvon, and she too, 
Loved one of lowly birth, who ill repaid 
Her spotless faith; for he to ill reports. 
And tales of falsehood cunningly devised. 
Lent a light ear, and to his rival left 
The loathing Maid. The wedding-day arrived ; 
The harpers and the gleemen, far and near. 
Came to the wedding-feast ; the wedding-guests 
Were come, the altar dress'd, the bridemaids met. 
The father, and the bridegroom, and the priest. 
Wait for the bride. But she the while did off" 
Her bridal robes, and clipp'd her golden locks. 
And put on boy's attire, through wood and wild 
To seek her own true love ; and over sea. 
Forsaking all for him, she followed him, — 
Nor hoping nor deserving fate so fair ; 
And at his side she stood, and heard him wrong 
Her faith with slanderous tales ; and his dull eye. 
As it had learn'd his heart's forgetfulness, 
Knows not the trembling one, who even now 
Yearns to forgive him all ! 

He turn'd ; he knew 
The blue-eyed Maid, who fell upon his breast. 



XXIV. 

THE EMBASSY. 

Hark ! from the towers of Aztlan how the shouts 

Of clamorous joy re-ring ! the rocks and hills 

Take up the joyful sound, and o'er the lake 

Roll their slow echoes. — Thou art beautiful, 

Queen of the Valley ! thou art beautiful ! 

Thy walls, like silver, sparkle to the sun; 

Melodious wave thy groves ; thy garden-sweets 

Enrich the pleasant air ; upon the lake 

Lie the long shadows of thy towers ; and high 

In heaven thy temple-pyramids arise, 

Upon whose summit now, far visible 

Against the clear blue sky, the Cross of Christ 

Proclaims unto the nations round the news 

Of thy redemption. Thou art beautiful, 

Aztlan ! O City of the Cymbric Prince ! 

Long mayst thou flourish in thy beauty, long 

Prosper beneath the righteous conqueror. 

Who conquers to redeem ! Long years of peace 

And happiness await thy Lord and thee, 

Queen of the Valley ! 

Hither joyfully 
The Hoamen came to repossess the land 
Of their forefathers. Joyfully the youth 
Come shouting, with acclaim of grateful praise, 
Their great Deliverer's name ; the old, in talk 
Of other days, which mingled with their joy 
Memory of many a hard calamity, 
And thoughts of time and change, and human life 
How changeful and how brief. Prince Madoc met 
Erillyab at tiie gate. — Sister and Queen, 
Said he, here let us hold united reign. 
O'er our united people ; by one faith. 
One interest bound, and closer to be link'd 
By laws, and language, and domestic ties. 
Till both become one race, for evermore 
Indissolubly knit. 

O friend, she cried, 
The last of all my family am I ; 
Yet sure, though last, the happiest, and by Heaven 
Favored abundantly above them all. 
Dear Friend, and Brother dear ! enough for me 
Beneath the shadow of thy shield to dwell, 
And see my people, by thy fostering care. 
Made worthy of their fortune. Graciously 
Hath the Beloved One appointed all, 
Educing good from ill, himself being good. 
Then to the royal palace of the Kings 
Of Aztlan, Madoc led Erillyab, 
There where her sires had held their ruder reign, 
To pass the happy remnant of her years, 
Honor'd and loved by all. 

Now had the Prince 
Provided for defence, disposing all 
As though a ready enemy approach'd. 
But from Patamba yet no army moved : 
Four Heralds only, by the King despatch'd. 
Drew nigh the town. The Hoamen, as they came, 
Knew the green mantle of their privilege. 
The symbols which they bore, an arrow-point 
Depress'd, a shield, a net, which, from the arm 



I 



412 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Suspended, held their food. They through the gate 

Pass with permitted entrance, and demand 

To see the Ocean Prince. The Conqueror 

Received them, and the elder thus began : 

Thus to the White King, King Yuhidthiton 

His bidding sends ; such greeting as from foe 

Foe may receive, where individual hate 

Is none, but honor and assured esteem, 

And what were friendship, did the Gods permit. 

The King of Aztlan sends. Oh, dream not thou 

That Aztlan is subdued ; nor in the pride 

Of conquest tempt thy fortune ! Unprepared 

For battle, at an hour of festival, 

Her children were surprised ; and thou canst tell 

How perilously they maintain'd the long 

And doubtful strife. From yonder temple-mount 

Look round the plain, and count her towns, and 

mark 
Her countless villages, whose habitants 
All are in arms against thee ! Thinkest thou 
To root them from the land ? Or wouldst thou live, 
Harass' d by night and day with endless war, 
War at thy gates ; and to thy children leave 
That curse for their inheritance ? — The land 
Is all before thee : Go in peace, and choose 
Thy dwelling-place, North, South, or East, or West; 
Or mount again thy houses of the sea, 
And search the waters. Whatsoe'er thy wants 
Demand, will Aztlan willingly supply, 
Prepared with friendly succor, to assist 
Thy soon departure. Thus Yuhidthiton, 
Remembering his old friendship, counsels thee ; 
Thus, as the King of Aztlan, for himself 
And people, he commands. If obstinate, 
If blind to your own welfare, ye persist. 
Woe to ye, wretches ! to the armed man, 
Who in the fight must perish ; to the wife. 
Who vainly on her husband's aid will call; 
Woe to the babe that hangs upon the breast ; 
For Aztlan comes in anger, and her Gods 
Spare none. 

The Conqueror calmly answer'd him — 
By force we won your city, Azteca ; 
By force we will maintain it : — to the King 
Repeat my saying. — To this goodly land 
Your fathers came for an abiding-place. 
Strangers, like us, but not, like us, in peace. 
They conquer'd and destroyed. A tyrant race. 
Bloody and faithless, to the hills they drove 
The unoffending children of the vale, 
And, day by day, in cruel sacrifice 
Consumed them. God hath sent the Avengers 

here ! 
Powerful to save we come, and to destroy, 
When Mercy on Destruction calls for aid. 
Go tell your nation that we know their force, 
That they know ours ; that their Patamba soon 
Shall fall like Aztlan ; and what other towns 
They seek in flight, shall like Patamba fall ; 
Till, broken in their strength and spirit-crush'd. 
They bow the knee, or leave the land to us, 
Its worthier Lords. 

If this be thy reply, 
Son of the Ocean ! said the messenger, 
I bid thee, in the King of Aztlan's name, 



Mortal defiance. In the field of blood, 
Before our multitudes shall trample down 
Thy mad and miserable countrymen, 
Yuhidthiton invites thee to the strife 
Of equal danger. So may he avenge 
Coanocotzin, or like him in death 
Discharge his duty. 

Tell Yuhidthiton, 
Madoc replied, that in the field of blood 
1 never shunn'd a foe. But say thou to him, 
I will not seek him there, against his life 
To raise the hand which hath been join'd with his 
In peace. — With that the Heralds went their way ; 
Nor to the right nor to the left they turn, ^ 

But to Patamba straight they journey back. il 



XXV. 
THE LAKE FIGHT. 

The mariners, meantime, at Ririd's will, 
Unreeve the rigging, and the masts they strike ; 
And now ashore they haul the lighten'd hulks, 
Tear up the deck, the severed planks bear off, 
Disjoin the well-scarfed timbers, and the keel 
Loosen asunder ; then to the lake-side 
Bear the materials, where the Ocean Lord 
Himself directs their work. Twelve vessels there, 
Fitted alike to catch the wind, or sweep 
With oars the moveless surface, they prepare ; 
Lay down the keel, the stern-post rear, and fix 
The strong-curved timbers. Others from the wood 
Bring the tall pines, and from their hissing trunks 
Force, by the aid of fire, the needful gum ; 
Beneath the close-calk'd planks its odorous stream 
They pour ; then, last, the round-projecting prows 
With iron arm, and launch, in uproar loud 
Of joy, anticipating victory. 

The galleys long and sharp. The masts are rear'd, 
The sails are bent, and lo ! the ready barks 
Lie on the lake. 

It chanced the Hoamen found 
A spy of Aztlan, and before the Prince 
They led him. But when Madoc bade him tell, 
As his life-ransom, what his nation's force. 
And what their plans, the savage answered him. 
With dark and sullen eye and smile of wrath. 
If aught the knowledge of ray country's force 
Could profit thee, be sure, ere I would let 
My tongue play traitor, thou shouldst limb from 

limb 
Hew me, and make each separate member feel 
A separate agony of death. O Prince ! 
But I will tell ye of my nation's force. 
That ye may know and tremble at your doom ; 
That fear may half subdue ye to the sword 
Of vengeance. — Can ye count the stars of Heaven .? 
The waves which ruffle o'er the lake ? the leaves 
Swept from the autumnal forest ^ Can ye look 
Upon the eternal snows of yonder height, 
And number each particular flake that formed 
The mountain-mass ? — So numberless they come. 
Whoe'er can wield the sword, or hurl the lance, 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



413 



Or aim the arrow ; from the growing boy, 
Ambitious of the battle, to the old man, 
Who to revenge his country and his Gods 

j Hastens, and then to die. By land they come ; 
And years must pass away ere on their path 
The grass again will grow : they come by lake ; 

i And ye shall see the shoals of their canoes 

i Darken the waters. Strangers ! when our Gods 
Have conquered, when ye lie upon the Stone 

I Of Sacrifice, extended one by one. 
Half of our armies cannot taste your flesh. 
Though given in equal shares, and every share 
Minced like a nestling's food ! 

Madoc replied, 
Azteca, we are few ; but through the woods 
The Lion walks alone. The lesser fowls 

! Flock multitudinous in heaven, and fly 

I Before the Eagle's coming. We are few; 

I And yet thy nation hath experienced us 
Enough for conquest. Tell thy countrymen, 
We can maintain the city which we won. 

So saying, he turn'd away, rejoiced at heart 
To know himself alike by lake or land 
Prepared to meet their power. 

The fateful day 
Draws on ; by night the Aztecas embark. 
At day-break from Patamba they set forth, 
From every creek and inlet of the lake, 
All moving towards Aztlan ; safely thus 
Weening to reach the plain before her walls, 
And fresh for battle. Shine thou forth, O Sun ! 
Shine fairly forth upon a scene so fair ! 
Their thousand boats, and the ten thousand oars 
From whose broad bowls the waters fall and flash. 
And twice ten thousand feathered helms, and 

shields. 
Glittering with gold and scarlet plumery. 
Onward they come with song and swelling horn ; 
While, louder than all voice and instrument. 
The dash of their ten thousand oars, from shore 

i. To shore, and hill to hill, reechoing rolls, 

i In undistinguishable peals of sound 
And endless echo. On the other side 

: Advance the British barks ; the freshening breeze 
Fills the broad sail ; around the rushing keel 
The waters sing ; while proudly they sail on. 
Lords of the water. Shine thou forth, O Sun I 
Shine forth upon their hour of victory ! 

j Onward the Cymry speed. The Aztecas, 
F Though wondering at that unexpected sight, 
Bravely made on to meet them, seized their bows, 
And showered, like rain, upon the pavaised barks 
The rattling shafts. Strong blows the auspicious 

gale ; 
Madoc, the Lord of Ocean, leads the way ; 
He holds the helm ; the galley where he guides 
Flies on, and full upon the first canoe 
Drives shattering ; midway its long length it struck. 
And o'er the wreck with unimpeded force 
Dashes among the fleet. The astonished men 
Gaze in inactive terror. They behold 
Their splinter'd vessels floating all around, 
Tlieir warriors struggling in the lake, with arms 



Experienced in the battle vainly now. 

Dismay 'd they drop their bows, and cast away 

Their unavailing spears, and take to flight, 

Before the Masters of the Elements, 

Who rode the waters, and who made the winds 

Wing them to vengeance ! Forward now they bend, 

And backward then, with strenuous strain of arm, 

Press the broad paddle. — Hope of victory 

Was none, nor of defence, nor of revenge. 

To sweeten death. Toward the shore they speed ; 

Toward the shore they lift their longing eyes : — 

O fools, to meet on their own element 

The Sons of Ocean ! — Could they but aland 

Set foot, the strife were equal, or to die 

Less dreadful. But, as if with wings of wind, 

On fly the British barks ! — the favoring breeze 

Blows strong ; — far, far, behind their roaring keels 

Lies the long line of foam ; the helm directs 

Their force; they move as with the limbs of life, 

Obedient to the will that governs them. 

Where'er they pass, the crashing shock is heard. 

The dash of broken waters, and the cry 

Of sinking multitudes. Here one plies fast 

The practised limbs of youth, but o'er his head 

The galley drives ; one follows a canoe 

With skill availing only to prolong 

Suffering ; another, as v/ith wiser aim 

He swims across, to meet his coming friends, 

Stunn'd by the hasty and unheeding oar. 

Sinks senseless to the depths. Lo ! yonder boat 

Grasp'd by the thronging strugglers; its light 

length 
Yields to the overbearing weight, and all 
Share the same ruin. Here another shows 
Crueler contest, where the crew hack off" 
The hands that hang for life upon its side, 
Lest all together perish ; then in vain 
The voice of friend or kinsman prays for mercy : 
Imperious self controls all other thoughts : 
And still they deal around unnatural wounds, 
When the strong bark of Britain over all 
Sails in the path of death. — God of the Lake, 
Tlaloc ! and thou, O Aiauh, green-robed Queen ! 
How many a wretch, in dying agonies, 
Invoked ye in the misery of that day ! 
Long after, on the tainted lake, the dead 
Weltered; there, perch'd upon his floating prey, 
The vulture fed in daylight ; and the wolves. 
Assembled at their banquet round its banks, 
Disturb'd the midnight with their howl of joy. 



XXVL 

THE CLOSE OF THE CENTURY. 

There was mourning in Patamba ; the north wind 
Blew o'er the lake, and drifted to the shore 
The floating wreck and bodies of the dead. 
Then on the shore the mother might be seen 
Seeking her child ; the father to the tomb, 
With limbs too weak for that unhappy weight. 
Bearing the bloated body of his son ; 



414 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



The wife, who, in expectant agony, 

Watch'd the black carcass on the coming wave. 

On every brow terror was legible, 
Anguish in every eye. There was not one 
Who, in the general ruin, did not share 
Peculiar grief, and in his country's loss 
Lament some dear one dead. Along the lake 
The frequent funeral-piles, for many a day. 
With the noon-light their melancholy flames 
Dimly commingled ; while the mourners stood 
Watching the pile, to feed the lingering fire, 
As slowly it consumed the watery corpse. 

Thou didst not fear, young Tlalala ! thy soul, 
Unconquered and unconquerable, rose 
Superior to its fortune. When the Chiefs 
Hung their dejected heads, as men subdued 
In spirit, then didst thou, Yuhidthiton, 
Calm in the hour of evil, still maintain 
Thy even courage. They from man to man 
Go, with the mourners mourning, and by grief 
Exciting rage, till, at the promised fight, 
The hope of vengeance, a ferocious joy 
Flash'd in the eyes which glisten'd still with tears 
Of tender memory. To the brave they spake 
Of Aztlan's strength, — for Aztlan still was 

strong : — 
The late defeat, — not there by manly might, 
By honorable valor, by the force 
Of arms subdued, shame aggravated loss ; 
The White Men from the waters came, perchance 
Sons of the Ocean, by their parent Gods 
Aided, and conquerors not by human skill. 
When man met man, when in the field of fight 
The soldier on firm earth should plant his foot, 
Then would the trial be, the struggle then. 
The glory, the revenge. 

Tezozomoc, 
Alike unbroken by defeat, endured 
The evil day ; but in his sullen mind [King 

Work'd thoughts of other vengeance. He the 
Summon'd apart from all, with Tlalala, 
And thus advised them : We have vainly tried 
The war ; these mighty Strangers will not yield 
To mortal strength ; yet shall they be cut off, 
So ye will heed my counsel, and to force 
Add wisdom's aid. Put on a friendly front ; 
Send to their Prince the messenger of peace; 
He will believe our words ; he will forgive 
The past ; — the offender may. So days and 

months. 
Yea, years, if needful, will we wear a face 
Of friendliness, till some some fit hour arrive, 
When we may fire their dwellings in the night. 
Or mingle poison in their cups of mirth. 
The warrior, from whose force the Lion flies, 
Falls by the Serpent's tooth. 

Thou speakestwell, 
Tlalala answer 'd ; but my spirit ill 
Can brook revenge delay 'd. 

The Priest then turn'd 
His small and glittering eye toward the King ; 
But on the Monarch's mild and manly brow 
A meaning sat, which made that crafty eye 



Bend, quickly abash'd. While yet I was a child, 
Replied the King of Aztlan, on my heart 
My father laid two precepts. Boy, be brave ! 
So, in the midnight battle, shalt thou meet, 
Fearless, the sudden foe. Boy, let thy lips 
Be clean from falsehood ! In the mid-day sun, 
So never shalt thou need from mortal man 
To turn thy guilty face. Tezozomoc, 
Holy I keep the lessons of my sire. 

But if the enemy, with their dreadful arms, 
Again, said Tlalala, — If again the Gods 
Will our defeat, Yuhidthiton replied, 
Vain is it for the feeble pov/er of man 
To strive against their will. I augur not 
Of ill, young Tiger ! but if ill betide. 
The land is all before us. Let me hear 
Of perfidy and serpent- wiles no more ! 
In the noon-day war, and in the face of Heaven, 
I meet my foes. Let Aztlan follow me ; 
And if one man of all her multitudes 
Shall better play the warrior in that hour, 
Be his the sceptre ! But if the people fear 
The perilous strife, and own themselves subdued, 
Let us depart ! The universal Sun 
Confines not to one land his partial beams ; 
Nor is man rooted, like a tree, whose seed 
The winds on some ungenial soil have cast. 
There where he cannot prosper. 

The dark Priest 
Conceal 'd revengeful anger, and replied. 
Let the King's will be done ! An awful day 
Draws on; the Circle of the Years is full; 
We tremble for the event. The times are strange ; 
There are portentous changes in the world ; 
Perchance its end is come. 

Be it thy care, 
Priest of the Gods, to see the needful rites 
Duly perform'd, Yuhidthiton replied. 
On the third day, if yonder Lord of Light 
Begin the Circle of the Years anew, 
Again we march to war. j 

One day is past; I 

Another day comes on. At earliest dawn 
Then was there heard through all Patamba's streets 
The warning voice, — Woe ! woe ! the Sun hath . 
reach'd i 

The limits of his course ; he hath fulfill'd ' 

The appointed cycle ! — Fast, and weep, and pray ; 
Four Suns have perish'd, — fast, and weep, and 
Lest the fifth perish also. On the first [pray, — 
The floods arose ; the waters of the heavens. 
Bursting their everlasting boundaries, 
Whelm'd in one deluge earth, and sea, and sky. 
And quench'd its orb of fire. The second Sun 
Then had its birth, and ran its round of years ; 
Till, having reach'd its date, it fell from heaven. 
And crush'd the race of men. Another life 
The Gods assign'd to Nature ; the third Sun 
Form'd the celestial circle ; then its flames 
Burst forth, and overspread earth, sea, and sky. 
Deluging the wide universe with fire, 
Till all things were consumed, and its own flames 
Fed on itself, and spent themselves, and all 
Was vacancy and darkness. Yet again 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



415 



The World had being, and another Sun 

Roll'd round the path of Heaven. That perish'd 

too : 

The mighty Whirlwinds rose, and far away 
Scattered its dying flames. The fifth was born ; 
The fifth to-day completes its destined course, 
Perchance to rise no more. O Aztlan, fast 
And pray ! the Cycle of the Years is full! 

Thus through Patamba did the ominous voice 
Exhort the people. Fervent vows all day 

I Were made, with loud lament ; in every fane. 
In every dwelling-place of man, were prayers. 
The supplications of the affrighted heart. 
Earnestly offered up with tears and groans. 
So past the forenoon ; and when now the Sun 
Sloped from his southern height the downward way 
Of Heaven, again the ominous warner cried, 
Woe ! woe ! the Cycle of the Years is full ! 
Quench every fire ! Extinguish every light ! 
And every fire was quench'd, and every light 
Extinguish'd at the voice. 

Meantime the Priests 
Began the rites. They gash'd themselves, and 

plunged 
Into the sacred pond of Ezapan, 
Till the clear water, on whose bed of sand 
The sunbeams sparkled late, opaque with blood, 
On its black surface mirror'd all things round. 
The children of the temple, in long search, 
Had gather'd, for the service of this day. 
All venomous things that fly, or wind their path 
With sinuous trail, or crawl on reptile feet. 
These, in one caldron^ o'er the sacred fire 
They scorch, till of the loathsome living tribes. 
Who, writhing in their burning agonies. 
Fix on each other ill-directed wounds, 
Ashes alone are left. In infants' blood 
They mix the infernal unction, and the Priests 

it Anoint themselves therewith. 

[| Lo ! from the South 

The Orb of Glory his regardless way 
Holds on. Again Patamba's streets receive 
The ominous voice, — Woe ! woe ! the Sun pursues 
His journey to the limits of his course ! 
Let every man in darkness veil his wife ; 
Veil every maiden's face ; let every child 
Be hid in darkness, there to weep and pray. 
That they may see again the birth of light ! 
They heard, and every husband veil'd his wife 
In darkness; every maiden's face was veil'd ; 
The children were in darkness led to pray, 
That they might see the birth of light once more. 

i Westward the Sun proceeds ; the tall tree casts 
A longer shade ; the night-eyed insect tribes 
Wa:ke to their portion of the circling hours 5 
The water-fowl, retiring to the shore, 
Sweep in long files the surface of the lake. 
Then from Patamba to the sacred mount 
The Priests go forth ; but not with songs of joy. 
Nor cheerful instruments they go, nor train 
Of festive followers ; silent and alone. 
Leading one victim to his dreadful death, 
They to the mountain -summit wend their way. 



On the south shore, and level with the lake, 
Patamba stood ; westward were seen the walls 
Of Aztlan rising on a gentle slope ; 
Southward the plain extended far and wide ; 
To the east the mountain-boundary began, 
And there the sacred mountain rear'd its head; 
Above the neighboring heights, its lofty peak 
Was visible far off. In the vale below, 
Along the level borders of the lake. 
The assembled Aztecas, with wistful eye. 
Gaze on the sacred summit, hoping there 
Soon to behold the fire of sacrifice 
Arise, sure omen of continued light. 
The Pabas to the sacred peak begin 
Their way, and, as they go, with ancient songs 
Hymn the departed Sun. 

O Light of Life, 
Yet once again arise ! yet once again 
Commence thy course of glory ! Time hath seen 
Four generations of mankind destroy 'd. 
When the four Suns expired ; oh, let not thou, 
Human thyself of yore, the human race 
Languish, and die in darkness ! 

The fourth Sun 
Had perish'd ; for the mighty Whirlwinds rose, 
And swept it, with the dust of the shatter'd world, 
Into the great abyss. The eternal Gods 
Built a new World, and to a Hero race 
Assign'd it for their goodly dwelling-place ; 
And shedding on the bones of the destroy'd 
A quickening dew, from them, as from a seed. 
Made a new race of human-kind spring up. 
The menials of the Heroes born of Heaven. 
But in the firmament no orb of day 
Perform'd its course ; Nature was blind ; the fount 
Of light had ceased to flow; tlie eye of Heaven 
Was quench'd in darkness. In the sad obscure, 
The earth-possessors to their parent Gods 
Pray'd for another Sun, their bidding heard. 
And in obedience raised a flaming pile. 
Hopeful they circled it, when from above 
The voice of the Invisible proclaim'd, 
That he who bravely plunged amid the fi.re 
Should live again in Heaven, and there shine forth 
The Sun of the young World. The Hero race 
Grew pale, and from the fiery trial shrunk. 
Thou, Nahuaztin, thou, O mortal born, 
Heardest ! thy heart was strong, the flames 

received 
Their victim, and the humbled Heroes saw 
The orient sky, with smiles of rosy joy. 
Welcome the coming of the new-born God. 
O human once, now let not human-kind 
Languish, and die in darkness ! 

In the East 
Then didst thou pause to see the Hero race 
Perish. In vain, v/ith impious arms, they strove 
Against thy will ; in vain against thine orb 
They shot their shafts ; the arrows of their pride 
Fell on themselves ; they perish'd, to thy praise. 
So perish still thine impious enemies, 
O Lord of Day ! But to the race devout, 
Who offer up their morning sacrifice, 
Honoring thy godhead, and with morning hymnSy 
And with the joy of music and of dance, 



416 



MADOC IN AZTLAN, 



Welcome thy glad uprise, — to them, O Sun, 
Still let the fountain-streams of splendor flow, 
Still smile on them propitious, thou whose smile 
Is light, and life, and joyance ! Once again. 
Parent of Being, Prince of Glory, rise. 
Begin thy course of beauty once again ! 

Such was their ancient song, as up the height 
Slowly they wound their way. The multitude 
Beneath repeat the strain ; with fearful eyes 
They watch the spreading glories of the west ! 
And when at length the hastening orb hath sunk 
Below the plain, such sinking at the heart 
They feel, as he who, hopeless of return. 
From his dear home departs. Still on the light. 
The last green light that lingers in the west, 
Their looks are fasten'd, till the clouds of night 
Roll on, and close in darkness the whole heaven. 
Then ceased their songs ; then o'er the crowded 

vale 
No voice of man was heard. Silent and still 
They stood, all turn'd toward the east, in hope 
There on the holy mountain to behold 
The sacred fire, and know that once again 
The Sun begins his stated round of years. 

The Moon arose ; she shone upon the lake. 
Which lay one smooth expanse of silver light ; 
She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast 
Upon their hollows and their hidden glens 
A blacker depth of shade. Who thenlook'd round. 
Beholding all that mighty multitude. 
Felt yet severer awe, — so solemnly still 
The thronging thousands stood. The breeze was 

heard 
That rustled in the reeds ; the little wave, 
That rippled to the shore and left no foam. 
Sent its low murmurs far. 

Meantime the Priests 
Have stretch'd their victim on the mountain-top ; 
A miserable man, his breast is bare, 
Bare for the death that waits him; but no hand 
May there inflict the blow of mercy. Piled 
On his bare breast, the cedar boughs are laid ; 
On his bare breast, dry sedge and odorous gums 
Laid ready to receive the sacred spark. 
And blaze, to herald the ascending Sun, 
Upon his living altar. Round the wretch 
The inhuman ministers of rites accurs'd 
Stand, and expect the signal when to strike 
The seed of fire. Their Chief, Tezozomoc, 
Apart from all, upon the pinnacle 
Of that high mountain, eastward turns his eyes ; 
For now the hour draws nigh, and speedily 
He looks to see the first faint dawn of day 
Break through the orient sky. 

Impatiently 
The multitude await the happy sign. 
Long hath the midnight pass'd, and every hour. 
Yea, every moment, to their torturing fears 
Seem'd lengthen' d out, insufferably long. 
Silent they stood, and breathless in suspense. 
The breeze had fallen ; no stirring breath of wind 
Rustled the reeds. Oppressive, motionless, 
It was a labor and a pain to breathe 



The close, hot, heavy air. — Hark ! from the woods 
The howl of their wild tenants ! and the birds, — 
The day-birds, in blind darkness fluttering, 
Fearful to rest, uttering portentous cries ! 
Anon, the sound of distant thunders came ; 
They peal beneath their feet. Earth shakes and 

yawns, — 
And lo ! upon the sacred mountain's top, 
The light — the mighty flame ! A cataract 
Of fire bursts upward from the mountain-head, — 
High, — high, — it shoots ! the liquid fire boils out, 
It streams in torrents down ! Tezozomoc 
Beholds the judgment : wretched, — wretched man. 
On the upmost pinnacle he stands, and sees 
The lava floods beneath him : and his hour 
Is come. The fiery shower, descending, heaps 
P»-ed ashes round ; they fall like drifted snows, 
And bury and consume the accursed Priest. 

The Tempest is abroad. Fierce from the North 
A wind uptears the lake, whose lowest depths 
Rock, while convulsions shake the solid earth. 
Where is Patamba.'' where the multitudes 
Who throng'd her level shores i The mighty Lake 
Hath burst its bounds, and yon wide valley roars, 
A troubled sea, before the rolling storm. 



XXVII. 



THE MIGRATION OF THE AZTECAS. 

The storm hath ceased ; but still the lava-tides 
Roll down the mountain-side in streams of fire ; 
Down to the lake they roll, and yet roll on. 
All burning, through the waters. Heaven above 
Glows round the burning mount, and fiery clouds 
Scour through the black and starless firmament. 
Far off", the Eagle, in her mountain-nest, 
Lies watching in alarm, with steady eye, 
The midnight radiaijpe. 

But the storm hath ceased ; 
The earth is still ; — and lo ! while yet the dawn 
Is struggling through the eastern cloud, the barks 
Of Madoc on the lake ! 

What man is he 
On yonder crag, all dripping from the flood, 
Who hath escaped its force .'' He lies along, 
Now near exhaust with self-preserving toil. 
And still his eye dwells on the spreading waves, 
Where late the multitudes of Aztlan stood, 
Collected in their strength. It is the King 
Of Aztlan, who, extended on the rock. 
Looks vainly for his people. He beholds 
The barks of Madoc plying to preserve 
The strugglers ; — but how few ! upon the crags 
Which verge the northern shore, upon the heights 
Eastward, how few have refuged ! Then the King 
Almost repented him of life preserved, 
And wished the Avaves had whelmed him, or the 

sword 
Fallen on him, ere this ill, this wretchedness, 
This desolation. Spirit-troubled thus. 
He call'd to mind how, from the first, his heart 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



417 



Inclined to peace, and how reluctantly, 
Obedient to the Pabas and their Gods, 
Had he to this unhappy war been driven. 
All now was ended : it remain'd to yield, 
To obey the inevitable will of Heaven, 
From Aztlan to depart. As thus he mused, 
A Bird, upon a bough which overhung 
The rock, as though in echo to his thought, 
Cried out, — Depart! depart! — for so the note, 
Articulately in his native tongue. 
Spake to the Azteca. The King look'd up ; 
The hour, the horrors round him, had impress'd 
Feelings and fears well fitted to receive 
All superstition ; and the voice which cried, 
Depart! depart! seem'd like the voice of fate. 
He thought, perhaps Coanocotzin's soul. 
Descending from his blissful halls in the hour 
Of evil, thus to comfort and advise, 
Hover'd above him. 

Lo ! toward the rock, 
Oaring with feeble arms his difficult way, 
A warrior struggles : he hath reach'd the rock, 
Hath grasp'd it, but his strength, exhausted, fails 
To lift him from the depth. The King descends 
Timely in aid ; he holds the feeble one 
By his long locks, and on the safety-place 
Lands him. He, panting, from his clotted hair 
Shook the thick waters, from his forehead wiped 
The blinding drops ; on his preserver's face 
Then look'd, and knew the King. Then Tlalala 
Fell on his neck, and groan'd. They laid them down 
In silence, for their hearts were full of woe. 

The sun came forth ; it shone upon the rock ; 
They felt the kindly beams ; their strengthen'd 

blood 
Flow'd with a freer action. They arose. 
And look'd around, if aught of hope might meet 
Their prospect. On the lake the galleys plied 
Their toil successfully, ever to the shore 
Bearing their rescued charge : the eastern heights, 
Rightward and leftward of the fiery mount, 
Were throng' d with fugitives, whose growing 

crowds 
Speckled the ascent. Then Tlalala took hope. 
And his young heart, reviving, reassumed 
Its wonted vigor. Let us to the heights. 
He cried ; — all is not lost, Yuhidthiton ! 
When they behold thy countenance, the sight 
Will cheer them in their woe, and they will bless 
The Gods of Aztlan. 

To the heights they went ; 
And when the remnant of the people saw 
Yuhidthiton preserved, such comfort then 
They felt, as utter wretchedness can feel. 
That only gives grief utterance, only speaks 
In groans and recollections of the past. 
He look'd around; a multitude was there, — 
But where the strength of Aztlan ? where her 

hosts ? 
Her marshall'd myriads where, whom yester Sun 
Had seen in arms array'd, in spirit high. 
Mighty in youth and courage .? — What were these. 
This remnant of the people .-' Women most. 
Who from Patamba, when the shock began, 
53 



Ran with their infants ; widow'd now, yet each 
Among the few who from the lake escaped, 
Wandering, with eager eyes and wretched hope. 
The King beheld and groan'd ; against a tree 
He lean'd, and bow'd his head, subdued of soul. 

Meantime, amid the crowd, doth Tlalala 
Seek for his wife and boy. In vain he seeks 
Ilanquel there ; in vain for her he asks ; 
A troubled look, a melancholy eye, 
A silent motion of the hopeless head, — 
These answer him. But Tlalala repress'd 
His anguish, and he call'd upon the King; — 
Yuhidthiton ! thou seest thy people left ; 
Their fate must be determined ; they are here 
Houseless, and wanting food. 

The King look'd up, — 
It is determined, Tlalala ! the Gods 
Have crush'd us. Who can stand against their 
wrath .' 

Have we not life and strength ? the Tiger cried. 
Disperse these women to the towns which stand 
Beyond the ruinous waters; against them 
The White Men will not war. Ourselves are few, 
Too few to root the invaders from our land. 
Or meet them with the hope of equal fight; 
Yet may we shelter in the woods, and share 
The Lion's liberty ; and man by man 
Destroy them, till they shall not dare to walk 
Beyond their city walls, to sow their fields, 
Or bring the harvest in. We may steal forth 
In the dark midnight, go and burn and kill. 
Till all their dreams shall be of fire and death, 
Their sleep be fear and misery. 

Then the King 
Stretch'd forth his hand, and pointed to the lake 
Were Madoc's galleys still to those who clung 
To the tree-tops for life, or faintly still 
Were floating on the waters, gave their aid. — 

think not, Tlalala, that evermore 
Will I against those noble enemies 

Raise my right hand in war, lest righteous Heaven 
Should blast the impious hand and thankless heart ! 
The Gods are leagued with them ; the Elements 
Banded against us ! For our overthrow 
Were yonder mountain-springs of fire ordain'd ; 
For our destruction the earth-thunders loosed, 
And the everlasting boundaries of the lake 
Gave way, that these destroying floods might roll 
Over the brave of Aztlan ! — We must leave 
The country which our fathers won in arms ; 
We must depart. 

The word yet vibrated 
Fresh on their hearing, when the Bird above, 
Flapping his heavy wings, repeats the sound, 
Depart ! depart ! — Ye hear ! the King exclaira'd ; 
It is an omen sent to me from Heaven ; 

1 heard it late in solitude, the voice 
Of fate ! — It is Coanocotzin's soul 

Who counsels our departure. — And the Bird 
Still flew around, and in his wheeling flight 
Pronounced the articulate note. The people heard 
In faith, and Tlalala made no reply ; 
But dark his brow, and gloomy was his frown. 



418 



MADOC IN AZTLAN 



Then spake the King, and called a messenger, 
And bade hhn speed to Aztlan. — Seek the Lord 
Of Ocean ; tell him that Yuhidthiton 
Yields to the will of Heaven, and leaves the land 
His fathers won in war. Only one boon. 
In memory of our former friendship, ask — 
The Ashes of my Fathers, — if indeed 
The conqueror have not cast them to the winds. 

The herald went his way circuitous, 
Along the mountains, — for the flooded vale 
Barr'd the near passage ; but before his feet 
Could traverse half their track, the fugitives 
Beheld canoes from Aztlan, to the foot 
Of that protecting eminence, whereon 
They had their stand, draw nigh. The doubtful 

sight 
Disturb 'd them, lest perchance with hostile strength 
They came upon their weakness. Wrongful 

fear, — 
For now Cadwallon, from his bark unarm' d. 
Set foot ashore, and for Yuhidthiton 
Inquired, if yet he lived. The King receives 
His former friend. — From Madoc come I here, 
The Briton said : Raiment and food he sends, 
And peace ; so shall this visitation prove 
A blessing, if it knit the bonds of peace, 
And make us as one people ! 

Tlalala ! 
Hearest thou him .'' Yuhidthiton exclaim'd. 
Do thou thy pleasure, King ! the Tiger cried : 
My path is plain. — Thereat Yuhidthiton, 
Answering, replied, Thus humbled, as thou seest. 
Beneath the visitation of the Gods, 
We bow before their will ! To them we yield ; 
To you, their favorites, we resign the land 
Our fathers conquer'd. Never more may Fate 
In your days or your children's, to the end 
Of time, afflict it thus ! 

He said, and call'd 
The Heralds of his pleasure. — Go ye forth 
Throughout the land : north, south, and east, and 

west. 
Proclaim the ruin. Say to all who bear 
The name of Azteca, Heaven hath destroy'd 
Our nation : say, the voice of Heaven was heard, — 
Heard ye it not.? — bidding us leave the land, 
Who shakes us from her bosom. Ye will find 
Women, old men, and babes; the many, weak 
Of body, and of spirit ill prepared. 
With painful toil, through long and dangerous ways 
To seek another country. Say to them. 
The White Men will not lift the arm of power 
Against the feeble ; here they may remain 
In peace, and to the grave in peace go down. 
But they who would not have their children lose 
The name their fathers bore, will join our march. 
Ere ye set forth, behold the destined way. 

He bade a pile be raised upon the top 
Of that high eminence, to all the winds 
Exposed. They raised the pile, and left it free 
To all the winds of Heaven ; Yuhidthiton 
Alone approach'd it, and applied the torch. 
The day was calm, and o'er the flaming pile 



The wavy smoke hung lingering, like a mist 
That in the morning tracks the valley-stream. 
Swell over swell it rose, erect above, '■ 

On all sides spreading like a stately palm. 
So moveless were the winds. Upward it roll'd, 
Still upward, when a stream of upper air 
Cross'd it, and bent its top, and drove it on, 
Straight over Aztlan. An acclaiming shout 
Welcomed the will of Heaven ; for lo, the smoke 
Fast travelling on, while not a breath of air 
Is felt below. Ye see the appointed course, 
Exclaim'd the King. Proclaim it where ye go ! 
On the third morning we begin our march. 

Soon o'er the lake a winged galley sped, 
Wafting the Ocean Prince. He bore, preserved 
When Aztlan's bloody temples were cast down, 
The Ashes of the Dead. The King received 
The relics, and his heart was full ; his eye 
Dwelt on his father's urn. At length he said, 
One more request, O Madoc ! — If the lake 
Should ever to its ancient bounds return. 
Shrined in the highest of Patamba's towers 
Coanocotzin rests. — But wherefore this.? 
Thou wilt respect the ashes of the King. 

Then Madoc said, Abide not here, O King, 
Thus open to the changeful elements ; 
But till the day of your departure come. 
Sojourn with me. — Madoc, that must not be I 
Yuhidthiton replied. Shall I behold 
A stranger dwelling in my father's house .? 
Shall I become a guest, where I was wont 
To give the guest his welcome .? — He pursued, 
After short pause of speech, — For our old men. 
And helpless babes, and women ; for all those 
Whom wisely fear and feebleness deter 
To tempt strange paths, through swamp, and wil- 
derness. 
And hostile tribes, for these Yuhidthiton 
Entreats thy favor. Underneath thy sway. 
They may remember me without regret, 
Yet not without affection. — They shall be 
My people, Madoc answer'd. — And the rites 
Of holiness transmitted from their sires, — 
Pursued the King, — will these be suffered them .? — 
Blood must not flow, the Christian Prince replied ; 
No Priest must dwell among us ; that hath been 
The cause of all this misery ! — Enough, 
Yuhidthiton replied : I ask no more. 
It is not for the conquered to impose 
Their law upon the conqueror. 

Then he turn'd, 
And lifted up his voice, and call'd upon 
The people : — All whom fear or feebleness 
Withhold from following my adventurous path, 
Prince Madoc will receive. No blood must flow, 
No Paba dwell among them. Take upon ye. 
Ye who are weak of body or of heart. 
The Strangers' easy yoke : beneath their sway 
Ye may remember me without regret. 
Soon take your choice, and speedily depart, 
Lest ye impede the adventurers. — As he spake, 
Tears flow'd, and groans were heard. The line was 
drawn, 



MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



419 



Which whoso would accept the Strangers' yoke 
Should pass. A multitude o'erpast the line ; 
But all the youth of Aztlan crowded round 
Yuhidthiton, their own beloved King. 

So two days long, with unremitting toil, 
The barks of Britain to the adventurers 
Bore due supply; and to new habitants 
The city of the Cymry spread her gates ; 
And in the vale around, and on the heights, 
Their numerous tents were pitch'd. Meantime 

the tale 
Of ruin went abroad, and how the Gods 
Had driven her sons from Aztlan. To the King, 
Companions of his venturous enterprise, 
The bold repair'd ; the timid and the weak, 
All whom, averse from perilous wanderings, 
A gentler nature had disposed to peace, 
Beneath the Strangers' easy rule remain'd. 
Now the third morning came. At break of day 
The mountain echoes to the busy sound 
Of multitudes. Before the moving tribe 
The Pabas bear, enclosed from public sight, 
Mexitli; and the ashes of the Kings 
Follow the Chair of God. Yuhidthiton 
Then leads the marshall'd ranks, and by his side, 
Silent and thoughtfully, went Tlalala, 

At the north gate of Aztlan, Malinal, 
Borne in a litter, waited their approach ; 
And now alighting, as the train drew nigh, 
Propp'd by a friendly arm, with feeble step 
Advanced to meet the King. Yuhidthiton, 
With eye severe and darkening countenance, 
Met his advance. 1 did not think, quoth he, 
Thou wouldst have ventured this ! and liefer far 
Should 1 have borne away with me the thought 
That Malinal had shunn'd his brother's sight, 
Because their common blood yet raised in him 
A sense of his own shame ! — Comest thou to show 
Those wounds, the marks of thine unnatural war 
Against thy country ? Or to boast the meed 
Of thy dishonor, that thou tarriest here, 
Sharing the bounty of the Conqueror, 
While, with the remnant of his countrymen. 
Saving the Gods of Aztlan and the name. 
Thy brother and thy King goes forth to seek 
His fortune ! 

Calm and low the youth replied, 
111 dost thou judge of me, Yuhidthiton ! 
And rashly doth my brother wrong the heart 
He better should have known ! Howbeit, I come 
Prepared for grief. These honorable wounds 
Were gain'd when, singly, at Caermadoc, I 
Opposed the ruffian Hoamen ; and even now, 
Thus feeble as thou seest me, come I thence, 
For this farewell. Brother, — Yuhidthiton, — 
By the true love which thou didst bear my youth. 
Which ever, with a Ir.ve as true my heart 
Hath answer'd, — by the memory of that hour 
When at our mother's funeral pile we stood, 
Go not away in wrath, but call to mind 
What thou hast ever known me ! Side by side 
We fought against the Strangers, side by side 
We fell ; together in the council-hall 



We counsell'd peace, together in the field 

Of the assembly pledged the word of peace. 

When plots of secret slaughter were devised, 

1 raised my voice alone ; alone I kept 

My plighted faith ; alone I prophesied 

The judgment of just Heaven : for this I bore 

Reproach, and shame, and wrongful banishment, 

In the action self-approved, and justified 

By this unhappy issue. 

As he spake, 
Did natural feeling strive within the King, 
And thoughts of other days, and brotherly love, 
And inward consciousness that had he too 
Stood forth, obedient to his better mind. 
Nor weakly yielded to the wily priests. 
Wilfully blind, perchance even now in peace 
The kingdom of his fathers had preserved 
Her name and empire. — Malinal, he cried. 
Thy brother's heart is sore ; in better times 
I may with kindlier thoughts remember thee, 
And honor thy true virtue. Now farewell! 

So saying, to his heart he held the youth. 
Then turn'd away. But then cried Tlalala, 
Farewell, Yuhidthiton ! the Tiger cried ; 
For I too will not leave my native land, — 
Thou who wert King of Aztlan ! Go thy way ; 
And be it prosperous. Through the gate thou seest 
Yon tree that overhangs my father's house ; 
My father lies beneath it. Call to mind 
Sometimes that tree ; for at its foot in peace 
Shall Tlalala be laid, who will not live 
Survivor of his country. 

Thus he said. 
And through the gate, regardless of the King, 
Turn'd to his native door. Yuhidthiton 
Follow'd, and Madoc ; but in vain their words 
Essay 'd to move the Tiger's steady heart; 
When from the door a tottering boy came forth, 
And clung around his knees with joyful cries, 
And called him father. At the joyful sound 
Out ran Ilanquel ; and the astonish'd man 
Beheld his wife and boy, whom sure he deem'd 
Whelm'd in the flood; but them the British barks, 
Returning homeward from their merciful quest, 
Found floating on the waters. — For a while, 
Abandoned by all desperate thoughts, he stood : 
Soon he collected, and to Madoc turn'd. 
And said, O Prince, this woman and her boy 
I leave to thee. As thou hast ever found 
In me a fearless, unrelenting foe. 
Fighting with ceaseless zeal his country's cause, 
Respect them ! — Nay, Ilanquel ! hast thou yet 
To learn with what unshakable resolve 
My soul maintains its purposes ? I leave thee 
To a brave foe's protection. — Lay me, Madoc, 
Here in my father's grave. 

With that he took 
His mantle off", and veil'd Ilanquel's face ; — 
Woman, thou mayst not look upon the Sun, 
Who sets to rise no more ! — That done, he placed 
His javelin-hilt against the ground ; the point 
He fitted to his heart; and, holding firm 
The shaft, fell forv/ard, still with steady hand 
Guiding the death-blow on. 



420 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN, 



fit^ 



So in the land 
Madoc was left sole Lord ; and far away 
Yuhidthiton led forth the Aztecas, 
To spread in other lands Mexitli's name, 
And rear a mightier empire, and set up 
Again their foul idolatry ; till Heaven, 
Making blind Zeal and bloody Avarice 
Its ministers of vengeance, sent among them 
The heroic Spaniard's unrelenting sword. 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



We neighbor nearer to the Sun ! — I. p. 375, col. 2. 

Columbus inferred this from the elevation of the Pole at 
Paria. " How it cometh to pass," says Pietro Martire, " that 
at the beginning of the evening twilight it is elevate in that 
region only five degrees in the month of June, and in the 
morning twilight to be elevate fifteen degrees by the same 
quadrant, I do not understand, nor yet do the reasons which 
he bringeth in any point satisfy me. For he saith that he 
hereby conjectured that the Earth is not perfectly round, but 
that, when it was created, there was a certain heap raised 
thereon, much higher than the other parts of the same. So 
that, as he sayth, it is not round after the form of an apple or 
a ball, as others think, but rather like a pear as it hangeth on 
the tree, and that Paria is the region which possesseth the su- 
pereminent or highest part thereof, nearest unto heaven. In 
so much, that he earnestly contendeth the earthly Paradise to 
be situate in the tops of those three hills which the Watch- 
men saw out of the top castle of the ship ; and that the outra- 
geous streams of the fresh waters which so violently issue out 
of the said gulfs, and strive so with the salt water, fall head- 
long from the tops of the said mountains." — Pietro Martire, 
Dec. 1, Book 6. 



Tezcalipoca. -^11. p. 376, col. 2. 

A devout worshipper of this Deity once set out to see if he 
could find him ; he reached the sea-coast, and there the God 
appeared to him, and bade him call the Whale, and the Mer- 
maid, and the Tortoise, to make a bridge for him, over which 
he might pass to the house of the Sun, and bring back from 
thence instruments of music and singers to celebrate his festi- 
vals. The Whale, the Mermaid, and the Tortoise accord- 
ingly made the bridge, and the man went over it, singing, as 
he went, a song which the God taught him. As soon as the 
Sun heard him, he cautioned all his servants and people not 
to answer to the song, for they who answered would be obliged 
to abandon his House and follow the Singer. Some there 
were, however, who could not resist the voice of the charmer, 
and these he brought back with him to earth, together with 
the drum called Hiialmneth and the Tepunaitli. — Tor^ue- 
MADA, 1. 6, c. 43. 

The particular sacrifice related in the poem is described by 
this author, 1. 10, c. 14. It is sufficient merely to refer to 
my authorities in such instances as these, where no other 
liberty has been taken than that of omission. 



She gathered herbs, which, like our poppy, bear 

Tlie seed of sleep. — II. p. 377, col. 1. 
The expression is Gower's : 

Poppy, which beareth the sede of sleeps 
The Spanish name for the poppy is adoiinidera. 

The Field of the Spirit. — III. p. 378, col. 2. 

Every Spring the Akanceas go in a body to some retired 
place, and there turn up a large space of land, which they do 



with the drums beating all the while. After this they tal 
care to call it the Desert, or the Field of the Spirit. And thitl 
they go in good earnest when they are in their enthusiastic fi 
and there wait for inspiration from their pretended Deity. In 
the mean while, as they do this every year, it proves of no 
small advantage to them, for by this means they turn up all 
their land insensibly, and it becomes abundantly more fruitful. 
— Tonti. 



Before these things I was. — III. p. 378, col. 2. 

" The manner in which, he says, he obtained the spirit of 
divination was this : He was admitted into the presence of a 
Great Man, who informed him that he loved, pitied, and de- 
sired to do him good. It was not in this world that he saw the 
Great Man, but in a world above, at a vast distance from this. 
The Great Man, he says, was clothed with the Day, yea with 
the brightest Day, he ever saw ; a Day of many years, yea of 
everlasting continuance ! This whole world, he says, was 
drawn upon him, so that in him the Earth and all things in it 
might be seen. I asked him if rocks, mountains, and seas were 
drawn upon or appeared in him ? he replied, that every thing 
that was beautiful and lovely in the earth was upon him, and 
might be seen by looking on him, as well as if one was on the 
earth to take a view of them there. By the side of the Great 
Man, he says, stood his Shadow or Spirit, for he used chichungy 
the word they commonly make use of to express that of the 
man which survives the body, which word properly signifies a 
shadow. This shadow, he says, was as lovely as the Man 
himself, and filled all places, and was most agreeable as well as 
wonderful to him. Here, he says, he tarried some time, and 
was unspeakably entertained and delighted with a view of the 
Great Man, of his Shadow, and of all things in him. And what 
is most of all astonishing, he imagines all this to have passed 
before he was born ; he never had been, he says, in this world 
at that time, and what confirms liira in the belief of this is, 
that the Great Man told him, that he must come down to earth, 
be born of such a woman, meet with such and such things, and 
in particular that he should once in his life be guilty of mur- 
der ; at this he was displeased, and told the Great Man he 
would never murder. But the Great Man replied, I have said 
it, and it shall be so ; which has accordingly happened. At 
this time, he says, the Great Man asked him what he would 
choose in life ; he replied, first to be a Hunter, and afterwards 
to be a Powwow, or Divine ; whereupon the Great Man told 
him, he should have what he desired, and that his Shadow 
should go along with him down to earth, and be with him for 
ever. There was, he says, all this time no word spoken 
between them ; the conference was not carried on by any 
human language, but they had a kind of mental intelligence 
of each other's thoughts, dispositions, and proposals. After 
this, he says, he saw the Great Man no more, but supposes 
he now came down to earth to be born 5 but the Shadow 
of the Great Man still attended him, and ever after con- 
tinued to appear to him in dreams and other ways. This 
Shadow used sometimes to direct him in dreams to go to such 
a place and hunt, assuring him he should there meet with 
success, which accordingly proved so j and when he had been 
there some time, the Spirit would order him to another place, 
so that he had success in hunting, according to the Great 
Man's promise, made to him at the time of his choosing this 
employment. 

" There were some times when this Spirit came upon him 
in a special manner, and he was full of what he saw in the 
Great Man, and then, he says, he was all light, and not only 
light himself, but it was light all around him, so that he could 
see through men, and knew the thoughts of their hearts. 
These depths of Satan I leave to others to fathom or to dive 
into as they please, and do not pretend, for my own part, to 
know what ideas to affix to such terms, and cannot well guess 
what conceptions of things these creatures have at these times 
when they call themselves all light." — David Brainerd's 
Journal. 

Had Brainerd been a Jesuit, his superiors would certainly 
have thought him a fit candidate for the crown of martyrdom, 
and worthy to be made a Saint. 

He found one of the Indian conjurers who seemed to have 
something like grace in him, only he would not believe in the 
Devil. "Of all the sights," says he, "I ever saw among 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



421 



them, or indeed any where else, none appeared so frightful, or so 
near akin to what is usually imagined of infernal powers I none 
ever excited such images of terror in my mind as the appearance 
oi' one, who was a devout and zealous reformer, or rather re- 
storer, of what he supposed was the ancient religion of the 
Indians. He made his api)earance in his pontitical gaib, 
which was a coat of bears' skins, dressed with the hair on, 
and iianging down to his toes, a pair of bear-skin stockings, 
ami a great wooden face, painted the one half black, and the 
oihur tawny, about the color of an Indian's skin, with an ex- 
travagant mouth, cut very much awry ; the face fastened to a 
bear-skin caj), which was drawn over his head. He advanced 
towards me with the instrument in his hand that he used for 
music in his idolatrous worship, which was a dry tortoise- 
shell, with some corn in it, and the neck of it drawn on to a 
piece of wood, which made a very convenient handle. As 
he came forward, he heat his tune with the rattle, and danced 
with all his might, but did not suffer any part of his body, 
not so much as his fingers, to be seen ; and no man would 
have guessed, by his appearance and actions, that he could 
have been a human creature, if they had not had some inti- 
mation of it otherwise. When he came near me, I could 
not but shrink away from him, although it was then noon- 
day, and I knew who it was, his appearance and gestures 
were so prodigiously frightful. He had a house consecrated 
to religious uses, with divers images cut out upon the several 
parts of it ; I went in, and found the ground beat almost as 
hard as a rock, with their frequent dancing on it. I discoursed 
with him about Christianity, and some of my discourse he 
seemed to like, but some of it he disliked entirely. He told me 
that God had taught him his religion, and that ho never would 
turn from it, but wanted to find some that would join heartily 
with him in it j for the Indians, he said, were grown very 
degenerate and corrupt. He had thought, he said, of leaving 
all his friends, and travelling abroad, in order to find some 
that would join with him ; for he believed God had some 
good people somewhere, that felt as he did. He had not 
always, he said, felt as he now did, but had formerly been like 
the rest of the Indians, until about four or five years before that 
time ; then, he said, his lieart was very much distressed, so that 
he could not live among the Indians, but got away into the 
woods, and lived alone for some months. At length, he said, 
God comforted his heart, and showed him what he should do, 
and since that time he hud known God, and tried to serve 
him ; and loved all men, be they who they would, so as he 
never did before. Ho treated me with uncommon courtesy, 
and seemed to be hearty in it ; and I was told by the Indians, 
that he opposed their drinking strong liquor with all his 
power ; and if, at any time, he could not dissuade them from 
it by all he could say, he would leave them, and go crying 
into the woods. It was manifest he had a set of religious 
notions that he had looked into for himself, and not taken for 
granted upon bare tradition ; and he relished or disrelished 
whatever was spoken of a religious nature, according as it 
either agreed cr disagreed with his standard. And while I 
[ was discoursing, he would sometimes say, " Now, that I like ; 
I so God has taught me ; " and some of his sentiments seemed 
I very just. Yet he utterly denied the being of a Devil, and 
s declared there was no such creature known among the Indians 
of old times, whose religion, he sujiposes, he was attempting 
to revive. He likewise told me, that departed souls all went 
• southward, and that the difference between the good and bad 
was this, that the former were admitted into a beautiful town 
with spiritual walls, or walls agreeable to the nature of souls ; 
and that the latter would for ever hover round those walls, and 
in vain attempt to get in. He seemed to be sincere, honest, 
' and conscientious in his own way, and according to his own 
religions notions, which was more than I ever saw in any 
other Pagan ; and I perceived he was looked upon and derided 
by most of the Indians as a precise zealot, who made a need- 
less noise about religious matters. But I must say, there was 
something in his temper and disposition, that looked more 
like true religion than any thing I ever observed amongst 
other heathens." — Brainerd. 



Why should we forsake 
The worship of our fathers 7 — III. p. 379, col. 1. 
Olearius mentions a very disinterested instance of that 



hatred of innovation which is to be found in all ignorant per- 
sons, and in some wise ones. 

"An old country fellow in Livonia being condemned, for 
faults enormous enough, to lie along upon the ground to 
receive his punishment, and Madam de la Barre, pitying his 
almost decrepit age, having so fir interceded for him, as that 
his corporal punishment should be changed into a pecuniary 
mulct of about fifteen or sixteen pence ; he thanked her for 
her kindness, and said, that, for his part, being an old man, he 
would not introduce any novelty, nor sufler the customs of the 
country to be altered, but was ready to receive the chastise- 
ment which his predecessors had not thought much to 
undergo ; put off his clothes, laid himself upon the ground, 
and received the blows according to his condemnation." — 
Jlmbassador' s Travels. 



her golden curls. 

Bright eyes of hcuoenly blue, and that clear skin. 

IV. p. 379, col. 2. 

A good description of Welsh beauty is given by Mr. Yorke, 
from one of their original chronicles, in the account of Gru- 
fydd ab Cynan and his dueen. 

" Grufydd, in his person, was of moderate stature, having 
yellow hair, a round face, and a fair and agreeable complex- 
ion ; eyes rather large, light eyebrows, a comely beard, a 
round neck, white skin, strong limbs, long fingers, straight 
legs, and handsome feet. He was, moreover, skilful in divers 
languages, courteous and civil to his friends, fierce to his 
enemies, and resolute in battle ; of a passionate temper, and 
fertile imagination. — Angharad, his wife, was an accom- 
plished person: her hair was long, and of a flaxen color; 
her eyes large and rolling ; and her features brilliant and 
beautiful. She was tall and well proportioned ; her leg and 
foot handsome ; her fingers long, and her nails thin and trans- 
parent. She was good-tempered, cheerful, discreet, witty, 
and gave good advice as well as alms to her needy dependents, 
and never transgressed the laws of duty." 



Tlius let their blood be shed. — Y. p. 381, col. 2. 

This ceremony of declaring war with fire and water is rep- 
resented by De Bry, in the eleventh print of the description 
of Florida, by Le Moyne de Morgues. 



The Council Hall — YI. p. 381, col. 2. 

" The town-house, in which are transacted all public busi- 
ness and diversions, is raised with wood and covered over with 
earth, and has all the appearance of a small mount, at a little, 
distance. It is built in the form of a sugar-loaf, and large 
enough to contain 500 persons, but extremely dark, having 
(besides the door which is so narrow that but one at a time can 
pass, and that, after much winding and turning) but onesmaU 
aperture to let the smoke out, which is so ill-contrived, that 
most of it settles in the roof of the house. W'ithin, it has the 
appearance of an ancient amphitheatre, the seats being raised 
one above another, leaving an area in the middle, in the centre 
of which stands the fire : the seats of the head warriors are 
nearest it." — Memoirs of Lieutenant Henry Timberlake, 
who accompanied the Cherokee Indians to England, in 1762. 



Tlie Feast of Souls. — VI. p. 381, col. 2. 

Lafitau. Charlevoix. It is a custom among the Greeks at 
this time, some twelve months or more, after the death of a 
friend, to open the grave, collect the bones, have prayers read 
over them, and tlien re-inter them. 



Tlie Sarbacan. — YI. p. 381, col. 2. 

" The children, at eight or ten years old, are very expert at 
killing birds and smaller game with a sarbacan, or hollow cane, 
through which they blow a small dart, whose weakness obliges 
them to shoot at the eye of the larger sort of prey, which they 
seldom miss." — Timberlake. 



422 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



The 'pendent string of shells. — VI. p. 381, col. 2. 

" The doors of their houses and chambers were full of di- 
verse kindes of shells, hanging loose by small cordes, that 
being shaken by the wind they make a certaine ratteling, and 
also a whisteling noise, by gathering their wind in their hol- 
lowe places ; for herein they have great delight, and impute 
this for a goodly ornament." — Pietro Martire. 



Still do your shadows roam dissatisfied, 
And to the cries of wailing woe return 
A voice of lamentation. — VI. p. 381, col. 2. 

"They firmly believe that the Spirits of those who are 
killed by the enemy, without equal revenge of blood, find no 
rest, and at night haunt the houses of the tribe to which they 
belonged ; but when that kindred duty of retaliation is justly 
executed, they immediately get ease and power to fly away." 
— Adair. 

" The answering voices heard from caves and hollow holes, 
which the Latines call Echo, they suppose to be the Soules 
wandering through those places." — Pietro Martire. This 
superstition prevailed in Cumana, where they believed the 
Echo to be the voice of the Soul, thus answering when it was 
called. — Herrera, 3, 4, 11. 

The word by which they express the funeral wailing in one 
of the Indian languages is very characteristic — MdiLo ; which 
bewailing, says Roger Williams, is very solemn amongst them 
morning and evening, and sometimes in the night, they be- 
wail their lost husbands, wives, children, &c. ; sometimes a 
quarter, half, yea, a whole year and longer, if it be for a great 
Prince. 



The skull of some old Seer. — VI. p. 382, col. 1. 
On the coast of Paria oracles were thus delivered. — Tor- 
QUEMADA, 1. 6, c. 26. 

Their happy souls 
Pursue, infields of bliss, the shadoioy deer. — VI. p. 382, col. 2. 

This opinion of the American Indians may be illustrated by 
a very beautiful story from Carver's Travels : — 

«' Whilst I remained among them, a couple, whose tent was 
adjacent to mine, lost a son of about four years of age. The 
parents were so much affected at the death of their favorite 
child, that they pursued the usual testimonies of grief with 
such uncommon rigor, as through the weight of sorrow and 
loss of blood to occasion the death of the father. The wo- 
man, who had hitherto been inconsolable, no sooner saw her 
husband expire, than she dried up her tears, and appeared 
cheerful and resigned. As I knew not how to account for 
so extraordinary a transition, I took an opportunity to ask her 
the reason of it ; telling her, at the same time, that I should 
have imagined the loss of her husband would rather have 
occasioned an increase of grief than such a sudden diminution 
of it. 

" She informed me, that as the child was so young when it 
died, and unable to support itself in the country of spirits, 
both she and her husband had been apprehensive that its situ- 
ation would be far from being happy ; but no sooner did she 
behold its father depart for the same place, who not only loved 
the child with the tenderest affection, but was a good hunter, 
and would be able to provide plentifully for its support, than 
she ceased to mourn. She added, that she now saw no reason 
to continue her tears, as the child, on whom she doted, was 
under the care and protection of a fond father, and she had 
only one wish that remained ungratified, which was that of 
being herself with them. 

" Expression so replete with unaffected tenderness, and 
sentiments that would have done honor to a Roman matron 
made an impression on my mind greatly in favor of the peo- 
ple to whom she belonged, and tended not a little to counter- 
act the prejudices T had hitherto entertained, in common with 
every other traveller, of Indian insensibility and want of 
parental tenderness. Her subsequent conduct confirmed the 
favorable opinion I had just imbibed, and convinced me that, 
notwithstanding the apparent suspension of her grief, some 



particles of that reluctance to be separated fi-om a beloved 
relation, which is implanted by nature or custom in every v 
human heart, still lurked in hers. I observed that she went j 
almost every evening to the foot of the tree, on a branch of ' 
which the bodies of her husband and child were laid, and 
after cutting off a lock of her hair, and throwing it on the I 
ground, in a plaintive melancholy song bemoaned its fate. A 
recapitulation of the actions he might have performed, had 
his life been spared, appeared to be her favorite theme ; and 
whilst she foretold the fame that would have attended an im- 
itation of his father's virtues, her grief seemed to be suspended. 
' If thou hadst continued with us, my dear Son,' would she 
cry, ' how well would the bow have become thy hand, and 
how fatal would thy arrows have proved to the enemies of 
our bands ! thou wouldst often have drunk their blood and 
eaten their flesh, and numerous slaves would have rewarded 
thy toils. With a nervous arm wouldst thou have seized the 
wounded buffalo, or have combated the fury of the enraged 
bear. Thou wouldst have overtaken the flying elk, and 
have kept pace on the mountain's brow with the fleetest deer. 
What feats mightst thou not have performed, hadst thou staid 
among us till age had given thee strength, and thy father had 
instructed thee in every Indian accomplishment ! ' In terms 
like these did this untutored savage bewail the loss of her son, 
and frequently would she pass the greatest part of the night in 
the affectionate employ." 



Tlie spirit of that noble blood which ran 
From their death-wounds, is in the ruddy clouds 
Which go before the Sun, when he comes forth 
In glory. — VI. p. 382, col. 2. 

Among the last comers, one Avila, a cacique, had great 
authority, who understanding that Valdivia affirmed the God , 
of the Christians was the only Creator of all things, in a great 
rage cried out, he would never allow Pillan, the God of the 
Chilenians, to be denied the power of creating. Valdivia in- 
quired of him concerning this imaginary deity. Avila told 
him that his God did, after death, translate the chief men of i 
the nation and soldiers of known bravery to places where there ( 
was dancing and drinking, there to live happy forever ; that \ 
the blood of noble men slain in battle was placed about the ; 
Sun, and changed into red clouds, which sometimes adorn his 
rising. — Hist, of Paraguay, «Scc. by F. A. del Techo. 



my people, 
I, too, could tell ye of the former days. — VI. p. 383, col. 1, 

The mode of sowing is from the 21st plate of De Bry to 
J. Le Moyne de Morgues ; the common store-houses are 
mentioned by the same author ; and the ceremony of the 
widows strowing their hair upon their husbands' graves is 
represented in the 19th plate. 



The Snake Idol. — VI. p. 383, col. 1. 

Snake-worship was common in America. Bernal Diaz, p. 3, 
7, 125. The idol described VII. p. 246, somewhat resembles 
what the Spaniards found at Campeche, which is thus de- 
scribed by the oldest historian of the Discoveries. " Our men 
were conducted to a broade crosse-way, standing on the side of 
the towne. Here they shew them a square stage or pulpit 
foure steppes high, partly of clammy bitumen, and partly of 
small stones, whereto the image of a man cut in marble was 
joyned two foure-footed unknown beastes fastening upon him, 
which, like madde dogges, seemed they would tear the marble 
man's guts out of his belly. And by the Image stood a Ser- 
pent, besmeared all with goare bloud, devouring a marble lion, 
which Serpent, compacted of bitumen and small stones in- 
corporated together, was seven and fortie feet in length, and 
as thicke as a great oxe. Next unto it were three rafters or 
stakes fastened to the grounde, which three others crossed 
underpropped with stones ; in which place they punish male- 
factors condemned, for proof whereof they saw innumerable 
broken arrows, all bloudie, scattered on the grounde, and the 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



423 



bones of the dead cast into an inclosed courte neere unto it." 
— PlETRO Martire. 

It can scarcely be necessary to say, that I have attributed 
to the Hoainen such manners and superstitions as, really ex- 
isting among the savage tribes of America, were best suited 
to the plan of the poem. 



.... piously a portion take 
Of that cold earth, to which forever now 
Consign'd, they leave their fathers, dust to dust. 

VI. p. 383, col. I. 

Charlevoix assigns an unworthy motive for this remarkable 
custom, which may surely be more naturally explahied ; he 
says they fancy it procures luck at play. 



.... from his head 
Plucking the thin gray hairs, he dealt them round. 

VI, p. 338, col. 2. 

Some passages in Mr. Mackenzie's Travels suggested this 
to me. 

" Our guide called aloud to the fugitives, and entreated 
them to stay, but without effect ; the old man, however, did 
not hesitate to approach us, and represented liimself as too 
far advanced in life, and too indifferent about the short time 
he had to remain in the world, to be very anxious about 
escaping from any danger that threatened him ; at the same 
time he pulled the gray hairs from his head by handfulls to 
distribute among us, and implored our favor for himself and 
his relations. 

" As we were ready to embark, our new recruit was de- 
sired to prepare himself for his departure, which he would 
have declined ; but as none of his friends would take his place, 
we may be said, after the delay of an hour, to have compelled 
him to embark. Previous to his departure, a ceremony took 
place, of which I could not learn the meaning; he cut off a 
lock of his hair, and having divided it into three parts, he fas- 
tened one of them to the hair on the upper parts of his wife's 
head, blowing on it three times with all the violence in his 
power, and uttering certain words. The other two he fas- 
tened with the same formalities on the heads of his two 
children." — Mackenzie. 

Forth, from the dark recesses of the cave, 
The Sei-pent came. — YlI. p. 384, col. 2. 

Of the wonderful docility of the Snake one instance may 
suffice. 

" An Indian belonging to the Menomonie, having taken a 
rattle-snake, found means to tame it : and when he had done 
this, treated it as a Deity ; calling it his great Fatlier, and 
carrying it with him in a box wherever he went. This he had 
done for several summers, when Monsieur Pinnisance acci- 
dentally met with him at this carrying-place, just as he was 
setting off for a winter's hunt. The French gentleman was sur- 
prised one day to see the Indian place the box which contained 
his God on the ground, and opening the door, give him his 
liberty ; telling him, whilst he did it, to be sure and return by 
the time he himself should come back, which was to be in the 
month of ftlay following. As this was but October, Monsieur 
told the Indian, whose simplicity astonished him, that he 
fancied he might wait long enough, when May arrived, for 
the arrival of his great Father. The Indian was so confident 
of his creature's obedience, that he offered to lay the French- 
man a wager of two gallons of rum, that at the time appointed 
he would come and crawl into his box. This was agreed on, 
and the second week in May following fixed for the determina- 
tion of the wager. At that period they both met there again ; 
when the Indian set down his box, and called for his great 
Father. The Snake heard him not ; and the time being now 
expired, he acknowledged that he had lost. However, with- 
out seeming to be discouraged, he offered to double the bet if 
his father came not within two days more. This was further 
agreed on ; when, behold, on the second day, about one o'clock, 
the snake arrived, and of his own accord crawled into the 
box, which was placed ready for him. The French gentle- 
man vouched for the truth of this story, and, from the accounts 



I have often received of the docility of those creatures, I see 
no reason to doubt its veracity." — Carver's Travels. 

We have not taken animals enough into alliance with us. 
In one of the most interesting families which it was ever my 
good fortune to visit, I saw a child suckled by a goat. The 
gull should be taught to catch fish for us in the sea, the otter 
in fresh water. The more spiders there were in tlie stable, 
the less would the horses suffer from the flies. The great 
American fire-fly should be imported into Spain to catch mus- 
quitoes. Snakes would make good mousers; but one favorite 
mouse should be kept to rid the house of cockroaches. The 
toad is an excellent fly-catcher, and in hot countries a reward 
should be offered to the man who could discover what insect 
feeds upon fleas ; for, say the Spaniards, no ay criatura tan li 
bre, a quienfalta su Jilgaacil. 



that huge King 

Of Basan, hugest of the Analcim. — \U. p. 384, col. 2. 

Og, the King of Easan, w as the largest man that ever 
lived: all Giants, Titans, and Ogers are but dwarfs to him; 
Garagantua himself is no more compared to Og, than Tom 
Thumb is to Garagantua. For thus say the Rabbis ; Moses 
chose out twelve Chiefs, and advanced with them till they 
approached the land of Canaan, where Jericho was, and there 
he sent those chiefs that they might spy out the land for him. 
One of the Giants met them ; he was called Og the son of 
Anak, and the height of his stature was twenty-three thou- 
sand and thirty-three cubits. Now Og used to catch the 
clouds and draw them towards him and drink their waters ; 
and he used to take the fishes out of the depths of the sea, 
and toast them against the orb of the Sun and eat them. It is 
related of him by tradition, that in the time of the deluge he 
went to Noah and said to him. Take me with thee in the 
Ark ; but Noah made answer, Depart from me, O thou enemy 
of God ! And when the water covered the highest mountains 
of the earth, it did not reach to Og's knees. Og lived three 
thousand years, and then God destroyed him by the hand of 
Moses. For when the army of Moses covered a space of nine 
miles, Og came and looked at it, and reached out his hand to 
a mountain, and cut from it a stone so wide, that it could 
have covered the whole army, and he put it upon his head, 
that he might throw it upon them. But God sent a lapwing, 
who made a hole through the stone with his bill so that it 
slipt over his head, and hung round his neck like a necklace, 
and he was borne down to the ground by its weight. Then 
Moses ran to him ; Moses was himself ten cubits in stature, 
and he took a spear ten cubits long, and threw it up ten cu- 
bits high, and yet it only reached the heel of Og, who was 
lying prostrate, and thus he slew him. And then came a 
great multitude with scythes, and cut off his head, and when 
he was dead his body lay for a whole year, reaching as far as 
the river Nile in Egypt. His mother's name was Enac, one 
of the daughters of Adam, and she was the first harlot ; her 
fingers were two cubits long, and upon every finger she had 
two sharp nails, like two sickles. But because she was a 
harlot, God sent against her lions as big as elephants, and 
wolves as big as camels, and eagles as big as asses, and they 
killed her and eat her. • 

When Og met the spies who were sent by Moses, he took 
them all twelve in his hand and put them in his wallet ; and 
carried them to his wife and said to her. Look, I beseech you, 
at these men who want to fight with us ! and he emptied 
them out before her, and asked her if he should tread upon 
them ; but she said, Let them go and tell their people what 
they have seen. When they were got out they said to each 
other, If we should tell these things to the children of Israel 
they would forsake Moses ; let us therefore relate what we 
have seen only to Moses and Aaron. And they took with 
them one grape stone from the grapes of that country, and it 
was as much as a camel could carry. And they began to ad- 
vise the people that they should not go to war, saying what 
they had seen ; but two of them, namely, Caleb the son of 
Jephunneh, and Joshua the son of Nun, concealed it. — Ma- 

RAOCr. 

Even if the grapes had not been proportioned to Og's capa- 
cious mouth, the Rabbis would not have let him starve 
There were Behemoths for him to roast whole ; and Bar-Cha- 



424 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



na saw a fish to which Whales are but sprats, and Leviathan 
but a herring. " We saw a fish," says he, "into whose nos- 
trils the worm called Tinna had got and killed it ; and it was 
cast upon the shore with such force by the sea, that it over- 
threw sixty maritime cities : sixty other cities fed upon its 
flesh, and what they left was salted for the food of sixty cities 
more." 

From one of the pupils of his eyes they filled thirty barrels 
of oil. A year or two afterwards, as we past by the same 
place, we saw men cutting up his bones, with which the same 
cities were built up again. — Maracci. 



Arrows, round whose heads dry tow was twined, 
fVith ■pine-gum dipped. — VII. p. 385, col. 1 . 

This mode of offence has been adopted wherever bows and 
arrows were in use. De Bry represents it in the 31st plate to 
Le Moyne de Morgues. 

" The Medes poisoned their arrows with a bituminous 
liquor called naphta, whereof there was great plenty in Media, 
Persia, and Assyria. The arrow, being steeped in it, and 
shot from a slack bow, (for swift and violent motion took off" 
from its virtue,) burnt the flesh with such violence, that water 
rather increased than extinguished the malignant flame : dust 
alone could put a stop to it, and, in some degree, allay the 
unspeakable pain it occasioned." — Universal History. 



His hands transfixed, 
And lacerate with the hodifs pendent weight. 

VIII. p. 386, col. 2. 

Laceras toto membrorum pondere palmas. 

Mambkuni Constantinus, sive Idololatria Debellata. 



JVotfor your lots on earth. 
Menial or mighty, slave or highly-born. 
Shall ye be judged hereafter. — VIII. p. 386, col. 2. 

They are informed in some places that the Kings and 
Noblemen have immortal souls, and believe that the souls of 
the rest perish together with their bodies, except the familiar 
friends of the Princes themselves, and those only who suffer 
themselves to be buried alive together with their masters' 
funerals : for their ancestors have left them so persuaded, 
that the souls of Kings, deprived of their corporeal clothing, 
joyfully walk to perpetual delights through pleasant places 
always green, eating, drinking, and giving themselves to 
sports, and dancing with women after their old manner while 
they were living, and this they hold for a certain truth. 
Thereupon many, striving with a kind of emulation, cast 
themselves headlong into the sepulchres of their Lords, 
which, if his familiar friends defer to do, they think their souls 
become temporary instead of eternal. — Piztro Martire. 

When I was upon the Sierras of Guaturo, says Oviedo, and 
had taken prisoner the Cacique of the Province who had 
rebelled, I asked him whose graves were those which were in 
a house of his ; and he told me, of some Indians who had 
killed themselves when the Cacique his father died. But 
because they often used to bury a quantity of wrought gold 
with them, I had two of the graves opened, and found in them 
a small quantity of maize, and a small instrument. When I 
inquired the reason of this, the Cacique and his Indians re- 
plied, that they who were buried there were laborers, who 
had been well skilled in sowing corn and in gathering it in, 
and were his and his father's servants, who, that their souls 
might not die with their bodies, had slain themselves upon his 
father's death, and that maize with the tools was laid there 
with them that they might sow it in heaven. In reply to this, 
I bade them see how the Tnyra had deceived them, and that 
all he had told them was a lie : for though they had long been 
dead, they had never fetched the maize, which was now rotten 
and good for nothing, so that they had sown nothing in heaven. 
But the Cacique answered, that was because they found plenty 
there, and did not want it. — Relacion sumaria de la Historia 
J\ratural de las Indias, par el CapilanGoNz\i.o Fernandez de 
Oviedo. 



The Tlascallans believed that the souls of Chiefs and 
Princes became clouds, or beautiful birds, or precious stones 
whereas those of the common people would pass into beetles, 
rats, mice, weasels, and all vile and stinking animals. — 
ToE^UEMADA, L. 6, c. 47. 



Cadog, Deiniol, 
Padarn, and Teilo. —Ylll. p. 387, col. I. 

The two first of these Saints with Madog Morvyn, are 
called the three holy bachelors of the Isle of Britain. Cadog 
the Wise was a Bard who flourished in the sixth century. 
He is one of the three protectors of innocence ; his protection 
was through the church law : Bias's by the common law ; and 
Pedrogyl's by the law of arms ; these three were also called 
the just Knights of the Court of Arthur. Cadog was the first 
of whom there is any account, who collected the British 
Proverbs. There is a church dedicated to him in Caermar- 
thenshire, and two in Monmouthshire. Deiniol has churches 
dedicated to him in Monmouth, Cardigan, and Pembroke- 
shires. In the year 525 he founded a college at Bangor, 
where he was Abbot, and when it was raised to the dignity of 
Bishopric he was the first Bishop. Padarn and Teilo rank 
with Dewi or David, as the three blessed Visitors, for they 
went about preaching the faith to all degrees of people, not 
only without reward, but themselves alleviating the distresses; 
of the poor as far as their means extended. Padarn found a 
congregation at a place called from him Llanbadarn Vaar, { 
where he had the title of Archbishop. Teilo established the 
college at Llandaff ; the many places called Llandeilo were so 
named in honor of him. He and Cadog and David were the) 
three canonical Saints of Britain. — Cambrian Biography. \ 

Teilo, or Teliau, as he is called by David Williams, took anj 
active part against the heresy of Pelagius, the great Welsh-] 
man. " Such was the lustre of his zeal, that by something! 
like a pun on his name, he was compared to the sun and called} 
HAioD ; and when slain at the altar, devotees contended with; 
so much virulence for the reputation of possessing his body, 
that the Priests, to avoid scandalous divisions, found three: 
miraculous bodies of the Saint, as similar, according to the' 
phrase used on the occasion, as one egg to another; and. 
miracles were equally performed at the tombs of all the three." 
D. Williams's Hist, of Monmouthshire. i 

This mirncle is claimed by some Agiologists for St. Bal-( 
dred, Confessour ; " whose memory in ancient tymes hath byn; 
very famous in the kingdome of Scotland. For that he hav-( 
ing sometymes preached to the people of three villages; 
neere adjoyning one to the other in Scotland, called Aldham,( 
Tiningham, and Preston, was so holy a man of life, that wheni 
he v/as dead, the people of ech village contended one with; 
another which of them should have his body ; in so much, 
that at last, they not agreeing thereabout, took armes, and; 
each of them sought by force to enjoy the same. And when 
the matter came to issue, the said sacred body was found all 
whole in three distinct places of the house where he died ; so 
as the people of each village coming thither, and carrying the 
same away, placed it in their churches, and kept it with great 
honor and veneration for the miracles that at each place it' 
pleased God to worke." — English Martyr ology. 

The story may be as true of the one Saint as of the other, a 
solution in which Romanists and Protestants will agree. 
Godwin {in Catal. Ep. Landav.) says that the Churches which 
contended for the Welsh Saint, were Pennalum, the burial- 
place of his family, Llandeilo Vawr, where he died, and Llan- 
daff, where he had been Bishop ; and he adds, in honor of hiS' 
own church, that by frequent miracles at his tomb it was cer- 
tain Llandaff possessed the true body. Yet in such a case ; 
this the fac simile might have been not unreasonably deemed 
more curious than the original. 

The polypus's power of producing as many heads, legs, andj 
arms as were wanted, has been possessed by all the great 
Saints. 

St. Teilo left his own country for a time because it was in- 
fested by an infectious disorder, called the Yellow Plague, 
which attacked both men and beasts. — Capgrave, quoted in 
Cressy^s Church History of Brittany. 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



425 



David. — Yin. p. 387, col. 1. 

'Mongst Hatterill's lofty hills, that with the clouds are crown'd, 

The valley Ewias lies, immured so deep and round. 

As they below who see the mountains rise so high. 

Might think the straggling lierds were grazing in the sky : 

Which in it such a shape of solitude doth bear, 

As Nature at the first appointed it for prayer. 

Where in an aged cell, with moss and ivy grown, 

In which not to this day the Sun hath ever shone. 

That reverend British Saint, in zealous ages past. 

To contemplation lived ; and did so truly fast, 

As he did only drink what crystal Hodncy yields, 

And fed upon the leeks he gathered in the fields ; 

In memory of whom, in each revolving year, 

The Welshmen on his day that sacred herb do wear. 



Of all the holy men whose fame so fresh remains. 
To whom the Britons built so many sumptuous fanes, 
This saint before the rest their patron still they hold, 
Whose birth their ancient bards to Cambria long foretold ; 
And seated here a see, his bishopric of yore. 
Upon the farthest point of this unfruitful shore. 
Selected by himself, that far from all resort 
With contemplation seemed most fitly to comport, 
That void of all delight, cold, barren, bleak, and dry, 
No pleasure might allure, nor steal the wandering eye. 

Drayton. 

" A. D. 462. It happened on a day, as Gildas was in a 
eermon, (Reader, whether smiling or frowning, forgive the 
digression,) a Nunne big with child came into the congregation, 
whereat the preacher presently was struck dumb, (would not a 
maid's child amaze any man .') and could proceed no farther. 
Afterwards he gave this reason for his silence, because that 
Virgin bare in her body an infant of such signal sanctity as far 
transcended him. Thus, as lesser load stones are reported to 
lose their virtue in the presence of those that are bigger, so 
Gildas was silenced at the approach of the Welsh St. David, 
(being then but Hans in Kelder,) though afterv/ards, like 
Zachary, he recovered his speech again." — Fuller's Church 
History of Oreat Britain. 

" David one day was preaching in an open field to the mul- 
titude, and could not be well seen because of the concourse, 
(though they make him four cubits high, a man and a half in 
stature,) when behold the Earth whereon he stood, officiously 
heaving itself up, mounted him up to a competent visibility 
above all his audience. Whereas our Savior himself, when 
he taught the people, was pleased to choose a mountain, mak- 
ing use of the advantage of Nature without improving his 
miraculous power." — Fuller 

David is indebted to the Romancers for his fame as a 
Champion of Christendom : how he came by his leek is a 
question which the Antiquarians have not determined. I am 
bound to make grateful mention of St. David, having in my 
younger days been benefited by bis merits at Westminster, 
where the first of March is an early play. 



But I, too, here upon this barbarous land, 

Like Elmur and like .^ronan of old, 

Must lift the ruddy spear. — IX. p. 387, col. 2. 

1 Elmur, Cynhaval, and Avaon the son of Taliesin, all de- 
serted the Bardic principles to bear arms, and were called the 
three Chiefs like Bulls in conflict. Avaon, Aronan, and Dy- 

rgynnelw are the three Bards of the ruddy spear. 



for this the day. 

When to his favored city he vouchsafes 
His annual presence. — IX. p. 388, col. I. 

Esta fiesta, d espera de estos diabolicos Dioses, era mxiy 
Uolemne, y muy creida de estas barbaras naciones ; porque el 
' Demonio los teniapersuadidos d ser ve.rdad que entonces venian de 
Hras partes, y querian descansar alii en aqucl dia de su gran 
fiesta. La causa de tenerlo tan creido estos ciegos y desatinados 

54 



hombres, era porque les daba serial de su llegada, en forma visible, 
aunquepor invisible mndn, en esta manera. Aquella noche, que 
era la vigilia de cl festival dia, en la qual el Demonio les tenia 
persuadido que llegaba el Dios mancebo Tezcatlipuca, ponian una 
estera que llamaban petate, en el suclo y entrada de la Capella 
Mayor de su abominable Tcmplo ; sobre la qual cernlan y pol- 
voreaban una poca de harina de maiz, que es su trigo ; y esto era 
al principio de la noche, la qual pasaba el Sumo Sacerdote en vela, 
iendo, y viniendo muy d menudu d vir la estera, si por ventura 
hallaba impresa, en la harina alguna huella da el Divs que aguar- 
daban. Ya las mas horas pasadas de la noche, [que ordinaria- 
■mente era de media noche abajo,) veia la serial de su llegada, que 
era una pisada, 6 huella de jne humano estampada, y senolada en 
la harina. Luego que el Satrapa y Sacerdote la vcia comcnzaba d 
decir d voces, " Ya llego nuestro Dios ! Ya llego nuestro Dios ! 
nuestro Gran Dios es vcnido!''^ A esta vox acudia todo el 
Pueblo, que yd la estaban aguardando, unns en los Tcmplos, y 
otros ensus casus, velando ; y lucgo so^iabaji tudos los ivstrumentos 
musicos, y comenzaban grandes regocijos, y bailaban, y cantaban, 
muy concertadatnente, con mucha solemnidad y contento, celebran- 
do la venida y llegada de sufalso y mentirnso Dios. Yprocedian 
en su baile ha-ita el dia, en todo cl qual crcian que llegaban todos 
los denids. — Porque fin gian ser unos mas viozos que otros, y 
tener unos mas vigor yfuerzas que otros, ypor esta razon no ser 
d una su llegada, sino en difercntes tiempos. 

Tor^uemada, L. X. c. 24. 

Tezcalipoca was believed to arrive first, because he was the 
youngest of the Gods, and never waxed old : Telpuctli, the 
Youth, was one of his titles. On the night of his arrival a 
general carousal took place, in which it was the custom, par- 
ticularly for old people, men and women alike, to drink im- 
moderately ; for they said the liquor which they drank would 
go to wash the feet of the God, after his journey. And I, 
says the Franciscan provincial, — who, if he had been a phi- 
losopher, would perhaps have not written a book at all, or 
certainly not so interesting a one, — I say, that this is a great 
mistake, and the truth is, that they washed their own stripes 
and filled them with liquor, which made them merry, and the 
fumes got up into their heads and overset them ; with which 
fall it is not to be wondered at that they fell into such errors 
and foolishness. 

In the reign of Rajah Chundrunund, a Brahmin woman 
came to sue for justice, against the unknown murderer of her 
husband. The Rajah demanded, whether she had reason to 
suspect any one of the deed. She replied, that her husband 
was a man of a very fair character, and that she had never 
known any one bear him ill-will, excepting one man, with 
whom he was continually disputing upon points of philosophy. 
Tliis person being brought before the Rajah, denied the charge ; 
and the wife was not satisfied witli the cause being determined 
by the ordeal trial, from the dread that he might escape by 
means of witchcraft. The Rajah was so much perplexed how 
to decide upon the case, that he could neither eat nor sleep. 
At length he saw in a dream a sage, who taught him an in- 
cantation, which he should utter over a heap of rice flour, and 
then scatter the meal upon the ground, and direct the sus- 
pected person to walk over it ; if there appeared upon the 
meal the impression of the feet of two persons, then the ac- 
cused was certainly the murderer. When the Rajah awoke, 
he did as the vision had commanded him, and the Brahmin 
was proved guilty. — Ayeen-Akbery. 

It was thought that Tezca often visited the Mexicans, but 
except on this occasion, he always came incognito. A stone 
seat was placed at every crossing, or division, of a street, 
called Momoztli or Ichialoca, where he is expected ; and this was 
continually hung with fresh garlands and green boughs, that 
he might rest there. — Torquemada, 1. 6, c. 20. 



Mexitli, woman-born — IX, p. 388, col. 1. 

The history of Mexitli's birth is related in the Poem, Part 
II. Sect. XXI. Though the Mexicans took their name from 
him, he is more usually called Huitzilupuchtli, or corruptly 
Vitzliputzli. In consequence of the vengeance, which he ex- 
ercised as soon as born, he was styled Tetzahuitl Terror, and 
Tetzauhteotl, the Terrible God. — Clavigero. Torquema- 
DA, ]. 6, c. 21. 



426 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Quetzalcoal. — IX. p. 388, col. 1. 

God of the Winds : his temple was circular, " for even as 
the ayre goeth rounde about the heavens, even for that con- 
sideration they made his temple round. The entrance of that 
temple had a dore made lyke unto the moutli of a serpent, and 
was paynted with foule and divilish gestures, with great teeth 
and gummes wrought, which was a thing to feare those that 
should enter thereat, and especially the Christians, unto 
whom it represented very Hell with that ougly face and mon- 
eterous teeth." — Gomara. 

Some history is blended with fable in the legend of duet- 
zalcohuatl, for such is the uglijograj:hy of his name. He was 
chief of a band of strangers who landed at Panuco, coming 
from the North : their dress was black, long, and loose, like 
the Turkish dress, or the Cassack, says Torquemada, open 
before, without hood or cape, the sleeves full, but not reach- 
ing quite to the elbow ; such dresses were, even in his time, 
used by the natives in some of their dances, in memory of 
this event. Their leader was a white man, florid, and having 
a large beard. At first he settled in Tullan, but left that 
province in consequence of the vices of its Lords Huemac and 
Tezcalipoca, and removed to Cholullan. He taught the na- 
tives to cut the green stones, called chalchihuites, which were 
so highly valued, and to work silver and gold. Every thing 
flourished in his reign ; the head of maize was a man's load, 
and the cotton grew of all colors ; he had one palace of em- 
eralds, another of silver, another of shells, one of all kinds of 
wood, one of turquoises, and one of feathers ; his commands 
were proclaimed by a cryer from the Sierra of Tzatzitepec, 
near the city of Tulla, and were heard as far as the sea-coast, 
and for more than a hundred leagues round. Fr. Bernardino 
de Sahagun heard such a voice once in the dead of the night, 
far exceeding the power of any human voice : he was told that 
it was to summon the laborer to the maizes fields ; but both 
he and Torquemada believed it was the Devil's doing. Not- 
withstanding his power, Q.uetzalcoal was driven out by Tez- 
calipoca and Huemac : before he departed he burnt or buried 
all his treasures, converted the cocoa-trees into others of less 
worth, and sent off all the sweet singing birds, who had before 
abounded, to go before him to Tlapallan, the land of the Sun, 
whither he himself had been summoned. The Indians always 
thought he would return, and when first they saw the Span- 
ish ships, thought he was come in these moving temples. 
They worshipped him, for the useful arts which he had taught, 
for the tranquillity they had enjoyed under his government, 
and because he never suffered blood to be shed in sacrifice, 
but ordered bread and flowers, and incense to be offered up 
instead, — Torquemada, 1. 3, c. 7^ 1. 6, c. 24. 

Some authors have supposed that these strangers came from 
Ireland, because they scarred their faces and eat human flesh : 
tliis is no compliment to the Irish, and certainly does not ac- 
cord with the legend. Others that they were Carthaginians, 
because New Spain was called Anahuace, and the Phoeni- 
cians were children of Anak. That the Carthaginians peopled 
America, is the more likely, say they, because they bored 
their ears, and so did the Incas of Peru. One of these princes, 
in process of time, says Garcilasso, being willing to enlarge 
the privileges of his people, gave them permission to bore 
their ears also, — but not so wide as the Incas. 

This much may legitimately be deduced from the legend, 
that New Spain, as well as Peru, was civilized by a foreign 
adventurer, who, it seems, attempted to destroy the sangui- 
nary superstition of the country, but was himself driven out 
by the priests. 



Tlaloe. — IX. p. 388, col. 1. 
God of the Waters : he is mentioned more particularly in 
Section XII. Tlalocatecuhtli, the Lord of Paradise, as he is 
also called, was the oldest of the country Gods. His Image 
was that of a man sitting on a square seat, with a vessel be- 
fore him, in which a specimen of all the different grains and 
fruit seeds in the country was to be offered ; it was a sort of 
pumice stone, and, according to tradition, had been found 
upon the mountains. One of the Kings of Tetzcuco ordered 
a better Idol to be made, which was destroyed by lightning, 
and the original one in consequence replaced with fear and 
trembling. As one of the arms had been broken in removing. 



it was fastened with three large golden nails ; but in the time 
of the first Bishop Zumarraga, the golden nails were taken 
away and the idol destroyed. 

Tlaloc dwelt among the mountains, where he collected the 
vapors and dispensed them in rain and dew. A number of 
inferior Deities were under his command. 



TLalala. — IX. p. 388, col. 2. 

Some of my readers will stumbje at this name ; but to those 
who would accuse me of designing to Hottentotify the lan- 
guage by introducing one of the barbarous clacks, I must re- 
ply, that the sound is Grecian. The writers who have sup- 
posed that America was peopled from Plato's Island, observe 
that the tl, a combination so remarkably frequent in the Mex- 
ican tongue, has probably a reference to AfZantis and the 
Atlantic, Atl being the Mexican word for water, and 7'/aloc 
the God of the waters — an argument quite worthy of the 
hypothesis. — Fr. Gregorio Garcia. Origen de los IndioSy 
Lib, 4, c, 8, § 2. 

The quaintest opinion ever started upon this obscure sub- 
ject is tliat of Fr. Pedro Simon, who argued that the Indians 
were of the tribe of Issachar, because he was " a strong ass in 
a pleasant land, who bowed his shoulder to bear, and became a 
servant unto tribute." If the Hebrew word, which is rendered 
tribute, may mean taxes as well, I humbly submit it to 
consideration, whether Issachar doth not typify John Bull. 



Tiger of the War. — IX, p. 



col. 2. 



This was one of the four most honorable titles among the 
Mexicans ; the others were Shedder of Blood, Destroyer of 
Men, and Lord of the Dark House. Great Slayer of Men 
was also a title among the Natchez ; but to obtain this it was 
necessary that the warrior should have made ten prisoners, 
or brought home twenty scalps. 

The Chinese have certain soldiers whom they call Tigers 
of War. On their large round shields of basket-work are 
painted monstrous faces of some imaginary animal, intended to 
frighten the enemy, — Barrow's Travels in China. 



Whose conquered Gods lie idle in their chains, 

And with tame weakness brook captivity. — IX, p. 388, col, 2 

The Gods of the conquered nations were kept fastened and 
caged in the Mexican temples. They who argued for the 
Phcenician origin of the Indians, might have compared this 
with the triumph of the Philistines over the Ark, when they 
placed it in the temple of Dagon, 



peace-offerings of repentance fill 

The temple courts. — IX. p. 388, col. 2. 

Before the Mexican temples were large courts, kept well 
cleansed, and planted with the trees which they call Ahu- 
chuetl, which are green throughout the year, and give a 
pleasant shade, wherefore they are much esteemed by the 
Indians ; they are our savin, {sabines de Espana.) In the com- 
fort of their shade the priests sit, and await those who come 
to make offerings or sacrifice to the idol. — Historia de la 
Fundacion y Discurso de la Provincia de Santiago de Mexico de 
la orden de Predicadores ; por el Maestro Fray Augustin Da- 
viLA Padilla. Brusseles, 1625. 



Ten painful months. 
Immured amid the forest, had he dwelt. 
In abstinence and solitary prayer 
Passing his nights and days. — X, p, 389, col, 1. 

Torquemada, L. 9, c. 25. Clavigero. 

The most painful penance to which any of these Priests 
were subjected, was that which the Chololtecas performed 
every four years, in honor of Q.uetzalcoal. All the Priests sat 
round the walls in the temple, holding a censer in their hands : 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



427 



from this posture thoy wore not permitted to move, except 
when tliey went out for the necessary calls of n;iture ; two 
hours they might sleep at the beginning of the night, and one 
after sunrise j at midnight, they bathed, smeared themselves 
with a black unction, and pricked their ears to offer the blood : 
the twenty-one remaining hours they sate in the same posture 
incensing the idol, and in that same posture took the little 
sleep permitted them ; this continued sixty days ; if any one 
slept out of his time, his companions pricked him : the cere- 
mony continued twenty days longer, but they were then per- 
mitted more rest. — ToRf^uEMADA, 1. 10, c. 32. 

Folly and madness have had as much to do as knavery in 
priestcraft. Tlie knaves, in general, have made the fools tlieir 
instruments, but they not unfrequently have suffered in their 
turn. 



Coatlantona. — X. p. 389, col. 2. 

The mother of Mexitii, who, being a mortal woman, was 
made immortal for her son's sake;, and appointed Goddess of 
all herbs, flowers, and trees. — Clavigero. 



Mammuth. — X. p. 390, col. 9. 

Mr. Jefferson informs us, that a late governor of Virginia, 
having asked some delegates of the Dclawares what they knew 
or had heard respecting this animal, the chief speaker imme- 
diately put himself into an oratorical attitude, and, with a 
pomp suited to the elevation of his subject, informed him, that 
it was a tradition handed down from tlieir fathers, that in 
ancient times, a herd of them came to the Big-bone-licks, and 
began a universal destruction of the bears, deer, elks, buffa- 
loes, and other animals which had been created for the use of 
the Indians ; that the Great Man above, looking down, and 
seeing this, was so enraged, thiit he seized his lightning, de- 
scended to the earth, and seated himself upon a neighboring 
mountain on a rock, on which his seat and the print of his 
feet are still to be seen, and hurled his bolts among them, till 
the whole were slaughtered, except the big bull, who, present- 
ing his forehead to the shafts, sliook them off as they fell ; but 
at length missing one, it wounded him on the side, whereon, 
springing around, he bounded over the Ohio, the Wabash, the 
Illinois, and, finally, over the great lakes, where he is living 
at this day. 

Colonel G. Morgan, in a note to Mr. Morse, says, " These 
bones are found only at the Salt Licks, on the Ohio ; some few 
scattered grinders have, indeed, been found in other places ; 
but it has been supposed these have been brought from the 
above-mentioned deposit by Indian warriors and others, who 
have passed it, as we know many have been spread in this 
manner. When I first visited the Salt Licks," says the 
Colonel, " in 1766, I met here a large party of the Iroquois 
and Wyandot Indians, who were then on a war expedition 
against the Chicasaw tribe. The head chief was a very old 
man to be engaged in war ; he told me he was eighty-four 
years old ; he was probably as much as eighty. I fixed on 
this venerable chief, as a person from whom some knowledge 
might be obtained. After making him some acceptable pres- 
ents of tobacco, paint, ammunition, &c., and complimenting 
him upon the wisdom of his nation, their prowess in war, and 
rudence in peace, I intimated my ignorance respecting the 
great bones before us, which nothing but his superior knowledge 
could remove, and accordingly requested him to inform me 
what he knew concerning them. Agreeably to the customs 
of his nation, he informed me in substance as follows : 

" Whilst I was yet a boy, I passed this road several times 
to war against the Catawbas ; and the wise old chiefs, among 
whom was my grandfather, then gave me the tradition, handed 
down to us, respecting these bones, the like to which are found 
in no other part of the country ; it is as follows : After the 
Great Spirit first formed the world, he made tlie various birds 
and beasts which now inhabit it. He also made man ; but 
having formed him white, and very imperfect and ill-tempered, 
he placed him on one side of it where he now inhabits, and 
from whence he has lately found a passage across the great 
water, to be a plague to us. As the Great Spirit was not 



pleased with tliis his work, he took of black clny, and made 
what tjou call a negro, with a woolly head. This black man 
was much better tlian the white man : but still he did not 
answer the wish of the Great Spirit ; that is, he was imperfect. 
At last the Great Spirit, having procured a piece of pure, fine 
red cliy, formed from it tlie red man, perfectly to his mind ; 
and he was so well pleased with him that he placed him on 
this great island, sei)arate from the while and black men, and 
gave him rules for his conduct, promising happiness in propor- 
tion as they should be observed. He increased exceedingly, 
and was perfectly happy for ages ; but the foolish young 
people, at length forgetting his rules, became exceedingly 
ill-tempered and wicked. In consequence of this the Great 
Spirit created the Great Buffalo, the bones of which you now 
see before us ; these made war upon the human species alone, 
and destroyed all but a few, who repented and promised the 
Great Spirit to live according to his laws, if he would restrain 
the devouring enemy: whereupon he sent lightning and 
thunder, and destroyed the whole race, in this spot, two 
excepted, a male and a female, which he shut up in yonder 
mountain, ready to let loose a^ain, should occasion require." 
The following tradition, existing among the natives, we give 
in the very terms of a Shawanee Indian, to show that the 
impression made on their minds by it must have been forcible. 
" Ten thousand moons ago, when nought but gloomy forests 
covered this land of the sleeping sun, long before the pale men, 
with thunder and fire at their command, rushed on the wings 
of the wind to ruin this garden of nature ; when nought but 
the untamed wanderers of the woods, and men as unrestrained 
as they were the lords of the soil ; a race of animals were in 
being, huge as the frowning precipice, cruel as the bloody 
pantlier, swift as the descending eagle, and terrible as the 
angel of night. The pines crashed beneath their feet, and the 
lake shrunk when they slaked their thirst; the forceful jav- 
elin in vain was hurled, and the barbed arrow fell harmless 
from their side. Forests were laid waste at a meal ; the 
groans of expiring animals were every where heard ; and 
whole villages inhabited by men were destroyed in a moment. 
Tiie cry of universal distress extended even to the region of 
peace in the west, and the Good Spirit interposed to save the 
unhappy. The forked lightnings gleamed all around, and 
loudest thunder rocked the globe. The bolts of heaven were 
hurled upon the cruel destroyers alone, and the mountains 
echoed with the bellowings of death. All were killed except 
one male, the fiercest of the race, and him even the artillery 
of the skies assailed in vain. He ascended the bluest summit 
which shades the source of the Monongahela, and, roaring 
aloud, bid defiance to every vengeance. The red lightning 
scorched the lofty firs, and rived the knotty oaks, but only 
glanced upon the enraged monster. At length, maddened 
with fury, he leaped over the waves of the west at a bound, 
and this moment reigns the uncontrolled monarch of the wil- 
derness, in despite of even Omnipotence itself." — Winter- 
BOTHAM. The tradition probably is Indian, but certainly not 
the bombast. 



In your youth 
Ye have quaffed manly blood, that manly thoughts 
Might ripen in your hearts. — X. p. 390, col. 2. 

In Florida, when a sick man was bled, women who were 
suckling a man-child drank the blood, if the patient were a 
brave or strong man, that it might strengthen their milk and 
make the boys braver. Pregnant women also drank it. — Le 
MoYNE DE Morgues. 

There is a more remarkable tale of kindred barbarity in 
Irish history. The royal family had been all cut off' except 
one girl, and the wise men of the country fed her upon chil- 
dren's flesh to make her the sooner marriageable. I have not 
the book to refer to, and cannot therefore ive the names ; but 
the story is in Keating's history. 



The spreading radii of the mystic toheel. — X. p. 391, col. 1. 

This dance is described from Clavigero ; from whom also 
the account of their musical instruments is taken. 



428 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN 



On the top 
Of yon magnolia the loud turkei/s voice 
Is heralding the dawn. — XI. p. 391, col. 2. 

"I was awakened in the morning early, by the cheering 
converse of the wild turkey-cock {Mcleagns ocddentalis) salu- 
ting each other, from the sun-brightened tops of the lofty 
Ciipressus disticha and Magnolia grandiflora. They begin at 
early dawn, and continue till sunrise, from March to the last 
of April. The high forests ring with the noise, like the 
crowing of the domestic cock, of these social sentinels, the 
watch-word being caught and repeated, from one to another, 
for hundreds of miles around; insomuch, that the whole 
country is, for an hour or more, in an universal shout. A little 
after sunrise, their crowing gradually ceases, they quit their 
high lodging places, and alight on the earth, where, expanding 
their silver-bordered train, they strut and dance round about 
the coy female, while the deep forests seem to tremble with 
their shrill noise." — Bartram. 



His cowl was white. — XII. p. 392, col. 2. 

" They wore large garments like surplices, which were 
white, and had hoods such as the Canons wear; their hair 
long and matted, so that it could not be parted, and now full 
of fresh blood from their ears, which they had that day sa- 
crificed; and their nails very long." — B. Diaz. Such is the 
description of the Mexican priests by one who had seen them. 



Tlalocan. — 'Sll. p. 393, col. 1. 

The Paradise of Tlaloc. 

" They distinguished three places for the souls when sepa- 
rated from the body : Those of soldiers who died in battle c«r 
in captivity among their enemies, and those of women who 
died in labor, went to the House of the Sun, whom they 
considered as the Prince of Glory, where they led a life of 
endless delight; where, every day, at the first appearance of 
the sun's rays, they hailed his birth with rejoicings ; and with 
dancing, and the music of instruments and of voices, attended 
him to his meridian ; there they met tiie souls of the women, 
and with the same festivity accompanied him to his setting : 
they next supposed, that these spirits, after four years of that 
glorious life, went to animate clouds, and birds of beautiful 
feathers and of sweet song, but always at liberty to rise again 
to heaven, or to descend upon the earth, to warble and suck 
the flowers. — The souls of those that were drowned or 
struck by lightning, of those who died of dropsy, tumors, 
wounds, and other such diseases, went along with the souls 
of children, at least of those which were sacrificed to Tlaloc, 
the God of Water, to a cool and delightful place called 
Tlalocan, where that God resided, and where they were to 
enjoy the most delicious repasts, with every other kind of 
pleasure. — Lastly, the third place allotted to the souls of 
those who suffered any other kind of death was Mictlan, or 
Hell, which they conceived to be a place of utter darkness, in 
which reigned a God, called Mictlanteuctli, Lord of Hell, and 
a Goddess, named Miclancihuatl. I am of opinion that they 
believed Hell to be a place in the centre of the earth, but 
they did not imagine that the souls underwent any other 
punishment there than what they suffered by the darkness of 
their abode. Siguenza thought the Mexicans placed Hell in 
the northern part of the earth, as the word Mictlampa signified 
towards both." — Clavigeko. 

When any person whose manner of death entitled him to a 
place in Tlalocan was buried, (for they were never burnt,) a 
rod or bough was laid in the grave with him, that it might 

bud out again and flourish in that Paradise Tor^uemada 

1. 13, c. 48. ' 

The souls of all the children who had been offered to 
Tlaloc, were believed to be present at all after sacrifices, 
under the care of a large and beautiful serpent, called Xiuh- 
coatl. — Tor^uemada, 1. 8, c. 14. 



Qreen islets float along. — XII. p. 393, col. 2. 

Artificial islands are common in China as well as in 
Mexico. 



" The Chinese fishermen, having no houses on shore, nor 
stationary abode, but moving about in their vessels upon the 
extensive lakes and rivers, have no inducement to cultivate 
patches of ground, which the pursuits of their profession might 
require them to leave for the profit of another ; they prefer, 
therefore, to plant their onions on rafts of bamboo, well inter- 
woven with reeds and long grass, and covered with earth ; and 
these floating gardens are towed after their boats." — Bar- 
row's China. 



To Tlaloc it was hallowed ; and the stone, 
Which closed its entrance, never was removed, 
Save when the yearly festival returned. 
And in its womb a child was sepulchred. 
The living victim. — XII. p. 394, col. 1. 

There were three yearly sacrifices to Tlaloc. At the first, 
two children were drowned in the Lake of Mexico ; but in all 
the provinces they were sacrificed on the mountains; they 
were a boy and girl, from three to four years old : in this last 
case the bodies were preserved in a stone chest, as relics, I 
suppose, says Torquemada, of persons whose hands were 
clean from actual sin ; though their souls were foul with the 
original stain, of which they were neither cleansed nor purged, 
and therefore they went to the place appointed for all like 
them who perish unbaptized. — At the second, four children, 
from six to seven years of age, who were brought for the pur- 
pose, the price being contributed by the chiefs, were shut up 
in a cavern, and left to die with hunger : the cavern was not 
opened again till the next year's sacrifice. — The third con- 
tinued during the three rainy months, during all which time 
children were offered up on the mountains ; these also were 
bought ; the heart and blood were given in sarcrifice, the bodies 
were feasted on by the chiefs and priests. — Torquemada, 
1. 7, c. 21. 

" In the country of the Mistecas was a cave sacred to the 
Water God. Its entrance was concealed, for though this 
Idol was generally reverenced, this his temple was known to 
few ; it was necessary to crawl the length of a musket-shot, 
and then the way, sometimes open and sometimes narrow, 
extended for a mile, before it reached the great dome, a place 
70 feet long, and 40 wide, where were the idol and the altar ; 
the Idol was a rude column of stalactites, or incrustations, 
formed by a spring of petrifying water, and other fantastic 
figures had thus grown around it. The ways of the cave were 
so intricate, that sometimes those who had unwarily bewil- 
dered themselves there perished. The Friar who discovered 
this Idol destroyed it, and filled up the entrance. " — Padilla, 
p. 643. 



The Temple Serpents. — XIV. p. 395, col. 2. 

" The head of a sacrificed person was strung up ; the limbs 
eaten at the feast ; the body given to the wild beasts which 
were kept within the temple circuits; moreover, in that ac- 
cursed house they kept vipers and venomous snakes, who had 
something at their tails which sounded like morris-bells, and 
they are the worst of all vipers ; these were kept in cradles, 
and barrels, and earthen vessels, upon feathers, and there they 
laid their eggs, and nursed up their snakelings, and they were 
fed with the bodies of the sacrificed and with dog's flesh. We 
learnt for certain, that, after they had driven us from Mexico, 
and slain above 850 of our soldiers and of the men of Narvaez, 
these beasts and snakes, who had been offered to their cruel 
idol to be in his company, were supported upon their flesh for 
many days. When these lions and tigers roared, and the 
jackals and foxes howled, and the snakes hissed, it was a 
grim thing to hear them, and it seemed like hell." — Bernal 
Diaz. 



He had been confined 
Where myriad insects on his nakedness 
Infixed their venomous anger, and no start, 
JVo shudder, shook his frame. — XIV. p. 395, col. 2. 
Some of the Orinoco tribes required these severe proba- 
tions, which are described by Gumilla, c. 35; the principle 
upon which they acted is strikingly stated by the Abbe Ma- 
rigny in an Arabian anecdote. 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



429 



" Ali having been chosen by Nasser for Emir, or general 
of his army, against Makan, being one day before tliis prince, 
whose orders he was receiving, made a convulsive motion with 
his whole body on feeling an acute bite : Nasser perceived it 
not. After receiving his orders, the Emir returned home, and 
taking off hia clothes to examine the bite, found the scorpion 
that had bitten him. Nasser, learning this adventure, when 
next he saw the Emir, reproved him for having sustained the 
evil, without complaining at the moment, that it might have 
been remedied. " How, sir," replied the Emir, " should I 
he capable of braving the arrow's point, and the sabre's edge, 
at the head of your armies, and far from you, if in your pres- 
ence I could not bear the bite of a scorpion ! " 

Rank in war among savages can only be procured by superior 
skill or strength. 

Y desde la ninez al egercicio 
los apremian por fuerza y los incitan, 

y en el belico estudio y diiro oficio 
entrando en mas edad los cgarcitan ; 

si alguno defiaqueza da un indlcio 
del uso militar lo inhabilitan, 

y el que sale en las annas senalado 

conforme a su valor le dan el grado. 

Los cargos de la guerra y prceminencia 

no son por Jlacos medios provcidos, 
ni van por calidad, ni por hcrcncia 

nipor hacienda, y ser mejor nacidos ; 
mas la virtud del brazo y la excclencia, 

esta hace los h ombres prefer idos, 
esta ihistra, habilita, perficiona, 
y quilata el valor de la persona. 

Araucana, 1. p. 5. 



. . . .from the slaughtered brother of their king 
He stripped the skin, and formed of it a drum, 
Whose sound affrighted armies. — XIV. p. 395, col. 2. 

In some provinces they flead the captives taken in war, and 
with their skins covered their drums, thinking with the sound 
of them to affright their enemies ; for their opinion was, that 
when the kindred of the slain heard the sound of these drums, 
they would immediately be seized with fear and put to flight. 
— Garcilaso de la Vega. 

" In the Palazzo Caprea at Bologna are several Turkish 
bucklers lined with human skin, dressed like leather ; they 
told us it was that of the backs of Christian prisoners taken in 
battle ; and the Turks esteem a buckler lined with it to be a 
particular security against the impression of an arrow, or the 
stroke of a sabre." — Lady Miller's Letters from Italy. 



Should thine arm 
Subdue in battle six suceessivefoes. 
Life, liberty, and glory will repay 
The noble conquest. — XIV. p. 396, col. 1. 

Clavigero. One instance occurred, in which, after the cap- 
tive had been victorious in all the actions, he was put to death, 
because they durst not venture to set at liberty so brave an 
enemy. But this is mentioned as a very dishonorable thing. 
I cannot turn to the authority, but can trust my memory for 
the fact. 



Often had he seen 
His gallant countrymen, with naked breasts. 
Rush on their iron-coated enemy. — XIV. p. 395, col. 1. 

Schyr Mawrice alsua the Berclay 
Fra the gret battaill held hys way, 
With a great rout off Walls men ; 
Q.uahareuir yeid men mycht them ken. 
For thai wele ner all nakyt war, 
Or lynnyn clayths had but mar. 

The Bruce, b. 13, p. 147. 



./^nd with the sound of sonorous instruments, 

Jind with their shouts, and screams, and yells, drove back 

The Britons'' fainter war-cry. — XV. p. 398, col. 1. 

Music seems to have been as soon applied to military as to 
religious uses. 

Conflautas, cuernos, roncos instrumentos, 
alto estruendo, alaridos desdenosos, 

salen losfieros barbaros sangrientos 
contra los Espanoles valerosos. 

Araucana, 1. p. 73. 

"James Roid, who had acted as piper to a rebel regiment 
in the Rebellion, suffered death at York, on Nov. 15, 1746, ag 
a rebel. On his trial it was alleged in his defence, that he 
had not carried arms. But the court observed that a Highland 
regiment never marched without a piper, and therefore hia 
bagi>ipe, in the eye of the law, was an instrument of war." — 
Walker's Irish Bards. 

The construction was too much in the spirit of military law. 
j^Isop's trumpeter should not have served as a precedent. 
Croxall's fables have been made of much practical 
quence : this poor piper was hung for not remembering < 
and Gilbert Wakefield imprisoned for quoting another. 



A line of ample measure still retained 
The missile shaft. — XV. p. 398, col. I. 

The Romans had a weapon of this kind which they called 
Aclidcs, having a thong fixed to it by which it might be drawn 
back : it was full of spikes, so as to injure both when it struck 
and when it was withdrawn. — Rees's Cycl. 

A retractile weajjon of tremendous effect was used by the 
Gothic tribes. Its use is thus described in a very interesting 
poem of the sixth century. 

At nonus pugnx Helmnod successit, et ipse 
Incertum triplici gestabatfune tridentem, 
Quern post terga quidem stantes socii tenuerunt ," 
Consiliumquefuit, dum cuspes missa sederet 
In clypeo, cuncti pariter traxisse studerent, 
Ut vel sic hominem dcjccissentfuribundum, 
Atque sub hac certum sibi spe posuere triumphum. 
JVec mora ; Dux, totasfandens in hrachia vires, 
Misit in adversum magna cum voce tridentem, 
Et dicens, finis fcrro tibi, calve, sub isto. 
Qui, ventos penetrans, jaculorum more coruscat; 
Quod gcims a.spidis, ex alta sese arbore, tanto 
Turbine dcmittit, quo cuncta obstantia vincat. 
Quid moror 7 umbonem scindit, pcltaque resultat. 
Clamorcm Franoi tollunt, saltusque resultant ; 
Obnirique truhunt restim simul atque vicissim ; 
JVec dubitat princeps tali se aptare labori ; 
Manarunt cunctis sudoris jlumina membris .- 
Sed tamen hie intra velut esculus astitit heros. 
Qui non plus petit astra comis, quam tartara fibris, 
Contenmens omnes ventorum, immota, fragores. 

De prima Expeditione Attilce, Regis Hunnorum, 
in Oallias, ac de Rebus Oestis Waltharii Aqui- 
tanorum Principis. Carmen Epicum. 

This weapon, which is described by Suidas, Eustatius, and 
Agathias, was called Ango, and was a barbed trident ; if it 
entered the body, it could not be extracted without certain 
death, and if it only pierced the shield, the shield became un- 
manageable, and the enemy was left exposed. 

The Cataia, which Virgil mentions as a Teutonic weapon, 
was also retractile. This was a club of about a yard long, 
with a heavy end worked into four sharp points ; to the thin 
end, or handle, a cord was fixed, which enabled a person, well 
trained, to throw it with great force and exactness, and then 
by a jerk to bring it back to his hand, either to renew his 
throw, or to use it in close combat. This weapon was called 
Cat and Catai. — Cambrian Register. 

The Irish horsemen were attended by servants on foot, com- 
monly called Deltini, armed only with darts or javelins, to 
which thongs of leather were fastened wherewith to draw 



430 



NOTES to MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



them back after they were cast, — Sir James Wake's An- 
tiquities of Ireland. 



Paynalton.—XY. p. 398, col. 2. 

When this name was pronounced, it was equivalent to a 
proclamation for rising in mass. — Torquemada, 1. 6, c. 22. 



The House of Anns. — XV. p. 398, col. 2. 

The name of this arsenal is a tolerable specimen of Mexi- 
can sesquipedalianism j Tlacochcalcoatlyacapan. — Torque- 
MADA, 1. 8, c. 13. 

Cortes consumed all the weapons of this arsenal in the 
infamous execution of dualpopoca, and his companions. — 
Herrera, 2. 8. 9. 



The ablution of the Stone of Sacrifice. —XV. p. 398, col. 2. 

An old priest of the Tlatelucas, when they were at war 
with the Mexicans, advised them to drink the holy beverage 
before they went to battle : this was made by washing the 
Stone of Sacrifice ; the king drank first, and then all his chiefs 
and soldiers in order ; it made them eager and impatient for 
the fight. — Torquemada, 1. 2, c. 58. 

To physic soldiers before a campaign seems an odd way of 
raising their courage, yet this was done by one of the fiercest 
American tribes. 

" When the warriors among the Natchez had assembled in 
sufficient numbers for their expedition, the Medicine of War 
was prepared in the chief's cabin. This was an emetic, com- 
posed of a root boiled in water. The warriors, sometimes to 
the number of three hundred, seated themselves round the 
kettles or caldrons ; about a gallon was served to each ; the 
ceremony was to swallow it at one draught, and then dis- 
charge it again with such loud eructations and efforts as might 
be heard at a great distance." — Heriot's History of Canada. 
- Odd as this method of administering medicine may appear, 
some tribes have a still more extraordinary mode of dis- 
pensing it. 

" As I was informed there was to be a physic dance at 
night, curiosity led me to the town-house to see the prepara- 
tion. A vessel of their own make, that might contain twen- 
ty gallons, (there being a great many to take the medicine,) 
was set on the fire, round which stood several gourds filled 
with river water, which was poured into the pot. This done, 
there arose one of the beloved women, who, opening a deer- 
skin filled with various roots and herbs, took out a small 
handful of something like fine salt, i)art of which she threw 
on the head man''s seat, and part on the fire close to the pot ; 
she then took out the wing of a swan, and, after flourishing it 
over the pot, stood fixed for near a minute, muttering some- 
thing to herself J then taking a shrub like laurel, which I sup- 
posed was the physic, she threw it into the pot, and returned 
to her seat. As no more ceremony seemed to be going on, I 
took a walk till the Indians assembled to take It. At my re- 
turn I found the house quite full ; they danced near an hour 
round the pot, till one of them, with a small gourd tliat might 
hold about a gill, took some of the physic, and drank it, after 
which all the rest took in turn. One of their head men pre- 
sented me with some, and in a manner compelled me to drink, 
though I would willingly have declined. It was, however, 
much more palatable than I expected, having a strong taste 
of sassafras ; the Indian who presented it told me it was taken 
to wash away tlielr sins, so that this is a spiritual medicine, 
and might be ranked among their religious ceremonies. They 
are very solicitous about its success ; the conjurer, for several 
mornings before it is drank, makes a dreadful howling, yelling, 
and hollowing from the top of the town-house, to frigliten 
away apparitions and evil spirits.'^ — Timeerlake. 



< . . . , two fire-flies gave 
Their lustre. —XVII. p. 402, col. 1. 

It is well known that Madame Merian painted one of these 
insects by its own light. 
^' In Hispaniola and the rest of the Ocean Islandes, there 



are plashy and marshy places, very fitt for the feeding of 
heardes of cattel. Gnattes of divers kindes, ingendered of that 
moyste heate, grievously afflict the colonies seated on the 
brinke thereof, and that not only in the night, as in otlier 
countries ; therefore the inhabitants build low houses, and 
make little doores therein, scarce able to receive the master, 
and without holes, that the gnatts may have no entrance. 
And for that cause also, they forbeare to light torches or can- 
dels, for that the gnatts by natural instinct follow the light; 
)'-et neverthelesse they often finde a way in. Nature hath 
given that pestilent mischiefe, and hath also given a remedy ; 
as she hath given us cattes to destroy the filthy progeny of 
mise, so hath she given them pretty and commodious hunters, 
which they call Cucuij. These be harmless winged worms, 
somewhat less than battes or reere mise, I should rather call 
them a kind of beetles, because they have other wings after - 
the same order under their hard-winged sheath, which they 
close within the sheath when they leave flying. To this little 
creature (as we see flyes shine by night, and certaine slug- 
gish worms lying in thick hedges) provident nature hath given 
some very cleere looking-glasses ; two in the seate of the 
eyes, and two lying hid in the flank, under the sheath, which 
he then sheweth, when, after the manner of the beetle, un- 
sheathing his thin wings, he taketh his flight into the ayre ; 
whereupon every Cucuius bringeth four lights or candels with 
him. But how they are a remedy for so great a mischiefe, as 
is the stinging of these gnatts, which in some places are little 
less than bees, it is a pleasant thing to hear. Hee who un- 
derstandeth he hath those troublesome guestes (the gnattes) at 
home, orfeareth lest they may get in, diligently hunteth after 
the Cucuij, which he deceiveth by this means and industry, 
which necessity (effecting wonders) hath sought out : whoso 
wanteth Cucuij, goeth out of the house in the first twilight 
of the night, carrying a burning fire-brande in his hande, and 
ascendeth the next hillock, that the Cucuij may see it, and 
hee swingeth the fire-brande about calling Cucuius aloud, and 
beateth the ayre withal, often calling and crying out, Cucuie, 
Cucuie. Many simple people suppose that the Cucuij, de- 
lighted with that noise, come flying and flocking together to 
the bellowing sound of him that calleth them, for they come 
with a speedy and headlong course : but I rather thinke the 
Cucuij make haste to the brightness of the fire-brande, because 
swarmes of gnatts fly unto every light, which the Cucuij eate 
in the very ayre, as the martlets and swallowes doe. Behold 
the desired number of Cucuij, at what time the hunter casteth 
the fire-brande out of his hand. Some Cucuius sometimes 
followeth the fire-brande, and lighteth on the grounde ; then 
is he easily taken, as travellers may take a beetle if they have 
need thereof, walking with his wings shutt. Others denie 
that the Cucuij are woont to be taken after this manner, but 
say, that the hunters especially have boughs full of leaves 
ready prepared, or broad linnencloaths, wherewith they smite 
the CwcMJMs flying about on high, and strike him to the ground, 
wliere he lyeth as it were astonished, and suffereth himself 
to bee taken ; or, as they say, following the fall of the fly, 
they take the preye, by casting the same bushie bough or 
linen cloath upon him : howsoever it bee, the hunter havinge 
the hunting Cucuij, returneth home, and shutting the doore 
of the house, letteth the preye goe. The Cucuij loosed, 
swiftly flyeth about the whole house seeking gnatts, under 
their hanging bedds, and about the faces of them that sleepo, 
whiche the gnatts used to assay le : they seem to execute the 
office of watchmen, that such as are shut in may quietly rest. 
Another pleasant and profitabJe commodity proceedeth from 
the Cucuij. As many eyes as every Cucuius openeth, the 
hoste enjoyeth the light of so many candels ; so that the in- 
hai)itanis spinne, sewe, weave, and dance by the light of the 
flying Cucuij. The inhabitants thinke that the Cucuius is de- 
lighted with the harmony and melody of their singing, and 
that hee also exerciseth his motion in the ayre according to the 
action of their dancing ; but hee, by reason of the divers circuit 
of the gnatts, of necessity swiftly flyeth about divers ways to 
seek his food. Our men also reade and write by that light, 
which always continueth until he have gotten enough whereby 
he may be well fedd. The gnatts being cleansed, or driven 
out of doors, the Cmo/ims heginning to famish, the light begin- 
neth to faiie ; therefore when they see his light to waxe dim, 
opening the little doore, they set him at libertie, that he may J 
seeke his foode. I 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



431 



" In sport and merriment, or to the intent to terrifie such as 
are afrayd of every shadow, they say, that many wanton wild 
fellowes sometimes rubbed their faces by night with the flesh 
of a Citcuiiis, being killed, with purpose to meet their neigh- 
' bors with a flaming countenance, as with us sometimes wanton 
young men, putting a gaping toothed vizard over their face, 
endeavor to terrifie children, or women, who are easily 
frighted ; for the face being anointed with the lump or fleshy 
part of the Cucuius^ shineth like a flame of fire ; yet in short 
space that fiery virtue waxeth feeble and is extinguished, see- 
ing it is a certain bright humour received in a thin substance. 
There is also another wonderful commodity proceeding from 
the Cucuius ; the islanders appointed by our menn, goe with 
their good will by night, with two Cucuij tied to the great 
toes of their feet ; for the traveller goeth better by the direc- 
j tion of these lights, than if he brought so many candels with 
I him as their open eyes ; he also carryeth another in his hand 
: to seek the UticB by night, a certain kind of cony, a little 
exceeding a mouse in bignesse and bulke of bodie : which 
four-footed beast they onely knevve before our coming thither, 
and did eate the same. They also go a fishing by the light 
of the CttCMij." — PiETRO Martire. 



Bells of gold 
Embossed his glittering helmet. — XVIII. p. 404, col. 2. 

Among the presents which Cortes sent to Spain were " two 
helmets covered with blue precious stones ; one edged with 
golden belles and many plates of gold, two golden knobbes 
sustaining the belles. The other covered vyith the same 
stones, but edged with 25 golden belles, crested with a greene 
foule sitting on the top of the helmet, whose feet, bill, and 
eyes were all of gold, and several golden knobbes sustained 
every bell." — Pietro Martire. 



So oft the yeoman had^ in days of yore. 
Cursing his perilous tenure, wound the hoi-n. 

XVIII. p. 404, col. 2. 
Cornage Tenure 



^ white pl-ume 
JVodded above, far seen, floating like foam 
Upon the stream of battle XVIII. p. 404, col. 2. 

' His tall white plume, which, like a high-wrought foam. 
Floated on the tempestuous stream of fight, 
Shewed where he swept the field." 

Young's Busiris. 



Rocks that meet in battle. — XIX. p. 406, col. 1. 

Clavigero. Torquemada, 1. 13, c. 47. 

The fighting mountains of the Mexicans are less absurd than 
the moving rocks of the Greeks, as they are placed not in this 
world, but in the road to the next. 

" L. Martio ct Sex. Julio consulibus, in agro Mutinensi duo 
montes inter se conciirrerunt, crcpitu maxivio assaltantes et rece- 
dentes, et inter eos flammd, fumogue exeunte. Quo concursu villce 
omnes eliscs sunt ; animalia permulta gum intra fuerant, exani- 
mata sunt.^^ — J. Ravish Textoris Officina, f. 210. 

A fiery mountain is a bad neighbor, but a quarrelsome one 
must be infinitely worse, and a dancing one would not be 
much better. It is a happy thing for us, who live among the 
mountains, that they are now-a-days very peaceable, and have 
left oiF" skipping like rams." 



Funeral and Coronation. — XIX. pp. 406, col. 2, & 407, col. 1. 

Clavigero. Torquemada. 

This coronation oath resembles in absurdity the language of 
the Chinese, who, in speaking of a propitious event occurring, 
either in their own or any other country, generally attribute 
h to the joint will of Heaven and the Emperor of China.— 
Barrow. 

I once heard a street-preacher exhort his auditors to praise 



God as the first cause of all good things, and the King as 
the second. 



Let the guilty tremble ! it shall flow 

Ji draught of agony and death to him, 

Ji stream of fiery poison. — XX. p. 407, col. 2. 

I have no other authority for attributing this artifice to Te- 
zozomoc, than that it has been practised very often and very 
successfully. 

" A Chief of Dsjedda," says Niebuhr, " informed me that 
two hundred ducats had been stolen from him, and wanted me 
to discover the thief. I excused myself, saying, that I left 
that sublime science to the Mahommedan sages ; and very soon 
afterwards a celebrated Schech showed, indeed, that he knew 
more than I did. He placed all the servants in a row, made a 
long prayer, then put into the mouth of each a bit of paper, 
and ordered them all to swallow it, after having assured them 
that it would not harm the innocent, but that the punishment 
of Heaven would f.ll on the guilty ; after which he examined 
the mouth of every one, and one of them, who had not swal- 
lowed the paper, confessed that he had stolen the money." 

A similar anecdote occurs in the old Legend of Pierre 
Faifeu. 

Comment la Dame de une grossc Maison ou it hantoit, perdit 
ung Dyamavt en sa maison, quHl luy fist subtillement re- 
cuuvrer Chap. 22, p. 58. 

Ung certain jour, la Dame de Vhostel 

Eut ung ennuy, leguel pour vrayfut tel. 

Car elle avoit en sa main gauche ou dextre 

Ung Dyamant, que Von renommoit de estre 

De la valeur de bien cinq cens ducatz ; 

Or, pour soubdain vous advertir du cas, 

Ou en dormant, ou enfaisant la veille, 

Du day luy cheut, dont trcs fort s^esmerveiUe^ 

Qm' eV ne le treuoe est son cueur tres marry, 

Et n^ose ■aussi le dire a son viary ; 

Mais a Faifeu aUee est s'en complaindre. 

Qui respondit, sans grandcment la plain dre. 

Que bienfailloit que le Seigneur le sgeust, 

Et qu^elle luy dist aiiis quHl s'en appergeust 

En cefaisant le vaillant Pierre Maistre 

La recouvrer luy est alii promettre, 

Ce vwyennant qu^il eust cinquante escuz, 

Qu'elle luy promist, sans enfaire refuz, 

Pareillement qu'aiLchun de la maison 

L^eust point trouve, il en rendroit raison. 

Leurs propos tins, s^en alia seure etferme 

La dicte Dame, et au Seigneur afferme 

Du Dyamant le susdict interest, 

Dont il nefist pas grant conte ou arrest, 

Ce nonobstant que fust le don de nopces, 

Qu^avoit donne ^par sur autres negoces ; 

Car courrouceur safemm^ assez en veoit 

I,^ avoir perdu, mais grand dueil en avoit : 

Or toutesfois a Faifeu il ordonne 

Faire son vueil, et puissance il luy donne 

A son plaisir faire ainsi quHl entend. 

Incontinent Faifeu fist tout content 

Tost assembler serviteurs et servantes, 

Orans etpetitt, et les partes fermantes, 

Lesfist renger en une chambre apart. 

Ou de grant peur chascun d'eulz avoit part. 

Quant il eu^tfait, appella Sieur et Dame, 

Desquelz ami estoit de corps et de ame, 

Et devant eulx au servans fist sermon 

Du Dyamant, leur disant ; nous chermon, 

Et scavons bien par Part de nicromance 

Ccluy qui le a ; et tout en evidance 

Feignoit chermer la chambre en tous endroitz, 

Se pourmenant devant boytteux ou droitz. 

n appergeut parmy une verriere, 

Emmy la court, ung garsonnet arriere, 

Qui n^estoit point o les autres venu, 

Dont vouz orrez qu^il en est advenu. 

Ce nonobstant qu'il y en eust grant nombre, 

Cinquante ou plus, soubdain faignit soubz timbre 

De diviner, que tout n'y estoit point. 



432 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



Les servlteurs ne cov,gnoissans le point 
Dirent que nul ne restoit de la bende 
Fors le berger ; done, dist-il, qu'on le mande, 
Bien le sgavoys et autres choses scay, 
Qu^d vienne tost, et vous verrez Vessay. 
Quant fut lieiiu, demande tine arballeste 
Que bender fist o grant peine et moleste, 
Car forte estoit des meilleures qui soient. 
Les assistens tresfort s^esbahyssoient 
Que f aire il veult, car dessus ilfait mettre 
Ungfont raillon, pais ainsi la remettre 
Dessus la table, et coucMe a travers 
Tout droit tendu'd, et atournee envers, 
Par ou passer on doit devant la table. 
Tout ce casfait, comme resolu et stable, 
Dist d la Dame, et aussi au Seigneur, 
Que nul d^eulx ne heut tant fiance en son hour, 
De demander la bague dessus dicte, 
Par nul barat ou cautelle maudicte ; 
Car il convient, sans /aire nul destour. 
Que chascun d'eulx passe etface son tour 
Devant le trect, arc, arballeste, ouflesche, 
Sans que le cueur d'aucun se plye ou fiesche j 
Et puis apres les servans passer ont, 
Mais bien croyez que ne rcpasseront, 
Ceulz OIL celuy qui la bague retiennent, 
Mais estre mortz tous asseurez se tiennent. 
Son ditfiny, chascun y a passe 
Sans que nul fust ne blece ne casse ; 
Mais quant ce fat a cil qui a la bague, 
Ji ce ne veult user de mine ou braque, 
Car pour certain se trouva si vain cueur. 
Que s^ezcuser ne sceut est vaincquer ; 
Mais tout soubdain son esprit se tendit 
Cryer mercy, et la bague rendit, 
En affei-mant qu'il ne Vavoit robee, 
Mais sans Faifeu eust este absorbee. 
Auquel on quist s^il estoit bien certain 
Da laronneaa, maisjura que incertain 
II en estoit, et sans science telle 
Qu^on estimoit, avoit quis la cautelle 
Espoventer par subtille Legon 
Ceulz qui la bague avoient, en la f agon 
Vous pouvez voir que, par subtille prouve, 
Tel se dit bon, qui mediant on approuve. 

The trial by ordeal more probably originated in wisdom 
than in superstition. The Water of Jealousy is the oldest 
example. This seems to have been enjoined for enabling 
■women, when unjustly suspected, fully to exculpate them- 
selves ; for no one who was guilty would have ventured upon 
the trial. 

I have heard an anecdote of John Henderson, which is char- 
acteristic of that remarkable man. The maid servant, one 
evening, at a house where he was visiting, begged that she 
might be excused from bringing in the tea, for he was a con- 
jurer, she said. When this was told him, he desired the mis- 
tress would insist upon her coming in ; this was done : he fixed 
his eye upon her, and after she had left the room said. Take 
care of her ; she is not honest. It was soon found that he 
had rightly understood the cause of her alarm. 



Their sports. — XXI. p. 408, col, 1. 

These are described from Clavigero, who gives a print 
of the Flyers ; the tradition of the banner is from the same 
author ; the legend of Mexitli from Torquemada, 1. 6, c. 21. 



Then the temples fell, 
Whose black and putrid walls were scaled with blood. 
XXII. p. 409, col. 2 

I have not exaggerated. Bernal Diaz was an eye-witness, 
and he expressly says, that the walls and the floor of Mexitli's 
temple were blackened and flaked with blood, and filled with 
a putrid stench. — Historia Verdadera, p. 71. 



One of our nation lost the maid he loved. — XXII. p. 410, col. 1. 

There was a young man in despair for the death of his sis- 
ter, whom he loved with extreme affection. The idea of the 
departed recurred to him incessantly. He resolved to seek 
her in the Land of Souls, and flattered himself with the hope 
of bringing her back with him. Hia voyage was long and la- 
borious, but he surmounted all the obstacles, and overcame 
every difficulty. At length he found a solitary old man, or 
rather genius, who, having questioned him concerning his en- 
terprise, encouraged him to pursue it, and taught him the 
means of success. He gave him a little empty calabash to 
contain the soul of his sister, and promised on his return to 
give him the brain, which he had in his possession, being 
placed there, by virtue of his office, to keep the brains of the 
dead. The young man profited by his instructions, finished 
his course successfully, and arrived in the Land of Souls, the 
inhabitants of which were much astonished to see him, and 
fled at his presence. Tharonhiaouagon received him well, and 
protected him by his counsel from the old woman his grand- 
mother, who, under the appearance of a feigned regard, wished 
to destroy him by making him eat the flesh of serpents and 
vipers, which were to her delicacies. The souls being assem- 
bled to dance, as was their custom, he recognized that of hia 
sister ; Tharonhiaouagon assisted him to take it by surprise, 
without which help he never would have succeeded, for when 
he advanced to seize it, it vanished like a dream of the night, 
and left him as confounded as was ^neas when he attempted 
to embrace the shade of his father Anchises. Nevertheless 
he took it, confined it, and in spite of the attempts and strata- 
gems of this captive soul, which sought but to deliver itself 
from its prison, he brought it back the same road by which he 
came to his own village. I know not if he recollected to take 
the brain, or judged it unnecessary ; but as soon as he arrived, 
he dug up the body, and prepared it according to the instruc- 
tions he had received, to render it fit for the reception of the 
soul, which was to reanimate it. Every thing was ready for 
this resurrection, when the impertinent curiosity of one of 
those who were present prevented its success. The captive 
soul, finding itself free, fled away, and the whole journey was 
rendered useless. The young man derived no other advantage 
than that of having been at the Land of Souls, and the power 
of giving certain tidings of it, which were transmitted to pos- 
terity. — Lafitau swr les Moeurs de Sauvages Ameriquains. 
Tom. I. p. 401. 

" One, I remember, affirmed to me that himself had been 
dead four days ; that most of his friends in that time were 
gathered together to his funeral ; and that he should have been 
buried, but that some of his relations at a great distance, who 
were sent for upon that occasion, were not arrived, before 
whose coming he came to life again. In this time he says he 
went to the place where the sun rises, (imagining the earth to 
be a plain,) and directly over that place, at a great height in 
the air, he was admitted, he says, into a great house, which 
he supposes was several miles in length, and saw many won- 
derful things, too tedious as well as ridiculous to mention. 
Another person, a woman, whom I have not seen, but been 
credibly informed of by the Indians, declares she was dead sev- 
eral days ; thnt her soul went southward, and feasted and 
danced with the happy spirits ; and that she found all things 
exactly agreeable to the Indian notions of a future state." — 
Brainerd. 



that cheerful one, who Imoweth all 

The songs of all the winged choristers. — XXIII. p. 410, col. 2, 

The Mocking Bird is often mentioned, and with much feel- 
ing, in Mr. Davis's Travels in America, a very singular and 
interesting volume. He describes himself in one place as 
listening by moonlight to one that usually perched within a 
few yards of his log hut. A negress was sitting on the 
threshold of tlie next door, smoking the stump of an old pipe. 
Please Ond Almighty, exclaimed the old woman, how sweet 
that Mocldng Bird sing! he never tire. By day and by night 
it sings alike ; when weary of mocking others, the bird takes 
up its own natural strain, and so joyous a creature is it, that 
it will jump and dance to its own music. The bird is perfect- 
ly domestic, for the Americans hold it sacred. Would that 
we had more of these humane prejudices in England ! — if that 



NOTES TO MADOC IN AZTLAN. 



433 



word may be applied to a feeling so good in itself and in its 
tendency. 

A good old Protestant missionary mentions another of the 
American singing-birds very technically. 

" Of black birds there be millions, which are great de- 
vourcrs of the Indian corn as soon as it appears out of the 
ground : unto this sort of birds, especially, may the mystical 
fowls, the Divells, be well resembled, (and so it pleaseth the 
Lord Jesus himself to observe. Mutt. 13,) which mystical 
fowl follow the sowing of the word, pick it up from loose and 
careless hearers, as these black birds follow the material seed : 
a!::ainst these they are very careful, both to set their corn 
dcop enough, that it may have a strong root, not so apt to be 
pliickt up, as also they put up little watch-houses in the middle 
ot'tlieir fields, in which they or their biggest children lodge." 
— Roger Williams. 

The caryon Crowe, that lothsome beast, 

Which cries against the rayne, 
Both for her hewe and for the rest 
The Devill resembleth playne : 
And as with gonnes we kill the crowe 

For spoyling our releefe, 
The Devill so must we overthrowe 
With gunshot of beleefe. 

Gascoigne's Oood-morroiD. 

But of all the songsters in America who warble their wood- 
notes wild, the frogs are the most extraordinary. 

" Prepared as I was," says a traveller, " to hear something 
extraordinary from these animals, I confess the first frog con- 
cert I heard in America was so much beyond any thing I 
could conceive of the powers of these musicians, that I was 
truly astonished. This performance was al fresco, and took 
place on the 18th, (April instant,) in a large swamp, where 
there were at least ten thousand performers, and, I really 
believe, not two exactly in the same pitch, if the octave can 
possibly admit of so many divisions, or shakes of semitones. 
An Hibernian musician, who, like myself, was present for the 
first time at this concert of antimusic, exclaimed, ' By Jasus, 
but they stop out of tune to a nicety ! ' 

" I have been since informed by an amateur who resided 
many years in this country, and made this species of music his 
peculiar study, that on these occasions the treble is performed 
by the Tree Frogs, the smallest and most beautiful species ; 
they are always of the same color as the bark of the tree they 
inhabit, and their note is not unlike the chirp of a cricket : 
the next in size are our counter-tenors ; they have a note re- 
sembling the setting of a saw. A still larger species sing 
tenor, and the under part is supported by the Bull Frogs, 
which are as large as a man's foot, and bellow out the bass in 
a tone as loud and sonorous as that of the animal from which 
they take their name." •»- Travels in America by W. Priest, 
Musician. 

" I have often thought," says this lively traveller, " if an en- 
thusiastic cockney of weak nerves, who had never been out of 
the sound of Bow-bell, could suddenly be conveyed from his 
bed in the middle of the night, and laid fast asleep in an 
American swamp, he would, on waking, fancy himself in the 
infernal regions : his first sensations would be from the stings 
of a myriad of musquitoes ; waking with the smart, his ears 
would be assailed with the horrid noises of the frogs ; on lift- 
ing up his eyes, he would have a faint view of the night-hawks, 
flapping their ominous wings over his devoted head, visible 
only from the glimmering light of the fire-flies, which he 
would naturally conclude were sparks from the bottomless pit. 
Nothing would be wanting at tliis moment to complete the 
illusion, but one of those dreadful explosions of thunder and 
lightning, so extravagantly described by Lee in CEdipus. 
' Call you these peals of thunder but the yawn of bellowing 
clouds ? By Jove, they seem to me the world's last groans, 
and those large sheets of flame its last blaze ! ' " 

In sink and swell 
More exquisitely sweet than ever art 
Of man evoked from instrument of touch. 
Or beat, or breath.— XXIU. p. 410, col. 2. 
The expression is from an old Spanish writer : " Tanian 
instrumentos de diversas maneras de la musica, de piilso, e flato, 
e tato, e «oz." — Cronica de Pero Nino. 
55 



the old, in talk 

Of other days, which mingled with their joy 

Memory of many a hard calamity. — XXIV. p. 411, col. 2. 

" And when the builders laid the foundation of the Temple 
of the Lord, they set the Priests in their apparel with trumpets, 
and the Levites the sons of Asaph with cymbals, to praise the 
Lord, after the ordinance of David, King of Israel. 

" And they sang together by course in praising and giving 
thanks unto the Lord, because he is good, for his mercy 
endureth forever toward Israel. And all the people shouted 
with a great shout when they praised the Lord, because the 
foundation of the house of the Lord was laid. 

"But many of the Priests and Levites and chief of 
the fathers, who were ancient men, that had seen the first 
house, when the foundation of this house was laid before 
their eyes, wept with a loud voice ; and many shouted aloud 
with joy : 

" i?o that the people could not discern the noise of the shout 
of joy from the noise of the weeping of the people ; for the 
people shouted with a loud shout, and the noise was heard 
afar off"." — Ezra, iii. 10—13. 

For Aztlan comes in anger, and her Oods 
Spare none. — XXIV. p. 412, col. I. 
Kill all that you can, said the Tlascallans to Cortes ; the 
young that they may not bear arms, the old that they may not 
give counsel. — Bernal Diaz, p. 56. 



The Circle of the Years isfull. — XXVI. p. 414, col. 2. 

Torquemada, 1. 10, c. 33. The tradition of the Five Suns 
is related by Clavigero : the origin of the present by the same 
author and by Torquemada, 1. 6, c. 42 ; the whole of the cere- 
monies is accurately stated. 



Depart ! depart ! for so the note, 
Articulately in his native tongue, 
Sjjake to the Azteca.—XXYU. p. 417, col. 1. 

My excuse for this insignificant agency, as I fear it will be 
thought, must be, that the fact itself is historically true ; by 
means of this omen the Aztecas were induced to quit their 
country, after a series of calamities. The leader who had 
address enough to influence them was Huitziton, a name 
which I have altered to Yuhidthiton for the sake of euphony ; 
the note of the bird is expressed in Spanish and Italian thus, 
tihui; the cry of the peewhit cannot be better expressed. — 
Torquemada, 1. 2, c. 1. Clavigero. 

The Chair of God. — XXVIl. p. 419, col. 1. 

Mexitli, they said, appeared to them during their emigra- 
tion, and ordered them to carry him before them in a chair ; 
Teoycpalli it was called. — Torquemada, 1. 2, c. 1. 

The hideous figures of their idols are easily accounted for 
by the Historian of the Dominicans in Mexico. 

" As often as the Devil appeared to the Mexicans, they 
made immediately an idol of the figure in which they had 
seen him ; sometimes as a lion, other times as a dog, other 
times as a serpent; and as the ambitious Devil took advan- 
tage of this weakness, he assumed a new form every time to 
gain a new image in which he might be worshipped. The 
natural timidity of the Indians aided the design of the Devil, 
and he appeared to them in horrible and affrighting figures, 
that he might have them the more submissive to his will ; for 
this reason it is that the idols which we still see in Mexico, 
placed in the corners of the streets as spoils of the Gospel, 
are so deformed and ugly. — Fr. Augustin Davila Padilla. 



To spread in other lands Mexitli' s name. — XXVIL p. 420, col. 1. 
It will scarcely be believed that the resemblance between 
Mexico and Messiah should have been adduced as a proof that 
America was peopled by the ten tribes. Fr. Estevan de Sala- 
zar discovered this wise argument, which is noticed in Gre- 
gorio Garcia's very credulous and very learned work on the 
Origin of the Indians, 1. 3, c. 7, $ 2. 



434 



PREFACE TO BALLADS, &c. VOL. I. 



nullutfu un^ i«ttt(tal ^ultn. 



VOL. I, 



PREFACE. 

Most of the pieces in this volume were written 
in early life, a few are comparatively of recent date, 
and there are some of them which lay unfinished 
for nearly thirty years. 

Upon reading, on their first appearance, certain 
of these Ballads, and of the lighter pieces now 
comprised in the third volume of this collective 
edition,* Mr. Edgeworth said to me, " Take my 
word for it. Sir, the bent of your genius is for com- 
edy." I was as little displeased with the intended 
compliment as one of the most distinguished poets 
of this age was with Mr. Sheridan, who, upon re- 
turning a play which he had ofl^ered for acceptance 
at Drury Lane, told him it was a comical tragedy. 

My late friend, Mr. "William Taylor of Norwich, 
whom none who knew him intimately can ever 
call to mind without aflfection and regret, has this 
passage in his Life of Dr. Sayers : — " Not long 
after this, (the year 1800,) Mr. Robert Southey vis- 
ited Norwich, was introduced to Dr. Sayers, and 
partook those feelings of complacent admiration 
which his presence was adapted to inspire. — Dr. 
Sayers pointed out to us in conversation, as adapted 
for the theme of a ballad, a story related by Olaus 
Magnus of a witch, whose coffin was confined by 
three chains, sprinkled with holy water ; but who 
was, nevertheless, carried off by demons. Already, 
I believe, Dr. Sayers had made a ballad on the sub- 
ject; so did I, and so did Mr. Southey; but after 
seeing the Old Woman of Berkeley, we agreed in 
awarding to it the preference. Still, the very dif- 
ferent manner in which each had employed the 
same basis of narration might render welcome the 
opportunity of comparison ; but I have not found 
among the papers of Dr. Sayers a copy of his poem." 

There is a mistake here as to the date. This, 
my first visit to Norwich, was in the spring of 
1798 ; and I had so much to interest me there in 
the society of my kind host and friend Mr. William 
Taylor, that the mention at Dr. Sayers's table of the 
story in Olaus Magnus made no impression on me 
at the time, and was presently forgotten. Indeed, 
if I had known that either he or his friend had 
written or intended to write a ballad upon the sub- 
ject, that knowledge, however much the story 
might have pleased me, would have withheld me 
from all thought of versifying it. In the autumn 
of the same year, I passed some days at Hereford 
with Mr. William Bowyer Thomas, one of the 



* Juvenile and Minor Poems, Vol. II., pp. 158—223 of this 
editioa. 



friends with whom, in 1796, I had visited the 
Arrabida Convent near Setubal. By his means I 
obtained permission to make use of the books in the 
Cathedral Library; and accordingly I was locked ii 
up for several mornings in that part of the Cathe- 
dral where the books were kept in chains. So 
little were these books used at that time, that, in 
placing them upon the shelves, no regard had been 
had to the length of the chains ; and when the 
volume v/hich I wished to consult was fastened to 
one of the upper shelves by a short chain, the only 
means by which it was possible to make use of it 
was, by piling upon the reading desk as many vol- 
umes with longer chains as would reach up to the 
length of its tether ; then, by standing on a chair, 
I was able to effect my purpose. There, and thus, 
I first read the story of the Old Woman of Berkeley, 
in Matthew of Westminster, and transcribed it 
into a pocket-book. I had no recollection of what 
had passed at Dr. Sayers's ; but the circumstantial [ 
details in the monkish Chronicle impressed me so 
strongly, that I began to versify them that very 
evening. It was the last day of our pleasant visit^, 
at Hereford ; and on the following morning the ' 
remainder of the Ballad was pencilled in a post- 
chaise on our way to Abberley. 

Mr. Wathen, a singular and obliging person, who 
afterwards made a voyage to the East Indies, and 
published an account of what he saw there, traced 
for me a fac simile of a wooden cut in the Nurem- 
berg Chronicle, (which was among the prisoners in 
the Cathedral.) It represents the Old Woman's 
forcible abductionfromher intended place of burial. 
This was put into the hands of a Bristol artist ; 
and the engraving in wood which he made from it 
was prefixed to the Ballad when first published, in 
the second volume of my poems, 1799. The Devil 
alludes to it in his Walk, when he complains of a 
certain poet as having " put him in ugly ballads, 
with libellous pictures, for sale." 

The passage from Matthew of Westminster was 
prefixed to the Ballad when first published, and it 
has continued to be so in every subsequent edition 
of my minor poems from that time to the present ; 
for whenever 1 have founded either a poem, or part 
of one, upon any legend, or portion of history, I 
have either extracted the passage to which I was 
indebted, if its length allowed, or have referred to 
it. Mr. Payne Collier, however, after the Ballad, 
with its parentage affixed, had been twenty years 
before the public, discovered that I had copied the 
story from Hey wood's Nine Books of various His- 
tory concerning Women, and that I had not 
thought proper to acknowledge the obligation. 



Mary, the maid of the inn. 



435 



The discovery is thus stated in that gentleman's 
*oetical Decameron, (vol. i. p. 323.) Speaking of 
he book, one of his Interlocutors says, " It is not 
f such rarity or singularity as to deserve particular 
lotice now ; only, if you refer to p. 443, you will 
ind the story on which Mr. Southey founded his 
aock-ballad of the Old Woman of Berkeley. You 
vill see, too, that the mode in which it is told is 
xtremely similar. 

" Morton. Had Mr. Southey seen Heywood's 
)ook .? 

"Bourne. It is not improbable ; or some quota- 
ion from it, the resemblance is so exact ; you may 
judge from the few following sentences." 

Part of Heywood's narration is then given ; upon 
^hich one of the speakers observes, " ' The resem- 
jlance is exact, and it is not unlikely that Hey wood 
md Southey copied from the same original.' 

"Bourne. Perhaps so; Heywood quotes Guille- 
rimus in Special. Histor. lib. xxvi. c. 26. He after- 
svards relates, as Southey, that the Devil placed the 
Old Woman of Berkeley before him on a black 
horse, and that her screams were heard four miles 
off." 

It cannot, however, be disputed, that Mr. Payne 
Collier has made one discovery relating to this sub- 
ject ; for he has discovered that the Old Woman 
of Berkeley is a mock-ballad. Certainly this was 
never suspected by the Author or any of his friends. 
It obtained a very different character in Russia, 
where, having been translated and published, it was 
prohibited for this singular reason, that children 
were said to be frightened by it. This I was told 
by a Russian traveller who called upon me at Kes- 
wick. 

Keswick, Bth March, 1838. 



MARY, THE MAID OF THE 

INN. 



The circumstances related in the following Ballad were told 
ine, when a school-boy, as having happened in the north of 
England. Either Fumes or Kirkstall Abbey (I forget 
which) was named as the scene. The original story, how- 
ever, is in Dr, Plot's History of Staflbrdshire. 

" Amongst the unusual accidents," says this amusing author, 
" that have attended the female sex in the course of their 
lives, I think I may also reckon the narrow escapes they 
have made from death. Whereof I met with one men- 
tioned with admiration by every body at Leek, that hap- 
pened not far oiF at the Black Meer of Morridge, which, 
though fl\mous for nothing for which it is commonly reputed 
Ro, (as that it is bottomless, no cattle will drink of it, or 
birds fly over or settle upon it, all which T found false,) 
yet is so, for the signal deliverance of a poor woman enticed 
thither in a dismal, stormy night, by a bloody ruffian, who 
had first gotten her with child, and intended, in this remote 
inhospitable place, to have despatched her by drowning. 
The same night (Providence so ordering it) there were 
several persons of inferior rank drinking in an alehouse 
at Leek, whereof one having been out, and observing the 
darkness and other ill circumstances of the weather, coming 
in again, said to the rest of his companions, that he were a 
i^tout man indeed that would venture to go to the BJack 



Meer of Morridge in such a night as that ; to which one 
of them replying, that, for a crown, or some such sum, he 
would undertake it, the rest, joining their purses, said he 
should have his demand. The bargain being struck, away 
he went on his journey with a stick in his hand, which he 
was to leave there as a testimony of his performance. At 
length, coming near the Meer, he heard the lamentable cries 
of this distressed woman, begging for mercy, which at first 
put him to a stand 5 but being a man of great resolution 
and some policy, he went boldly on, however, counterfeiting 
the presence of divers other persons, calling Jack, Dick, 
and Tom, and crying. Here are the rogues we looked for, 
Sec. ; which being heard by the murderer, he left the woman 
and fled ; whom the other man found by the Meer side 
almost stripped of her clothes, and brought her with him to 
Leek as an ample testimony of his having been at the 
Meer, and of God's providence too." — P. 291. 
The metre is Mr. Lewis's invention ; and metre is one of the 
few things concerning which popularity may be admitted 
as a proof of merit. The ballad has become popular owing 
to the metre and the story ; and it has been made the sub- 
ject of a fine picture by Mr. Barker. 



1. 

Who is yonder poor Maniac, whose wildly-fix'd 
eyes 

Seem a heart overcharged to express .'' 
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs ; 
She never complains, but her silence implies 

The composure of settled distress. 



No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek; 

Nor for raiment nor food doth she care : 
Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow 

bleak 
On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn 
cheek 
Hath the hue of a mortal despair. 

3. 

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, 

Poor Mary the Maniac hath been ; 
The Traveller remembers who journey'd this way 
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, 

As Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 



Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight 

As she welcomed them in with a smile ; 
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, 
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night 
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle. 



She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, 

And she hoped to be happy for life ; 
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they 
Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say 
That she was too good for his wife. 

6. 
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the 
night. 
And fast were the windows and door; 
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, 
And smoking, in silence, with tranquil delight, 
They listen'd to hear the wind roar. 



436 



MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 



7. 
" 'Tis pleasant," cried one, "seated by the fireside, 

To hear the wind whistle without." 
"What a night for the Abbey!" his comrade 

replied ; 
" Methinks a man's courage would now be well 
tried 
Who should wander the ruins about. 

8. 
" I myself, like a school-boy, should tremble to hear 

The hoarse ivy shake over my head ; 
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, 
Some ugly old Abbot's grim spirit appear ; 

For this wind might awaken the dead ! " 

9. 
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, 

"That Mary would venture there now." 
" Then wager and lose ! with a sneer he replied 3 
*' I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side. 

And faint if she saw a white cow." 

10. 

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? " 
His companion exclaim'd, with a smile ; 

"I shall win, — for I know she will venture there 
now, 

And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough 
From the elder that grows in the aisle." 

11. 

With fearless good-humor did Mary comply, 

And her way to the Abbey she bent ; 
The night was dark, and the wind was high. 
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky. 
She shiver'd with cold as she went. 

12. 
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the 
Maid 
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight ; 
Through the gateway she enter'd; she felt not 

afraid. 
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade 
Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night. 

13. 

All around her was silent, save when the rude blast 

Howl'd dismally round the old pile ; 
Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly pass'd. 
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, 
Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle. 

14. 

Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew 
near. 

And hastily gather'd the bough ; 
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear, 
She paused, and she listen'd intently, in fear, 

And her heart panted painfully now. 

15. 

The wind blew; the hoarse ivy shook over her head; 
She listen'd — nought else could she hear ; 



The wind fell ; her heart sunk in her bosom with 

dread. 
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread 
Of footsteps approaching her near. 

16. 

Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear, 

She crept to conceal herself there : 
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, 
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, 

And between them a corpse did they bear. 

17. 

Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold; 

Again the rough wind hurried by ; 
It blew off" the hat of the one, and, behold. 
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd; 

She felt, and expected to die. 

18. 
" Curse the hat ! " he exclaims! " Nay, come on 
till we hide 
The dead body," his comrade replies. 
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side ; 
She seizes the hat, — fear her courage supplied, — 
And fast through the Abbey she flies. 

19. 
She ran with wild speed ; she rush'd in at the door; 

She gaz'd in her terror around ; 
Then her limbs could support their faint burden 

no more. 
And exhausted and breathless she sank on the 
Unable to utter a sound. [floor, 

20. 
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart. 

For a moment the hat met her view ; — 
Her eyes from that object convulsively start, 
For — what a cold horror then thrilled through 
her heart ^ , 

When the name of her Richard she knew ! 1 

21. 

Where the old Abbey stands, on the common, 
hard by, M 

His gibbet is now to be seen; 
His irons you still from the road may espy ; 
The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh 

Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 

Bristol, 1796. 



DONICA. 



In Finland there is a Castle which is called the New Rock i 
moated about with a river of unsounded depth, the water | 
black, and the fish therein very distasteful to the palate, f 
In this are spectres often seen, which foreshow eitlier the [ 
death of the Governor, or of some prime officer belonging to j 
the place ; and most commonly it appeareth in the shape (. 



DONICA. 



437 



of a harper, sweetly singing and dallying and playing under 
the water." 

'It is reported of one Donica, that after she was dead, the 
Devil walked in her body for the space of two years, so that 
none suspected but she was still alive ; for she did both 
speak, and eat, though very sparingly ; only she had a deep 
paleness on her countenance, which was the only sign of 
death. At length, a Magician coming by where she was 
then in the company of many other virgins, as soon as he 
beheld her, he said, ' Fair Maids, why keep you company 
■with this dead Virgin, whom you suppose to be alive?' 
when, taking away the magic charm whicli was tied under 
her arm, the body fell down lifeless and without motion." 

rhe following Ballad is founded on these stories. They are 
to be found in the notes to the Hierarchies of the Blessed 
Angels J a Poem by Thomas Hey wood, printed in folio by 
Adam Islip, 1635. 



High on a rock whose castled shade 

Darken'd the lake below, 
In ancient strength majestic stood 

The towers of Arlinkow. 

The fisher in the lake below 

Durst never cast his net, 
Nor ever swallow in its waves 

Her passing wing would wet. 

The cattle from its ominous banks 

In wild alarm would run. 
Though parch'd with thirst, and faint beneath 

The summer's scorching sun ; — 

For sometimes, when no passing breeze 

The long, lank sedges waved, 
All white with foam, and heaving high. 

Its deafening billows raved ; — 

And when the tempest from its base 

The rooted pine would shake. 
The powerless storm unruffling swept 

Across the calm dead lake ; — 

And ever, then, when death drew near 

The house of Arlinkow, 
Its dark, unfathom'd waters sent 

Strange music from below. 

The Lord of Arlinkow was old; 

One only child had he ; 
Donica was the Maiden's name, 

As fair as air might be. 

A bloom as bright as opening morn 
Suffused her clear, white cheek ; 

The music of her voice was mild ; 
Her full, dark eyes were meek. 

Far was her beauty known, for none 

So fair could Finland boast ; 
Her parents loved the Maiden much ; 

Young Eberhard loved her most. 

Together did they hope to tread 

The pleasant path of life ; 
For now the day drew near to make 

Donica Eberhard's wife. 



The eve was fair, and mild the air ; 

Along the lake they stray ; 
The eastern hill reflected bright 

The tints of fading day. 

And brightly o'er the water stream'd 

The liquid radiance wide ; 
Donica's little dog ran on. 

And gamboll'd at her side. 

Youth, health, and love bloom'd on her cheek, 

Her full, dark eyes express. 
In many a glance, to Eberhard 

Her soul's meek tenderness. 

Nor sound was heard, nor passing gale 
Sigh'd through the long, lank sedge ; 

The air was hush'd ; no little wave 
Dimpled the water's edge ; — 

When suddenly the lake sent forth 

Its music from beneath. 
And slowly o'er the waters sail'd 

The solemn sounds of death. 

As those deep sounds of death arose, 

Donica's cheek grew pale. 
And in the arms of Eberhard 

The lifeless Maiden fell. 

Loudly the Youth in terror shriek'd. 

And loud he call'd for aid. 
And with a wild and eager look 

Gazed on the lifeless Maid. 

But soon again did better thoughts 

In Eberhard arise ; 
And he with trembling hope beheld 

The Maiden raise her eyes. 

And, on his arm reclined, she moved 

With feeble pace and slow, 
And soon, with strength recover'd, reach'd 

The towers of Arlinkow. 

Yet never to Donica's cheeks 

Return' d their lively hue ; 
Her cheeks were deathy white and wan, 

Her lips a livid blue. 

Her eyes, so bright and black of yore, 
Were now more black and bright, 

And beam'd strange lustre in her face, 
So deadly wan and white. 

The dog that gamboll'd by her side. 

And loved with her to stray, 
Now at his alter'd mistress howl'd. 

And fled in fear away. 

Yet did the faithful Eberhard 

Not love the Maid the less; 
He gazed with sorrow, but he gazed 

With deeper tenderness. 



438 



RUDIGER 



And when he found her health unharm'd, 

He would not brook delay, 
But press'd the not unwilling Maid 

To fix the bridal day. 

And when at length it came, with joy 

He hail'd the bridal day. 
And onward to the house of God 

They went their willing way. 

But when they at the altar stood, 

And heard the sacred rite. 
The hallow'd tapers dimly stream'd 

A pale, sulphux'eous light. 

And when the Youth, with holy warmth, 

Her hand in his did hold. 
Sudden he felt Donica's hand 

Grow deadly damp and cold. 

But loudly then he shriek'd, for lo ! 

A spirit met his view, 
And Eberhard in the angel form 

His own Donica knew 

That instant from her earthly frame 

A Demon howling fled, 
And at the side of Eberhard , 

The livid corpse fell dead. 

Bristol, 1796. 



RUDIGER 



"Divers Princes and Noblemen being assembled in a beauti- 
ful and fair Palace, which was situate upon the river Rhine, 
they beheld a boat or small barge make toward the shore, 
drawn by a Swan in a silver chain, the one end fastened 
about her neck, the other to the vessel ; and in it an un- 
known soldier, a man of a comely personage and graceful 
presence, who stepped upon the shore ; which done, the boat 
guided by the Swan, left him, and floated down the river. 
This man fell afterward in league with a fair gentlewoman, 
married her, and by her had many children. After some 
years, the same Swan came with the same barge unto the 
same place ; the soldier, entering into it, was carried thence 
the way he came, left wife, children, and family, and was 
never seen amongst them after." 

" Now who can judge this to be other than one of those spirits 
that are named Incubi .? " says Thomas Heywood. I have 
adopted his story, but not his solution, making the un- 
known soldier not an evil spirit, but one who had purchased 
prosperity from a malevolent being, by the promised sacri- 
fice of his first-born child. 



Bright on the mountain's heathy slope 
The day's last splendors shine. 

And rich, with many a radiant hue, 
Gleam gayly on the Rhine. 

And many a one from Waldhurst's walls 

Along the river stroll 'd. 
As ruffling o'er the pleasant stream 

The evening gales came cold. 



So as they stray'd, a swan they saw 

Sail stately up and strong. 
And by a silver chain he drew 

A little boat along, — 

Whose streamer, to the gentle breeze, 
Long floating, flutter'd light; 

Beneath whose crimson canopy 
There lay reclined a knight. 

With arching crest and swelling breast, 

On sail'd the stately swan. 
And lightly up the parting tide 

The little boat came on. 

And onward to the shore they drew, 
Where, having left the knight, 

The little boat adown the stream 
Fell soon beyond the sight. 

Was never a knight in Waldhurst's walls 
Could with this stranger vie ; 

Was never a youth at aught esteem'd 
When Rudiger was by. 

Was never a maid in Waldhurst's walls 
Might match with Margaret ; 

Her cheek was fair, her eyes were dark, 
Her silken locks like jet. 

And many a rich and noble youth 

Had sought to win the fair ; 
But never a rich and noble youth 

Could rival Rudiger. 

At every tilt and tourney he 

Still bore away the prize ; 
For knightly feats superior still, 

And knightly courtesies. 

His gallant feats, his looks, his love, 

Soon won the willing fair ; 
And soon did Margaret become 

The wife of Rudiger. 

Like morning dreams of happiness. 

Fast rolFd the months away ; 
For he was kind, and she was kind ; 

And who so bless'd as they ^ 

Yet Rudiger would sometimes sit 

Absorb'd in silent thought, 
And his dark, downward eye would seem 

With anxious meaning fraught ; — 

But soon he raised his looks again. 

And smiled his cares away ; 
And mid the hall of gayety 

Was none like him so gay. 

And onward roll'd the waning months, 

The hour appointed came. 
And Margaret her Rudiger 

Hail'd with a father's name. 



RUDIGER. 



439 



But silently did Rudiger 

The little infant see ; 
And darkly on the babe he gazed, — 

A gloomy man was he. 

And when to bless the little babe 

The holy Father came, 
To cleanse the stains of sin away 

In Christ's redeeming name, — 

Then did the cheek of Rudiger 

Assume a death-pale hue, 
And on his clammy forehead stood 

The cold, convulsive dew 3 — 

And faltering in his speech, he bade 

The Priest the rites delay. 
Till he could, to right health restored, 

Enjoy the festive day. 

When o'er the many-tinted sky 

He saw the day decline. 
He called upon his Margaret 

To walk beside the Rhine ; — 

"And we will take the little babe; 

For soft the breeze that blows. 
And the mild murmurs of the stream 

Will lull him to repose." 

And so together forth they went ; 

The evening breeze was mild ; 
And Rudiger upon his arm 

Pillow'd the little child. 

Many gay companies that eve 

Along the river roam ; 
But when the mist began to rise, 

They all betook them home. 

Yet Rudiger continued still 

Along the banks to roam ; 
Nor aught could Margaret prevail 

To turn his footsteps home. 

" Oh, turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger; 

The rising mists behold ; 
The evening wind is damp and chill ; 

The little babe is cold ! " 

" Now hush thee, hush thee, Margaret : 
The mists will do no harm ; 

And from the wind the little babe 
Is shelter 'd on my arm." 

" Oh, turn thee, turn thee, Rudiger; 

Why onward wilt thou roam ? 
The moon is up ; the night is cold ; 

And we are far from home." 

He answer'd not; for now he saw 
A Swan come sailing strong; 

And by a silver chain he drew 
A little boat along. 



To shore they came, and to the boat 

Fast leap'd he with the child ; 
And in leap'd Margaret, breathless now, 

And pale with fear, and wild. 

With arching crest and swelling breast 

On sail'd the stately Swan, 
And lightly down the rapid tide 

The little boat went on. 

The fuU-orb'd moon, that beam'd around 
Pale splendor through the night, 

Cast through the crimson canopy 
A dim, discolor'd light. 

And swiftly down the hurrying stream 

In silence still they sail. 
And the long streamer, fluttering fast, 

Flapp'd to the heavy gale. 

And he was mute in sullen thought, 

And she was mute with fear ; 
Nor sound but of the parting tide 

Broke on the listening ear. 

The little babe began to cry ; 

Then Margaret raised her head, 
And with a quick and hollow voice, 

" Give me the child ! " she said. 

"Now hush thee, hush thee, Margaret; 

Nor my poor heart distress ; 
I do but pay perforce the price 

Of former happiness. 

"And hush thee too, my little babe ; 

Thy cries so feeble cease ; 
Lie still, lie still ; — a little while, 

And thou shalt be at peace." 

So, as he spake, to land they drew, 
And swift he stepp'd on shore ; 

And him behind did Margaret 
Close follow evermore. 

It was a place all desolate ; 

Nor house nor tree was there ; 
But there a rocky mountain rose, 

Barren, and bleak, and bare ; — 

And at its base a cavern yawn'd ; 

No eye its depth might view ; 
For in the moonbeam shining round 

That darkness darker grew. 

Cold horror crept through Margaret's blood ; 

Her heart it paused with fear, 
When Rudiger approach'd the cave, 

And cried, " Lo, I am here ! " 

A deep, sepulchral sound the cave 

Return'd — " Lo, I am here ! " 
And black from out the cavern gloom 

Two giant arms appear. 



440 



JASPAR. 



And Rudiger approach'd, and held 

The little infant nigh ; 
Then Margaret shriek'd, and gather'd then 

New powers from agony. 

And round the baby fast and close 

Her trembling arms she folds, 
And with a strong, convulsive grasp 

The little infant holds. 

" Now help me, Jesus ! " loud she cries, 

And loud on God she calls ; 
Then from the grasp of Rudiger 

The little infant falls. 

The mother holds her precious babe ; 

But the black arms clasp'd him round, 
And dragg'd the wretched Rudiger 

Adown the dark profound. 

BHstol, 1796. 



JASPAR. 



Jaspar was poor, and vice and want 
Had made his heart like stone ; 

And Jaspar look'd with envious eyes 
On riches not his own. 

On plunder bent, abroad he went 

Toward the close of day, 
And loiter'd on the lonely road 

Impatient for his prey. 

No traveller came — he loiter'd long, 

And often look'd around, 
And paused and listen'd eagerly 

To catch some coming sound. 

He sat him down beside the stream 
That cross 'd the lonely way ; 

So fair a scene might well have charm'd 
All evil thoughts away. 

He sat beneath a willow-tree, 
Which cast a trembling shade ; 

The gentle river, full in front, 
A little island made, — 

Where pleasantly the moonbeam shone 

Upon the poplar-trees, 
Whose shadow on the stream below 

Play'd slowly to the breeze. 

He listen'd — and he heard the wind 
That waved the willow-tree ; 

He heard the waters flow along, 
And murmur quietly. 

He listen'd for the traveller's tread ; 
The nightingale sung sweet ; — 



He started up, for now he heard 
The sound of coming feet ; — 

He started up, and grasp'd a stake, 

And waited for his prey ; 
There came a lonely traveller, 

And Jaspar cross'd his way. 

But Jaspar's threats and curses fail'd 

The traveller to appall ; 
He would not lightly yield the purse 

Which held his little all. 

Awhile he struggled ; but he strove 
With Jaspar's strength in vain ; 

Beneath his blows he fell, and groan'd, 
And never spake again. 



Jaspar raised up the murder'd man. 
And plunged him in the flood. 

And in the running water then 
He cleansed his hands from blood. 

The waters closed around the corpse. 
And cleansed his hands from gore ; 

The willow waved, the stream flow'd on, 
And murmured as before. 

There was no human eye had seen 
The blood the murderer spilt. 

And Jaspar's conscience never felt 
The avenging goad of guilt. 

And soon the ruffian had consumed 

The gold he gain'd so ill ; 
And years of secret guilt pass'd on, 

And he was needy still. 

One eve, beside the alehouse fire 

He sat, as it befell. 
When in there came a laboring man 

Whom Jaspar knew full well. 

He sat him down by Jaspar's side, 

A melancholy man } 
For, spite of honest toil, the world 

Went hard with Jonathan. 

His toil a little earn'd, and he 

With little was content ; 
But sickness on his wife had fallen. 

And all was wellnigh spent. 

Long with his wife and little ones 

He shared the scanty meal. 
And saw their looks of wretchedness, 

And felt what wretches feel. 

Their Landlord, a hard man, that day 

Had seized the little left ; 
And now the sufferer found himself 

Of every thing bereft. 

He lean'd his head upon his hand. 
His elbow on his knee ; 



JASPAR. 



441 



And so by Jaspar's side he sat, 
And not a word said he. 

*'Nay, — why so downcast? " Jaspar cried, 

" Come — cheer up, Jonathan ! 
Drink, neighbor, drink ! 'twill warm thy heart ; 

Come ! come ! take courage, man ! " 

He took the cup that Jaspar gave. 

And down he drain'd it quick ; 
"I have a wife," said Jonathan, 

" And she is deadly sick. 

" She has no bed to lie upon ; 

1 saw them take her bed — 
And I have children — would to God 

That they and I were dead ! 

" Our Landlord he goes home to-night, 

And he will sleep in peace — 
I would that I were in my grave. 

For there all troubles cease. 

"In vain 1 pray'd him to forbear, 

Though wealth enough has he ! 
God be to him as merciless 

As he has been to me ! " 

When Jaspar saw the poor man's soul 

On all his ills intent. 
He plied him with the heartening cup. 

And with him forth he went. 

" This Landlord on his homeward road 

'Twere easy now to meet. 
The road is lonesome, Jonathan ! — 

And vengeance, man ! is sweet." 

He listen'd to the tempter's voice; 

The thought it made him start ; — 
His head was hot, and wretchedness 

Had harden' d now his heart. 

Along the lonely road they went. 

And waited for their prey ; 
They sat them down beside the stream 

That cross'd the lonely way. 

They sat them down beside the stream, 

And never a word they said ; 
They sat and listen'd silently 

To hear the traveller's tread. 

The night was calm ; the night was dark ; 

No star was in the sky ; 
The wind it waved the willow boughs ; 

The stream flow'd quietly. 

The night was calm ; the air was still ; 

Sweet sung the nightingale ; 
The soul of Jonathan was soothed ; 

His heart began to fail. 
56 



" 'Tis weary waiting here," he cried, 

" And now the hour is late ; 
Methinks he will not come to-night; 

No longer let us wait." 

" Have patience, man ! " the ruffian said; 

" A little we may wait; 
But longer shall his wife expect 

Her husband at the gate." 

Then Jonathan grew sick at heart ; 

" My conscience yet is clear ; 
Jaspar — it is not yet too late — 

I will not linger here." 

" How now ! " cried Jaspar ; " why, I thought 

Thy conscience was asleep ; 
No more such qualms ; the night is dark ; 

The river here is deep." 

" What matters that," said Jonathan, 

Whose blood began to freeze, 
" When there is One above, whose eye 

The deeds of darkness sees.^ " 

" We are safe enough," said Jaspar then, 

" If that be all thy fear ; 
Nor eye above, nor eye below. 

Can pierce the darkness here." 

That instant, as the murderer spake, 

There came a sudden light ; 
Strong as the mid-day sun it shone, 

Though all around was night. 

It hung upon the willow-tree ; 

It hung upon the flood ; 
It gave to view the poplar isle, 

And all the scene of blood. 

The traveller who journeys there, 

He surely hath espied 
A madman who has made his home 

Upon the river's side. 

His cheek is pale ; his eye is wild ; 

His looks bespeak despair ; 
For Jaspar, since that hour, has made 

His home, unshelter'd, there. 

And fearful are his dreams at night, 

And dread to him the day ; 
He thinks upon his u^ntold crime, 

And never dares to pray. 

The summer suns, the winter storms, 

O'er him unheeded roll ; 
For heavy is the weight of blood 

Upon the maniac's soul. 

Bath, 1798. 



442 



LORD WILLIAM. 



LORD WILLIAM 



An imitation of this Ballad, in French verse, by J. F. Chate- 
lain, was printed at Tournay, about 1820. 



No eye beheld when William plunged 
Young Edmund in the stream ; 

No human ear but William's heard 
Young Edmund's drowning scream. 

Submissive all the vassals own'd 
The murderer for their Lord ; 

And he as rightful heir possess'd 
The house of Erlingford. 

The ancient house of Erlingford 

Stood in a fair domain, 
And Severn's ample waters near 

Roll'd through the fertile plain. 

And often the wayfaring man 
Would love to linger there, 

Forgetful of his onward road, 
To gaze on scenes so fair. 

But never could Lord William dare 
To gaze on Severn's stream ; 

In every wind that swept its waves 
He heard young Edmund's scream. 

In vain, at midnight's silent hour. 
Sleep closed the murderer's eyes > 

In every dream the murderer saw 
Young Edmund's form arise. 

In vain, by restless conscience driven, 
Lord William left his home. 

Far from the scenes that saw his guilt, 
In pilgrimage to roam } — 

To other climes the pilgrim fled. 

But could not fly despair ; 
He sought his home again, but peace 

Was still a stranger there. 

Slow were the passing hours, yet swifl 
The months appeared to roll ; 

And now the day return'd that shook 
With terror William's soul ; — 

A day that William never felt 

Return without dismay ; 
For well had conscience calendar'd 

Young Edmund's dying day. 

A fearful day was that ; the rains 
Fell fast, with tempest roar, 

And the swollen tide of Severn spread 
Far on the level shore. 



In vain Lord William sought the feast j 

In vain he quaft^'d the bowl. 
And strove with noisy mirth to drown 

The anguish of his soul. 

The tempest, as its sudden swell 

In gusty bowlings came. 
With cold and deathlike feeling seem'd 

To thrill his shuddering frame. 

Reluctant now, as night came on, 

His lonely couch he press'd; 
And, wearied out, he sunk to sleep, — 

To sleep, — but not to rest. 

Beside that couch his brother's form, 
Lord Edmund, seem'd to stand, 

Such alld so pale as when in death 
He grasp' d his^rother's hand; 

Such and so pale his face as when, 
With faint and faltering tongue, 

To William's care, a dying charge, 
He left his orphan son. 

" I bade thee with a father's love 

My orphan Edmund guard ; — 
Well, William, hast thou kept thy charge ? 

Take now thy due reward." 

He started up, each limb convulsed 

With agonizing fear ; 
He only heard the storm of night, — 

'Twas music to his ear 

When lo ! the voice of loud alarm 

His inmost soul appalls ; 
" What ho ! Lord William, rise in haste ! 

The water saps thy walls ! " 

He rose in haste ; beneath the walls 

He saw the flood appear ; 
It hemm'd him round; 'twas midnight now; 

No human aid was near. 

He heard a shout of joy ; for now 

A boat approach'd the wall ; 
And eager to the welcome aid 

They crowd for safety all. 

" My boat is small," the boatman cried ; 

" 'Twill bear but one away ; 
Come in, Lord William, and do ye 

In God's protection stay." 

Strange feeling filled them at his voice, 

Even in that hour of woe. 
That, save their Lord, there was not one 

Who wish'd with him to go. 

But William leap'd into the boat, 

His terror was so sore ; 
" Thou shalt have half my gold," he cried; 

Haste — haste to yonder shore." 



ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY. 



443 



The boatman plied the oar ; the boat 
Went light along the stream ; 

Sudden Lord William heard a cry- 
Like Edmund's drowning scream. 

The boatman paused — " Methought I heard 

A child's distressful cry ! " 
" 'Twas but the howling wind of night," 

Lord William made reply. 

"Haste — haste — ply swift and strong the oar; 

Haste — haste across the stream ! " 
Again Lord William heard a cry 

Like Edmund's drowning scream. 

" I heard a child's distressful voice," 
The boatman cried again. * 

" Nay, hasten on — the ajght is dark — 
And we should search in vain." 

" O God ! Lord William, dost thou know 

How dreadful 'tis to die .'* 
And canst thou without pity hear 

A child's expiring cry .'' 

" How horrible it is to sink 

Beneath the closing stream, 
To stretch the powerless arms in vain. 

In vain for help to scream !" 

The shriek again was heard ; it came 

More deep, more piercing loud j 
That instant o'er the flood the moon 

Shone through a broken cloud ; — 

And near them they beheld a child ; 

Upon a crag he stood, 
A little crag, and all around 

Was spread the rising flood. 

The boatman plied the oar ; the boat 

Approach'd his resting-place ; 
The moonbeam shone upon the child, 

And show'd how pale his face. 

"Now reach thine hand ! " the boatman cried, 
" Lord William, reach and save ! " 

The child stretch'd forth his little hands 
To grasp the hand he gave. 

Then William shriek' d ; the hands he felt 

Were cold, and damp, and dead ! 
He held young Edmund in his arms, 

A heavier weight than lead. 

The boat sunk down ; the murderer sunk 

Beneath the avenging stream : 
He rose ; he shriek'd ; no human ear 

Heard William's drowning scream. 

Westbury, 1798. 



ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY. 



This Ballad was published (1801) in the Tales of Wonder, 
by Mr. Lewis, who found it among tlie wefts and strays of 
tlie Press. He never knew that it was mine ; but after his 
death, I bestowed some pains in recomposing it, because he 
had thought it worth preserving. 

It is founded upon the abridged extract which M. Le Grand 
has given in his Fabliaux of a Metrical legend, by Marie de 
France. 



1. 

"Enter, Sir Knight," the Warden cried, 
" And trust in Heaven, whate'er betide, 

Since you have reach'd this bourn; 
But first receive refreshment due ; 
'Twill then be time to welcome you 

If ever you return." 

2. 

Three sops were brought of bread and wine ; 
Well might Sir Owen then divine 

The mystic warning given, 
That he against our ghostly Foe 
Must soon to mortal combat go, 
And put his trust in Heaven. 



Sir Owen pass'd the convent gate ; 
The warden him conducted straight 

To where a coffin lay ; 
The Monks around in silence stand, 
Each with a funeral torch in hand, 

Whose light bedimm'd the day. 

4. 

" Few Pilgrims ever reach this bourn," 
They said, " but fewer still return ; 

Yet, let what will ensue. 
Our duties are prescribed and clear; 
Put off all mortal weakness here ; 

This coffin is for you. 



" Lie there, while we, with pious breath. 
Raise over you the dirge of death ; 

This comfort we can give ; 
Belike no living hands may pay 
This office to your lifeless clay ; 

Receive it while you live ! " 



Sir Owen in a shroud was dress'd. 
They placed a cross upon his breast. 

And down he laid his head ; 
Around him stood the funeral train. 
And sung, with slow and solemn strain, 

The Service of the Dead. 



Then to the entrance of the Cave 
They led the Christian warrior brave ; 



444 



ST. PATRICK'S PURGATORY. 



Some fear he well might feel, 
For none of all the Monks could tell 
The terrors of that mystic cell, 

Its secrets none reveal. 



"Now enter here," the Warden cried, 
"And God, Sir Owen, be your guide ! 

Your name shall live in story : 
For of the few who reach this shore, 
Still fewer venture to explore 

St. Patrick's Purgatory." 

9. 

Adown the Cavern's long descent, 
Feeling his way. Sir Owen went, 

With cautious feet and slow ; 
Unarm'd, for neither sword nor spear. 
Nor shield of proof, avail'd him here 

Against our ghostly Foe. 

10. 

The ground was moist beneath his tread ; 
Large drops fell heavy on his head ; 

The air was damp and chill ; 
And sudden shudderings o'er him came, 
And he could feel through all his frame 

An icy sharpness thrill. 

11. 

Now steeper grew the dark descent ; 
In fervent prayer the Pilgrim went ; 

'Twas silence all around. 
Save his own echo from the cell. 
And the large drops that frequent fell 

With dull and heavy sound. 

12. 

But colder now he felt the cell ; 
Those heavy drops no longer fell ; 

Thin grew the piercing air; 
And now upon his aching sight 
There dawn'd, far off, a feeble light ; 

In hope he hasten'd there. 

13. 

Emerging now once more to day, 
A frozen waste before him lay, 

A desert wild and wide, 
Where ice-rocks, in a sunless sky. 
On ice-rocks piled, and mountains high. 

Were heap'd on every side. 

14. 
Impending as about to fall 
They seem'd; and, had that sight been all. 

Enough that sight had been 
To make the stoutest courage quail ; 
For what could courage there avail 

Against what then was seen ? 

15. 

He saw, as on in faith he past, 
Where many a frozen wretch was fast 



Within the ice-clefts pent. 
Yet living still, and doom'd to bear, 
In absolute and dumb despair, 

Their endless punishment. 

16. 

A voice then spake within his ear, 
And filled his inmost soul with fear, — 

" O mortal Man," it said, 
" Adventurers like thyself were these ! " 
He seem'd to feel his life-blood freeze. 

And yet subdued his dread. 

17. 

" O mortal Man," the Voice pursued, 
" Be wise in time ! for thine own good 

Alone I counsel thee ; 
Take pity on thyself ; retrace 
Thy steps, and fly this dolorous place, 

While yet thy feet are free. 

18. 
" I warn thee once ! 1 warn thee twice ! 
Behold ! that mass of mountain-ice 

Is trembling o'er thy head ! 
One warning is allow'd thee more ; 
O mortal Man, that warning o'er, 

And thou art worse than dead ! " 

19. 

Not without fear. Sir Owen still 

Held on with strength of righteous will, 

In faith and fervent prayer ; 
When at the word, " I warn thee thrice ! " 
Down came the mass of mountain ice, 

And overwhelm'd him there 

20. 
Crush'd though, it seem'd, in every bone, 
And sense for suffering left alone, 

A living hope remain'd ; 
In whom he had believed he knew, 
And thence the holy courage grew 

That still his soul sustain'd. 

21. 

For he, as he beheld it fall, 

Fail'd not in faith on Christ to call — 

"Lord, Thou canst save ! " he cried ; 
Oh, heavenly help vouchsafed in need, 
When perfect faith is found indeed ! 

The rocks of ice divide. 

22. 

Like dust before the storm-wind's sway 
The shivered fragments roll'd away, 

And left the passage free ; 
New strength he feels ; all pain is gone j 
New life Sir Owen breathes ; and on 

He goes rejoicingly. 

23. 

Yet other trials he must meet ; 
For soon a close and piercing heat 



THE CROSS ROADS. 



445 



Relax'd each loosen'd limb ; 
The sweat stream'd out from every part ; 
In short, quick beatings toil'd his heart; 

His throbbing eyes grew dim. 

24. 

Along the wide and wasted land 

A stream of fire, through banks of sand, 

Its molten billows spread ; 
Thin vapors, tremulously light. 
Hung quivering o'er the glowing white ; 

The air he breathed was red. 

25. 

A Paradise beyond was seen. 

Of shady groves and gardens green, 

Fair flowers and fruitful trees. 
And flowing fountains cool and clear, 
Whose gurgling music reach'd his ear. 

Borne on the burning breeze. 

26. 
How should he pass that molten flood .' 
While gazing wistfully he stood, 

A Fiend, as in a dream, 
"Thus! " answer'd the unutter'd thought, 
Stretch'd forth a mighty arm, and caught 

And cast him in the stream. 



27. 
Sir Owen groan'd; for then he felt 
His eyeballs burn, his marrow melt. 

His brain like liquid lead ; 
And from his heart the boiling blood 
Its agonizing course pursued 

Through limbs like iron red. 

28. 
Yet, giving way to no despair, 
But mindful of the aid of prayer, 

" Lord, Thou canst save ! " he said ; 
And then a breath from Eden came ; 
With life and healing through his frame 

The blissful influence spread. 

29. 
No Fiends may now his way oppose ; 
The gates of Paradise unclose ; 

Free entrance there is given ; 
And songs of triumph meet his ear ; 
Enrapt, Sir Owen seems to hear 

The harmonies of Heaven. 

30. 
" Come, Pilgrim ! take thy foretaste meet. 
Thou who hast trod with fearless feet 

St. Patrick's Purgatory ; 
For after death these seats divine, 
Reward eternal, shall be thine, 

And thine eternal glory." 

31. 

Inebriate with the deep delight, 

Dim grew the Pilgrim's swimming sight; 



His senses died away ; 
And when to life he woke, before 
The Cavern-mouth he saw once more 

The light of earthly day. 

Westbury, 1798. 



THE CROSS ROADS. 



The tragedy related in this Ballad happened about the year 
1760, in the parish of Bedminster, near Bristol. One who 
was present at the funeral told me the story and the circum- 
stances of the interment, as I have versified them. 



There was an old man breaking stones 

To mend the turnpike way ; 
He sat him down beside a brook. 
And out his bread and cheese he took ; 
For now it was mid-day. 



He lean'd his back against a post ; 

His feet the brook ran by ; 
And there were water-cresses growing, 
And pleasant was the water's flowing, 

For he was hot and dry. 



A soldier, with his knapsack on, 
Came travelling o'er the down ; 

The sun was strong, and he was tired ; 

And he of the old man inquired 
" How far to Bristol town .? " 



" Half an hour's walk for a young man, 
By lanes, and fields, and stiles ; 

But you the foot-path do not know ; 

And if along the road you go, 
Why, then 'tis three good miles." 



The soldier took his knapsack oflT, 

For he was hot and dry ; 
And out his bread and cheese he took, 
And he sat down beside the brook 

To dine in company. 



" Old friend ! in faith," the soldier says, 

" I envy you, almost ; 
My shoulders have been sorely press'd, 
And I should like to sit, and rest 

My back against that post. 



" In such a sweltering day as this, 

A knapsack is the devil ; 
And if on t'other side I sat, 
It would not only spoil our chat, 
But make me seem uncivil." 



446 



THE CROSS ROADS. 



The old man laugh'd and moved. — " I wish 

It were a great-arm'd chair ! 
But this may help a man at need 3 — 
And yet it was a cursed deed 

That ever brought it there. 



" There's a poor girl lies buried here, 

Beneath this very place ; 
The earth upon her corpse is press'd, 
This post was driven into her breast, 

And a stone is on her face." 

10. 
The soldier had but just lean'd back. 

And now he half rose up. 
"There's sure no harm in dining here, 
My friend .? and yet, to be sincere, 

I should not like to sup." 

11. 

" God rest her ! she is still enough 

Who sleeps beneath my feet ! " 
The old man cried. " No harm I trow. 
She ever did herself, though now 
She lies where four roads meet. 

12. 

" I have past by about that hour 

When men are not most brave ; 
It did not make my courage fail. 
And I have heard the nightingale 
Sing sweetly on her grave. 

13. 

" I have past by about that hour 
When ghosts their freedom have • 

But here I saw no ghastly sight ; 

And quietly the glow-worm's light 
Was shining on her grave. 

14. 

''There's one who, like a Christian, lies 

Beneath the church-tree's shade; 
I'd rather go a long mile round, 
Than pass at evening through the ground 
Wherein that man is laid. 



15. 

*' A decent burial that man had ; 

The bell was heard to toll. 
When he was laid in holy ground ; 
But for all the wealth in Bristol town 

I would not be with his soul ! 

16. 
" Didst see a house below the hill 

Which the winds and the rains destroy ? 
In that farm-house did that man dwell, 
And I remember it full well 

When I was a growing boy. 



17. 

" But she was a poor parish girl, 
Who came up from the west : 

From service hard she ran away, 

And at that house, in evil day. 
Was taken into rest. 

18. 

" A man of a bad name was he ; 

An evil life he led ; 
Passion made his dark face turn white. 
And his gray eyes were large and light, 

And in anger they grew red. 

19. 

" The man was bad, the mother worse. 

Bad fruit of evil stem ; 
'T would make your hair to stand on end 
If I should tell to you, my friend, 

The things that were told of them ! 

20. 

" Didst see an out-house standing by .? 

The walls alone remain ; 
It was a stable then, but now 
Its mossy roof has fallen through. 

All rotted by the rain. 

21. 

" This poor girl she had served with them 

Some half-a-year or more. 
When she was found hung up one day, 
Stiff as a corpse, and cold as clay. 

Behind that stable door. 



22. 

" It is a wild and lonesome place ; 

No hut or house is near ; 
Should one meet a murderer there alone, 
'Twere vain to scream, and the dying groan 

Would never reach mortal ear. 

23. 

" And there were strange reports about ; 

But still the coroner found 
That she by her own hand had died, 
And should buried be by the way-side, 

And not in Christian ground. 



" This was the very place he chose. 
Just where these four roads meet ; 
And I was one among the throng 
That hither follow 'd them along ; 
I shall never the sight forget ! 

25. 
" They carried her upon a board 

In the clothes in which she died ; 
I saw the cap blown off her head j 
Her face was of a dark, dark red 3 

Her eyes were starting wide : 



GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP 



447 



26. 
"I think they could not have been closed, 

So widely did they strain. 
O Lord, it was a ghastly sight. 
And it often made me wake at night, 

When I saw it in dreams again. 

27. 
" They laid her where these four roads meet. 

Here in this very place. 
The earth upon her corpse was press'd. 
This post was driven into her breast, 

And a stone is on her face.' 

Westbury, 1798. 



GOD'S JUDGMENT ON 
WICKED BISHOP. 



Here followeththe Historyof HATTO, Archl^ishop of Mentz. 

It hapned in the year 914, that there was an exceeding great 
famine in Germany, at what time Otho surnamed the Great 
was Emperor, and one Hatto, once Abbot of Fulda, was 
Archbishop of JVIentz, of the Bishops after Crescens and 
Crescentius the two and thirtieth, of the Archbishops after 
St. Bonifacius the thirteenth. This Hatto in the time of 
this great famine afore-mentioned, vvlicn he saw the poor 
people of the country exceediiigly oppressed with famine, 
assembled a great company of them together into a Barne, 
and, like a most accursed and mercilesse caitifFe, burnt up 
those poor innocent souls, that were so far from doubting 
any such matter, t])at they rather hoped to receive some 
comfort and relief at his hands. The reason that moved the 
prelat to conmiit that execrable impiety was, because he 
thought the famine would the sooner cease, if those un- 
profitable beggars that consumed more bread than they were 
worthy to eat, were dispatched out of the world. For he 
said that those poor folks were like to Mice, that were good 
for nothing but to devour corne. But God Almighty, the 
just avenger of the poor folks' quarrel, did not long suffer 
this hainous tyranny, this most detestable fact, unpunished. 
For he mustered up an army of Mice against the Arch- 
bishop, and sent them to persecute him as his furious Alas- 
tors, so that they afflicted him both day and night, and 
would not suffer him to take his rest in any place. Where- 
upon the Prelate, thinking that he should be secure from 
the injury of Mice if lie were in a certain tower, tliat 
standeth in the Rhine near to the towne, betook himself 
unto the said tower as to a safe refuge and sanctuary from 
his enemies, and locked himself in. But the innumerable 
troupes of Mice chased him continually very eagerly, and 
swumme unto him upon the top of the water to execute the 
just judgment of God, and so at last he was most miserably 
devoured by those sillie creatures : who pursued him with 
such bitter hostility, that it is recorded they scraped and 
knawed out his very name from the walls and tapistry 
wherein it was written, after they had so cruelly devoured 
his body. Wherefore the tower wherein he was eaten up 
by the Mice is shewn to this day, for a perpetual monument 
to all succeeding ages of the barbarous and inhuman tyranny 
of this impious Prelate, being situate in a little green Island 
in the midst of the Rhine near to the towne of Biiigen, and is 
commonly called in the German Tongue the Mowse-turn. 
Coryat's Crudities, pp. 571, 572. 

Other authors who record this tale say that the Bishop was 
eateu by Rats. 

The summer and autumn had been so wet. 
That in winter the corn was growing yet ; 



'Twas a piteous sight, to see, all around, 
The grain lie rotting on the ground. 

Every day the starving poor 
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door, 
For he had a plentiful last-year's store, 
And all the neighborhood could tell 
His granaries were furnish'd well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 

To quiet the poor without delay ; 

He bade them to his great Barn repair. 

And they should have food for the winter there 

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, 
The poor folk flock'd from far and near; 
The great Barn was full as it could hold 
Of women and children, and young and old. 

Then when he saw it could hold no more, 
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; 
And while for mercy on Christ they call. 
He set fire to the Barn and burnt them all. 

" r faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire ! " quoth he, 
" And the country is greatly obliged to me. 
For ridding it in these times forlorn 
Of Rats that only consume the corn." 

So then to his palace returned he. 

And he sat down to supper merrily. 

And he slept that night like an innocent man ; 

But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 

In the morning, as he enter' d the hall 
Where his picture hung against the wall, 
A sweat like death all over him came. 
For the Rats had eaten it out of the frame. 

As he look'd, there came a man from his farm ; 
He had a countenance white with alarm ; 
" My Lord, I open'd your granaries this morn, 
And the Rats had eaten all your corn." 

Another came running presently, 
And lie was pale as pale could be, — 
" Fly ! my Lord Bishop, fly," quoth he, 
"Ten thousand Rats are coming this way, — 
The Lord forgive you for yesterday ! " 

" I'll go to my tower on the Rhine," replied he, 
" 'Tis the safest place in Germany ; 
The walls are high, and the shores are steep. 
And the stream is strong, and the water deep." 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hasten'd away. 
And he cross'd the Rhine without delay. 
And reach'd his tower, and barr'd with care 
All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there. 

He laid him down and closed his eyes ; — 

But soon a scream made him arise ; 

He started, and saw two eyes of flame 

On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. 



448 



THE PIOUS PAINTER. 



He listen'd and look'd; — it was only the Cat^ 
But the Bishop he grew more fearful for that ; 
For she sat screaming, mad with fear 
At the Army of Rats that were drawing near. 

For they have swam over the river so deep, 
And they have climb'd the shores so steep, 
And up the Tower their way is bent, 
To do the work for which they were sent. 

They are not to be told by the dozen or score ; 
By thousands they come, and by myriads and more. 
Such numbers had never been heard of before ; 
Such a judgment had never been witness'd of yore. 

Down on his knees the Bishop fell. 

And faster and faster his beads did he tell, 

As louder and louder drawing near 

The gnawing of their teeth he could hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the door, 
. And through the walls, helter-skelter they pour, 
And down from the ceiling, and up through the floor. 
From the right and the left, from behind and before, 
From within and without, from above and below, 
And all at once to the Bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against the stones ; 
And now they pick the Bishop's bones ; 
They gnaw'd the flesh from every limb. 
For they were sent to do judgment on him ! 

Wesfbunj, 1799. 



THE PIOUS PAINTER. 



The legend of the Pious Painter is related in the Pia Hilaria 
of GazEBug ; but the Pious Poet has omitted the second part 
of the story, though it rests upon quite as good autliority as 
the first. It is to be found in the Fabliaux of Le Grand. 



THE FIRST PART. 



There once was a painter, in Catholic days. 

Like Job, who eschewed all evil; 
Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze 
With applause and with pleasure ; but chiefly his 
praise 

And delight was in painting the Devil. 



They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew, 
Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell ; 

Such burning hot eyes, such a furnace-like hue ! 

And round them a sulphurous coloring he threw. 
That their breath seem'd of brimstone to smell. 



And now had the artist a picture begun ; 
'Twas over the Virgin's church-door ; 



She stood on the Dragon, embracing her Son j 
Many Devils already the artist had done. 
But this must outdo all before. 



The Old Dragon's imps, as they fled through the air, 

At seeing it, paused on the wing ; 
For he had the likeness so just to a hair, 
That they came as Apollyon himself had been there, 

To pay their respects to their King. 



Every child, at beholding it, trembled with dread, 

And scream'd as he turn'd away quick. 
Not an old woman saw it, but, raising her head, 
Dropp'd a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and 
said. 
Lord, keep me from ugly Old Nick ! 



What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day, 
He sometimes would dream of by night; 

But once he was startled as sleeping he lay ; 

'Twas no fancy, no dream ; he could plainly survey 
That the Devil himself was in sight. 



" You rascally dauber ! " old Beelzebub cries, 

" Take heed how you wrong me again ! 
Though your caricatures for myself I despise, 
Make me handsomer now in the multitude's eyes, 
Or see if I threaten in vain ! " 



Now the Painter was bold, and religious beside. 

And on faith he had certain reliance ; 
So carefully he the grim countenance eyed. 
And thank'd him for sitting, with Catholic pride. 
And sturdily bade him defiance. 



Betimes in the morning the Painter arose ; 

He is ready as soon as 'tis light. 
Every look, every line, every feature he knows ; 
'Tis fresh in his eye ; to his labor he goes, 

And he has the old Wicked One quite. 

10. 

Happy man ! he is sure the resemblance can't fail ; 

The tip of the nose is like fire; [mail. 

There's his grin and his fangs, and his dragon-like 
And the very identical curl of his tail, — 

So that nothing is left to desire. 

1. 

He looks and retouches again with delight ; 

'Tis a portrait complete to his mind ; 
And exulting again and again at the sight, 
He looks round for applause, and he sees with 
affright 

The Original standing behind. 

12. 

" Fool ! Idiot ! " old Beelzebub grinn'd as he spoke, 
And stamp'd on the scaffold in ire ; 



THE PIOUS PAINTER. 



449 



The Painter grew pale, for he knew it no joke ; 
'Twas a terrible height, and the scaffolding broke. 
The Devil could wish it no higher. 

13. 
*' Help — help ! Blessed Mary ! " he cried in alarm, 

As the scaffold sunk under his feet. 
From the canvass the Virgin extended her arm ; 
She caught the good Painter ; she saved him from 
harm ; 
There were hundreds who saw in the street. 

14. 

The Old Dragon fled when the wonder he spied. 

And cursed his own fruitless endeavor ; 
While the Painter call'd after his rage to deride. 
Shook his pallet and brushes in triumph, and cried, 
''I'll paint thee more ugly than ever ! " 



THE SECOND PART. 



The Painter so pious all praise had acquired 

For defying the malice of Hell ; 
The Monks the unerring resemblance admired ; 
Not a Lady lived near but her portrait desired 

From a hand that succeeded so well. 

2. 

One there was to be painted the number among 

Of features most fair to behold ; 
The country around of fair Marguerite rung ; 
Marguerite she was lovely, and lively, and young 

Her husband was ugly and old. 



O Painter, avoid her ! O Painter, take care. 

For Satan is watchful for you ! 
Take heed lest you fall in the Wicked One's snare 
The net is made ready ; O Painter, beware 

Of Satan and Marguerite too. 



She seats herself now ; now she lifts up her head ; 

On the artist she fixes her eyes ; 
The colors are ready, the canvass is spread ; 
He lays on the white, and he lays on the red, 

And the features of beauty arise. 

5. 

He is come to her eyes, eyes so bright and so blue ! 

There's a look which he cannot express ; — 
His colors are dull to their quick-sparkling hue ; 
More and more on the lady he fixes his view ; 

On the canvass he looks less and less. 



In vain he retouches ; her eyes sparkle more. 
And that look which fair Marguerite gave ! 

57 



Many Devils the Artist had painted of yore, 
But he never had tried a live Angel before, — 
St. Anthony, help him and save ! 

7. 
He yielded, alas ! -^ for the truth must be told, — 

To the Woman, the Tempter, and Fate. 
It was settled the Lady, so fair to behold, 
Should elope from her Husband, so ugly and old, 

With the Painter, so pious of late. 



Now Satan exults in his vengeance complete ; 

To the Husband he makes the scheme known 
Night comes, and the lovers impatiently meet ; 
Together they fly ; they are seized in the street. 

And in prison the Painter is thrown. 



With Repentance, his only companion, he lies. 

And a dismal companion is she ! 
On a sudden, he saw the Old Enemy rise, 
" Now, you villanous dauber ! " Sir Beelzebub cries, 

" You are paid for your insults to me ! 

10. 
" But my tender heart you may easily move 

If to what I propose you agree ; 
That picture, — be just ! the resemblance improve } 
Make a handsomer portrait; your chains I'll remove, 

And you shall this instant be free." 

11. 

Overjoy'd, the conditions so easy he hears ; 

" I'll make you quite handsome ! " he said. 
He said, and his chain on the Devil appears ; 
Released from his prison, released from his fears, 

The Painter is snug in his bed. 

12. 

At morn he arises, composes his look. 
And proceeds to his work as before ; 

The people beheld him, the culprit they took ; 

They thought that the Painter his prison had broke, 
And to prison they led him once more. 

13. 

They open the dungeon ; — behold, in his place 

In the corner old Beelzebub lay ; 
He smirks, and he smiles, and he leers with a grace. 
That the Painter might catch all the charms of 
his face. 

Then vanish'd in lightning away. 

14. 

Quoth the Painter, " I trust you'll suspect me no 
more, 

Since you find my assertions were true. 
But I'll alter the picture above the Church-door, 
For he never vouchsafed me a sitting before. 

And I must give the Devil his due." 

Westbury, 1798. 



450 



ST. MICHAEL'S CHAIR. 



ST. MICHAEL'S CHAIR 



■ Know all men that the most Holy Father Gregory, in the year 
from the incarnation of our Lord 1070, bearing an affection 
of extraordinary devoutness to the Church of St. Michael's 
Mount, has piously granted to all the faithful who shall reach 
or visit it, with their oblations and alms, a remission of a 
third part of their penances." — At the beginning of the 15th 
century, " Because, it was said, this privilege is still un- 
known to many, therefore we the servants of God, and the 
ministers of this church in Christ, do require and request 
of all of you who possess the care of souls, for the sake of 
mutual accommodation, to publish tliese words in your re- 
spective churches ; that your parishioners and subjects may 
be more carefully animated to a greater exhortation of de- 
voutness, and may moJ-e gloriously in pilgrimages frequent 
this place, for the gracious attainment of the gifts and indul- 
gencies aforesaid." From this publication of the privilege 
did undoubtedly commence that numerous resort of pilgrims 
to the church which Carew intimates ; and of which Nor- 
den, who generally is the mere copier of Carew, yet is here 
the enlarger of him, says, " The Mount hath been much re- 
sorted unto by pilgrims in devotion to St. Michael." Then 
too was framed assuredly that seat on the tower, which is 
so ridiculously described by Carew, as " a little without the 
castle, — a bad seat in a craggy place, — somewhat danger- 
ous for access ; " when it is a chair composed of stones pro- 
jecting from the two sides of the tower battlements, and 
uniting into a kind of basin for a seat just at the south- 
western angle, but elevated above the battlements on each 
side, having its back just within, and hanging high over the 
rocky precipice below. It thus " appears somewhat dan- 
gerous " indeed, but not merely "for access," though the 
climber to it must actually turn his whole body at that alti- 
tude to take his seat in it, but from the altitude itself, and 
from its projection over the precipice. It also appears an 
evident addition to the building. And it was assuredly made 
at this period, not for the ridiculous purpose to which alone 
it professedly ministers at present, — that of enabling women 
who sit in it to govern tlieir husbands afterwards ; but for 
such of the pilgrims as had stronger heads, and bolder 
spirits, to complete their devotions at the Mount, by sitting 
in this St. MichaeVs Chair, as denominated, and these show- 
ing themselves as pilgrims, to the country round. Hence, in 
an author who lends us information without knowing it, as 
he alludes to customs without feeling the force of them, we 
read this transient information : 

Who knows not Mighel's Mount and Chair, 
The pilgrim's holy vaunt ? 

Norden also reechoes Carew, in saying, " St. Michael's 
chair is fabled to be in the Mount." We thus find a reason 
for the construction of the chair, that comports with all the 
uses of the church on wliich it is constructed, and that min- 
igtered equally with this to the purposes of religion then 
predominant ; a religion, dealing more in exteriors than our 
own, operating more than our own, through the body, upon 
the soul ; and so leaving, perhaps, a more sensible impres- 
sion upon the spirits. To sit in the chair then, was not 
merely, as Carew represents the act, " somewhat dan- 
gerous " in the attempt, " and therefore holy in the adventure,'''' 
but also holy in itself, as on the church tower ; more holy 
in its purposes, as the seat of the pilgrims ; and most holy 
as the seat of a few in accomplishment of all their vows ; 
as the chair of a few, in invitation of all the country. — 
Whitaker's Supplement to the First avd Second Book of 
Polwhele's History of Cornwall, pp. 6, 7. 



Merrily, merrily rung the bells, 
The bells of St. Michael's tower. 

When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife 
Arrived at St. Michael's door. 



Richard Penlake was a cheerful man, 

Cheerful, and frank, and free ; 
But he led a sad life with Rebecca his wife, 

For a terrible shrew was she. 

Richard Penlake a scolding would take. 

Till patience avail'd no longer ; 
Then Richard Penlake his crab-stick would take, 

And show her that he was the stronger. 

Rebecca his wife had often wish'd 

To sit in St. Michael's chair ; 
For she should be the mistress then. 

If she had once sat there. 

It chanced that Richard Penlake fell sick ; 

They thought he would have died ; 
Rebecca his wife made a vow for his life, 

As she knelt by his bed-side. 

" Now hear my prayer, St. Michael ! and spare 

My husband's life," quoth she ; 
" And to thine altar we will go 

Six marks to give to thee." 

Richard Penlake repeated the vow, 

For woundily sick was he ; 
" Save me, St. Michael, and we will go 

Six marks to give to thee." 

When Richard grew well, Rebecca his wife 

Teased him by night and by day : 
" O mine own dear ! for you I fear, 

If we the vow delay.' 

Merrily, merrily rung the bells, 

The bells of St. Michael's tower. 
When Richard Penlake and Rebecca his wife 

Arrived at St. Michael's door. 

Six marks they on the altar laid. 

And Richard knelt in prayer : 
She left him to pray, and stole away 

To sit in St. Michael's chair. 

Up the tower Rebecca ran, 

Round, and round, and round ; 
'Twas a giddy sight to stand a-top. 

And look upon the ground. 

" A curse on the ringers for rocking 

The tower ! " Rebecca cried. 
As over the church battlements 

She strode with a long stride. 

"A blessing on St. Michael's chair ! " 

She said, as she sat down : 
Merrily, merrily rung the bells. 

And out Rebecca was thrown. 

Tidings to Richard Penlake were brought 

That his good wife was dead : 
" Now shall we toll for her poor soul 

The great church bell ? ' ' they said. 



KING HENRY V. AND THE HERMIT OF DREUX. 



451 



"Toll at her burying," quoth Richard Penlake, 
" Toll at her burying," quoth he ; 

" But don't disturb the ringers now 
In compliment to me." 

Westbury, 1798. 



KING HENRY V. AND THE 
HERMIT OF DREUX. 



Wliile Henry V. lay at the siege of Dreux, an honest Hermit, 
unknown to )iim, came and told him the great evils he 
brought on Christendom by his unjust ambition, who 
usurped the kingdom of France, against all manner of right, 
and contrary to the will of God; wherefore, in his lioly 
name, he threatened him with a severe and sudden punish- 
ment if he desisted not from his enterprise. Henry took 
this exhortation either as an idle whimsey, or a suggestion 
of the dauphin's, and was but the more confirmed in his 
design. But the blow soon followed the threatening ; for, 
within some few months after, he was smitten with a strange 
and incurable disease. — Mezeray. 



He pass'd unquestion'd through the camp 

Their heads the soldiers bent 
In silent reverence, or begg'd 

A blessing as he went ; 
And so the Hermit pass'd along, 

And reached the royal tent. 

King Henry sat in his tent alone ; 

The map before him lay ; 
Fresh conquests he was planning there 

To grace the future day. 

King Henry lifted up his eyes 

The intruder to behold ; 
With reverence he the hermit saw ; 

For the holy man was old ; 
His look was gentle as a Saint's, 

And yet his eye was bold. 

" Repent thee, Henry, of the wrongs 
Which thou hast done this land ! 

O King, repent in time, for know 
The judgment is at hand. 

" I have pass'd forty years of peace 

Beside the river Blaise ; 
But what a weight of woe hast thou 
Laid on my latter days ! 

" I used to see along the stream 

The white sail gliding down. 
That wafted food, in better times, 

To yonder peaceful town. 

" Henry ! I never now behold 
The white sail gliding down ; 

Famine, Disease, and Death, and Thou 
Destroy that wretched town. 



" I used to hear the traveller's voice 

As here he pass'd along. 
Or maiden, as she loiter'd home 

Singing her even-song. 

"No traveller's voice may now be heard j 

In fear he hastens by ; 
But I have heard the village maid 

In vain for succor cry. 

" I used to see the youths row down, 
And watch the dripping oar, 

As pleasantly their viol's tones 
Came soften'd to the shore. 

" King Henry, many a blacken'd corpse 

I now see floating down ! 
Thou man of blood ! repent in time. 

And leave this leaguer'd town." 

"I shall go on," King Henry cried, 
" And conquer this good land ; 

Seest thou not, Hermit, that the Lord 
Hath given it to my hand ? " 

The Hermit heard King Henry speak, 
And angrily look'd down; — 

His face was gentle, and for that 
More solemn was his frown. 

" What if no miracle from Heaven 
The murderer's arm control ; 

Think you for that the weight of blood 
Lies lighter on his soul ? 

" Thou conqueror King, repent in time. 

Or dread the coming woe ! 
For, Henry, thou hast heard the threat, 

And soon shalt feel the blow! " 

King Henry forced a careless smile, 
As the hermit went his way ; 

But Henry soon remember'd him 
Upon his dying day. 

Westbury, 1798. 



OLD CHRISTOVAL'S ADVICE, 



AND THE REASON WHY HE GAVE IT. 



Recibio un Cavallero, paraque cultivasse sus tierras, a un Quin- 
tero, y para pagarle algo addantado le pidio fiador ; y no 
teniendo quien lefiasse, le prometio delante del sepulcro de San 
Isidro que cumpliria su palahra, y si no, que el Santo le casti- 
gasse. Con lo qual, el Cavallero le pago toda su soldada, y le 
fio. Mar desagradccido aquel homhre, no haciendo case de su 
promessa, se huyd, sin acabarde sirvir el tiempo concertado. 
Passo de noche sin reparar en ello, por la Iglesia de San ^ndris, 
donde estaba el cuerpo del sicrvo de Dios. Fue cosa maravil- 
losa, que andando corriendo toda la noche, no se apartd de la 
Iglesia, sino que toda se lefue en dar mil bueltas al rededor de 
ella, hasta quepor la manana, yendo el amo d quexarse de San 



452 



OLD CHRISTOVAL'S ADVICE. 



Isidro, y pedirle cumpUesse su fianza, hallo a su Quintero alii, 
dando mas y mas bueltas, sin poderse haver apartado de aquel 
sitio. Pidio perdon al Santo, y d su amo, al qual satisfizo 
despues enteramente por su trabajo. — Villegas. Flos Sanc- 
torum. 



" If thy debtor be poor," old Christoval said, 

" Exact not too hardly thy due ; 
For he who preserves a poor man from want 

May preserve him from wickedness too. 

"If thy neighbor should sin," old Christoval said, 

" O never unmerciful be ; 
But remember it is through the mercy of God 

That thou art not as sinful as he. 

" At sixty-and-seven, the hope of Heaven 
Is my comfort, through God's good grace ; 

My summons, in truth, had I perish'd in youth. 
Must have been to a different place." 

"You shall have the farm, young Christoval," 

My master Henrique said ; 
" But a surety provide, in whom I can confide. 

That duly the rent shall be paid." 

I was poor, and I had not a friend upon earth, 

And I knew not what to say ; 
We stood in the porch of St. Andrew's Church, 

And it was St. Isidro's day. 

"Take St. Isidro for my pledge," 

I ventured to make reply ; 
" The Saint in Heaven may be my friend, 

But friendless on earth am I." 

We enter'd the Church, and went to his shrine, 

And I fell on my bended knee — 
" I am friendless, holy Isidro, 

And therefore I call upon thee ! 

" I call upon thee my surety to be ; 

My purpose is honest and true ; 
And if ever I break my plighted word, 

O Saint, mayst thou make me rue ! " 

I was idle, and quarter-day came on. 

And I had not the rent in store ; 
I fear'd St. Isidro's anger. 

But I dreaded my landlord more. 

So, on a dark night, I took my flight. 

And stole like a thief away ; 
It happen'd that by St. Andrew's Church 

The road I had chosen lay. 

As I past the Church door, I thought how I swore 

Upon St. Isidro's day ; 
That the Saint was so near increased my fear. 

And faster I hasten'd away. 

So all night long I hurried on. 

Pacing full many a mile, 
And knew not his avenging hand 

Was on me all the while. 



Weary I was, yet safe, I thought ; 

But when it was day-light, 
I had, I found, been running round 

And round the Church all night. 

I shook like a palsy, and fell on my knees, 

And for pardon devoutly I pray'd ; 
When my master came up — " What, Christoval ! 

You are here betimes ! " he said. 

"I have been idle, good Master," said I, 
" Good Master, and I have done wrong ; 

And I have been running round the Church 
In penance all night long." 

"If thou hast been idle," Henrique replied, 

" Henceforth thy fault amend ! 
I will not oppress thee, Christoval, 

And the Saint may thy labor befriend." 

Homeward I went a penitent, 

And from that day I idled no more ; 

St. Isidro bless'd my industry, 
As he punish'd my sloth before. 

" When my debtor was poor," old Christoval said, 

" I have never exacted my due ; 
But remembering my master was good to me, 

I copied his goodness too. 

" When my neighbor hath sinn'd," old Christoval 
said, 

" I judged not too hardly his sin. 
But thought of the night by St. Andrew's Church, 

And consider'd what I might have been." 

Westbunj, 1798. 



CORNELIUS AGRIPPA; 

A BALLAD, 

OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD READ UN- 
LAWFUL BOOKS, AND HOW HE WAS 
PUNISHED. 



VERY PITHY AND PROFITABLE. 



Cornelius Agrippa went out one day; 
His Study he lock'd ere he went away, 
And he gave the key of the door to his wife, 
And charged her to keep it lock'd on her life. 

" And if any one ask my Study to see, 
I charge you to trust them not with the key ; 
Whoever may beg, and entreat, and implore, 
On your life let nobody enter that door." 

There lived a young man in the house, who in vain 
Access to that Study had sought to obtain ; 



CORNELIUS AGRIPPA. — KING CHARLEMAIN. 



453 



And he begg'd and pray'd the books to see, 
Till the foolish woman gave him the key. 

On the Study-table a book there lay, 
Which Agrippa himself had been reading that day ; 
The letters were written with blood therein, 
And the leaves were made of dead men's skin ; — 

And these horrible leaves of magic between 
Were the ugliest pictures that ever were seen. 
The likeness of things so foul to behold, 
Tliat what they were is not fit to be told. 

The young man he began to read 
He knew not what ; but he would proceed, 
When there was heard a sound at the door 
Which, as he read on, grew more and more. 

And more and more the knocking grew ; 

The young man knew not what to do ; 

But, trembling, in fear he sat within. 

Till the door was broke, and the Devil came in. 

Two hideous horns on his head he had got. 
Like iron heated nine times red-hot; 
The breath of his nostrils was brimstone blue. 
And his tail like a fiery serpent grew. 

" What wouldst thou with meV the Wicked One 

cried. 
But not a word the young man replied ; 
Every hair on his head was standing upright. 
And his limbs like a palsy shook with affright. 

" What wouldst thou with me .-' " cried the Author 

of ill; 
But the wretched young man was silent still ; 
Not a word had his lips the power to say, 
And his marrow seem'd to be melting away. 

" What wouldst thou with me .? "' the third time he 

cries, 
And a flash of lightning came from his eyes. 
And he lifted his grifHn claw in the air. 
And the young man had not strength for a prayer. 

His eyes red fire and fury dart 
As out he tore the young man's heart; 
He grinn'd a horrible grin at his prey ; 
And in a clap of thunder vanish'd away. 

THE MORAL. 
Henceforth let all young men take heed 
How in a Conjurer's books they read. 

Westbunj, 1798. 



Prestres une histoire prodigeuse qii'ils teiioient de main en 
main -ponr tres veritable. Qui estuit que Charles le Orand, 
apres avoir conqueste plusieurs pays, s'esperdit de telle fagon 
en Pamour d^une simple femme, que mettant tout homieur et 
reputation en arriere, il ouhlia non sculement les affaires de 
son royaume, 7nais aussi le soing de sa propre personne, au 
grand desplaisir de chacun ; estant seulemcnt entcntif d cour- 
tiser ceste dame: laquelle par bonhexir commenca d s^aliter 
d^une grosse maladie, qui lui apporta la mart. Dont les Princes 
et grands Seigneurs fur ent fort rcjouis, esperans qxie par ceste 
mort, Charles reprendroit comme drvant et ses esprits et les 
affaires du royaume en main : toutesfois il se trouva tellcment 
infatue de ceste amour, qu^ encores cherissoit-il ce cadaver, 
Pembrassant, baisant, accolant de la meme fagon que devant, et 
au lieu de prcstcr Porcille aux legations qui luy survenoient, il 
Pentrctenoit de mille bayes, comme s^elle eust cste pleine de vie. 
Ce corps commcngoit deja non seulement d mal sentir, mais aussi 
se tournoit en putrefaction, et neantmoins n'y avoit aucun de ses 
favoris qui luy en osast parler ; dont advint que PArchevesque 
Turpin mieux advise que les autres, pourpcnsa que telle chose 
ne pouvoit estre advenu'c sans quelque sorcellerie. jSu moyen 
dequoy espiant unjour Pheure que le Roy s^estoit absente de la 
chamhre, commenga de fouiller le corps de toutcs parts, finale- 
Tutnt trouva dans sa bouche au dessous de sa langue un anneau 
qu^il luy osta. Le jour mesmc Charlemaigne retournant sur 
ses premieres brisces, se trouva fort estonne de voir une car- 
casse ainsipuante. Parquoy, comme s^il sefust resveille d^un 
profond sommeil, commanda que Pon Pensevelist promptemcnt. 
Ce qui fat fait ; mais en contr' eschange de ceste folic, il tour- 
na toils ses pensemens vers PArchevesque porteur de cest an- 
neau, ne pouvant estre de Id en avant sans luy, ct le suivant 
en tous les endroits. Quay voyant ce sage Prelat, et craignant 
que cest anneau ne tomhast en mains de quelque autre, le jetta 
dans un lac prochain de la ville. Depuis Icquel temps on dit 
que ce Roy se trouve si espris de Pamour du lieu, quMl ne se 
descmpara de la ville d'Aix, oil il bastit un Palais, et un Mo- 
nastere, en Pun desqucls il parfit le reste de ses jours, et en 
Pautre vouiut estre vnsevely, ordonnant par son testament que 
tous les Empercurs de Rome cusscnt d scfaire sacrcr premier e- 
ment en ce lieu. — Pas^uier. Rcchcrches de la France. 
L. 6, C. 33. 
This very learned author has strangely mistaken Aix in Sa- 
voy, the real scene of the legend, for Aix-la-Chapelle. The 
ruins of a building said to have been Charlemain's palace 
are still to be seen on the Lake of Bourget. 



KING CHARLEMAIN. 



Frangois Petrarque, fort renomme entre les Poetes Italien-s, dis- 
courant en un epistre son voyage de France et de PAllemaigne, 
nous racontc que passant par la ville d''Aix, il npprit de quelques 



It was strange that he loved her, for youth was gone 
And the bloom of her beauty was fled : [by, 

'Twas the glance of the harlot that gleam'd in her 
eye. 

And all but the Monarch could plainly descry 
From whence came her white and her red. 



Yet he thought with Agatha none might compare, 
And he gloried in wearing her chain ; 

The court was a desert if she were not there ; 

To him she alone among women seem'd fair. 
Such dotage possess'd Charlemain. 



The soldier, the statesman, the courtier, the maid, 

Alike the proud leman detest ; 
And the good old Archbishop, who ceased to up- 
braid, 
Shook his gray head in sorrow, and silently pray'd 

That he soon might consign her to rest. 

4. 

A joy ill-dissembled soon gladdens them all, 
For Ag-atha sickens and dies. 



454 



KING CHARLEMAIN. 



And now they are ready with bier and with pall ; 
The tapers gleam gloomy amid the high hall, 
And the strains of the requiem arise. 



But Charlemain sent them in anger away, 

For she should not be buried, he said ; 
And despite of all counsel, for many a day. 
Where array'd in her costly apparel she lay. 
The Monarch would sit by the dead. 



The cares of the kingdom demand him in vain, 

And the army cry out for their lord ; 
The Lombards, the fierce misbelievers of Spain, 
Now ravage the realms of the proud Charlemain, 
And still he unsheaths not the sword. 



The soldiers they clamor, the Monks bend in prayer 

In the quiet retreats of the cell ; 
The physicians to counsel together repair. 
And with common consent, one and all they declare 

That his senses are bound by a spell. 



Then, with relics protected, and confident grown, 

And telling devoutly his beads, 
The good old Archbishop, when this was made 

known. 
Steals in when he hears that the corpse is alone, 

And to look for the spell he proceeds. 

9. 
He searches with care, though with tremulous 
haste. 
For the spell that bewitches the king ; 
And under her tongue, for security placed. 
Its margin with mystical characters traced. 
At length he discovers a ring. 

10. 

Rejoicing he seized it, and hasten'd away ; 

The Monarch reenter'd the room ; 
The enchantment was ended, and, suddenly gay. 
He bade the attendants no longer delay. 

But bear her with speed to the tomb. 

11. 

Now merriment, joyance, and feasting again 

Enliven'd the palace of Aix; 
And now by his heralds did King Charlemain 
Invite to his palace the cottier train 

To hold a high festival day. 

12. 

And anxiously now for the festival day 

The highly -born Maidens prepare : 
And now, all apparel'd in costly array. 
Exulting they come to the palace of Aix, 

Young and aged, the brave and the fair. 

13. 

Oh ! happy the Damsel who, 'mid her compeers, 
For a moment engaged the King's eye ! 



Now glowing with hopes, and now fever'd with 

fears, 
Each maid or triumphant or jealous appears, 
As noticed by him, or pass'd by. 

14. 

And now, as the evening approach'd, to the ball 

In anxious suspense they advance. 
Hoping each on herself that the King's choice 

might fall. 
When, lo ! to the utter confusion of all, 

He ask'd the Archbishop to dance. 

15. 

The damsels they laugh, and the barons they stare ; 

'Twas mirth and astonishment all ; 
And the Archbishop started, and mutter'd a prayer, 
And, wroth at receiving such mockery there, 

In haste he withdrew from the hall. 

16. 

The moon dimpled over the water with light 
As he wander'd along the lake side ; 

But the King had pursued, and, o'erjoyed at his 
sight, 

" Oh turn thee. Archbishop, my joy and delight, 
Oh turn thee, my charmer," he cried. 

17. 

" Oh come where the feast, and the dance, and the 
song, 

Invite thee to mirth and to love ; 
Or at this happy moment, away from the throng, 
To the shade of yon wood let us hasten along, — 

The moon never pierces that grove." 

18. 

As thus by new madness the King seem'd pos- 
sess'd, 
In new wonder the Archbishop heard ; 
Then Charlemain warmly and eagerly press'd 
The good old man's poor, wither'd hand to his 
breast. 
And kiss'd his long, gray, grizzle beard. 

19. 

"Let us well, then, these fortunate moments em- 
ploy ! " 
Cried the Monarch with passionate tone ; 
" Come away then, dear charmer, — my angel, — 

my joy,— 
Nay, struggle not now, — 'tis in vain to be coy, — 
And remember that we are alone." 



20. 



the Archbishop 



" Blessed Mary, protect me ! 
cried ; 

" What madness has come to the King ! " 
In vain to escape from the monarch he tried, 
When luckily he on his finger espied 

The glitter of Agatha's ring. 

21. 
Overjoy'd, the good prelate remember'd the spell, 
And far in the lake flung the ring ; 



ST. ROMUALD. 



455 



The waters closed round it, and wondrous to tell, 
Released from the cursed enchantment of hell, 
His reason return'd to the King. 

22. 

But he built him a palace there close by the bay. 

And there did he love to remain ; 
And the traveller who will, may behold at this day 
A monument still in the ruins at Aix 

Of the spell that possess'd Charlemain. 

Bath, 1797. 



ST. ROMUALD 



Les Catalans ayant appris que S. Romuald vouloit quitter Icurs 
pays, enfiirent tris-affliges ; i)s deliberereiit sur les moyensde 
Veil empecher, et le seul quails imaginerent comme leplus siir, 
fid dc le tucr, afin de profiler du moiiis de ses reliqves et des 
guerisons et autres miracles qu''clles opereroient apris sa mart. 
La devotion que les Catalans avoient pour lui,neplut point du 
tout d S. Romuald; il usa de stratageme et leur echappa. — 
St. Foix, Essais Historiques sur Paris. — T. 5, p. 163. 

St. Foix, who is often more amusing than trust wortliy, has 
fathered this story upon the Spaniards, tliough it belongs to 
his own countrymen, the circumstances having happened 
when Romuald was a monk of the Convent of St. Michael's, 
in Aquitaine. It is thus related by Yepes. En esta ocasion 
sucrdio una cosa bien extraordinaria, porque los naturales de 
la tierra donde estava el monasterio de San Miguel, estimavan 
en tanto a San Romoaldo, que faltandules la paciencia de que 
se quisiesse yr, dieron en un terrible disparate, a quicn llama 
muy bien San Pedro Damiano Impia Pietas, piedad cruel: 
porque queriendose yr San Romoaldo, dct.erminaron de matarle, 
para que ya que no le podian tencr en su tierra vivo, alomenos 
gozassen de sus reliquias y cucrpo santo. Supo San Romoaldo 
la determinacion bestial y indiscreta de aquella gentc : y tomo 
una prudente rcsolucion, porque imitando a David, que fingio 
qiie estava loco, por no caer en manos de sus enemigos, assi San 
Romoaldo se hizo raer la cabcca, y con algunos ademancs, y 
palabras mal concertadas que dezia, le tuvieron por hombre que 
le avia faltado el juyzio, con que se asseguraron los naturales 
de la tierra que ya perpetuamente le tendrian en ella: y con 
semejante estratagema y traga tuvo lugar San Romoaldo dc 
hurtarse, y a cencerros topados {como dizen) huyr de aquella 
tierra, y llegar a Italia a la ciudad de Ravena. 

Coronica General de la Orden de San 
Bevito.—T. 5,^.274. 

Villegas in his Flos Sanctorum, (February 7th,) records some 
of St. Romuald's achievements against the Devil and his 
imps. He records also the other virtues of the Saint, as 
specified in the poem. They are more fully stated by Yepes. 
Tenia tres cilicios, los quales mudava de ireynta en treynta 
dias : no los labava, sino ponialos al ayre, y d la agua que 
llmna, con que se matavan algunas immundicias, que se criavan 
en ellos. — fF. 298. Quando alguna vez era tcntado de la gula, 
y desseava comer de algun manjar, tomovale en las manos, mi- 
ravale, oliale, y despues que estava despierto el apetito, dezia, 

■ O gula, gula, quan dulce y suave te parece cste manjar ! pero 
no te ha de entrar en provechn ! y entonces se mortificava, y le 
dexava, y le embiava entero, o al sillerigo, o a los pobres. 

There is a free translation of this poem, by Bilderdijk, in the 
second volume of his Krekelzangen, p. 113. 



One day, it matters not to know 

How many hundred years ago, 

A Frenchman stopp'd at an inn door : 

The Landlord came to welcome him, and chat 

Of this and that. 

For he had seen the Traveller there before. 



" Doth holy Romuald dwell 

Still in his cell?" 

The Traveller ask'd, " or is the old man dead .? " 

" No ; he has left his loving flock, and we 

So great a Christian never more shall see," 

The Landlord answer'd, and he shook his head, 

" Ah, sir, we knew his worth! 

If ever there did live a Saint on earth ! — 

Why, Sir, he alwaj^s used to wear a shirt 

For thirty days, all seasons, day and night : 

Good man, he knew it was not right 

For Dust and Ashes to fall out with Dirt; 

And then he only hung it out in the rain, 

And put it on again. 

" There has been perilous work 

With him and the Devil there in yonder cell ; 

For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. 

There they would sometimes fight 

All through a winter's night, 

From sunset until morn. 

He with a cross, the Devil with his horn ; 

The Devil spitting fire, with might and main, 

Enough to make St. Michael half afraid ; 

He splashing holy water till he made 

His red hide hiss again, 

And the hot vapor fill'd the smoking cell. 

This was so common that his face became 

All black and yellow with the brimstone flame, 

And then he smelt, — O Lord ! how he did smell ! 

" Then, Sir ! to see how he would mortify 

The flesh ! If any one had dainty fare, 

Good man, he would come there, 

And look at all the delicate things, and cry 

' O Belly, Belly, 

You would be gormandizing now, I know; 

But it shall not be so ! — 

Home to your bread and water — home, I tell ye ! " 

" But," quoth the Traveller, " wherefore did he 

leave 

A flock that knew his saintly worth so well.? " 

'* Why," said the Landlord, " Sir, it so befell 

He heard unluckily of our intent 

To do him a great honor ; and, you know, 

He was not covetous of fame below, 

And so by stealth one night away he went." 

" What might this honor be ? " the Traveller cried. 

"Why, Sir," the host replied, 

" We thought perhaps that he might one day 

leave us ; 

And then should strangers have 

The good man's grave, 

A loss like that would naturally grieve us ; 

For he'll be made a Saint of, to be sure. 

Therefore we thought it prudent to secure 

His relics while we might; 

And so we meant to strangle him one night ' 

Westhunj, 1798. 



456 



THE KING OF THE CROCODILES. 



THE 



KING OF THE CROCODILES 



The people at Isna, in Upper Egypt, have a superstition con- 
cerning Crocodiles similar to that entertained in the West 
Indies ; they say there is a King of them who resides near 
Isna, and who has ears, but no tail ; and he possesses an 
uncommon regal quality, that of doing no harm. Some 
are bold enough to assert that they have seen him. — 
Brown's Travels. 

If the Crocodile Dynasty in Egypt had been described as 
distinguished by a long neck, as well as the want of a tail, 
it might be supposed that some tradition of the Ichthyosau- 
rus, or other variety of the Prteadamite Crocodile, was pre- 
served in those countries. 

No one who has perused Mr. Waterton's Wanderings will 
think there is any thing more extraordinary in the woman's 
attack upon her intended devourer, than in what that enter- 
prising and most observant naturalist has himself performed. 
He has ridden a Crocodile, twisting the huge reptile's fore 
legs on his back by main force, and using them as a bridle. 
" Should it be asked," he says, " how I managed to keep 
my seat, I would answer, I hunted some years with Lord 
Darlington's fox-hounds." 

There is a translation of this ballad by Bilderdijk, published 
in his Krekehangen, 1822, vol. ii. p. 109, before the second 
part was written. 



PART I. 



" Now, Woman, why without your veil ? 
And wherefore do you look so pale ? 
And, Woman, why do you groan so sadly, 
And wherefore beat your bosom madly ? " 

" Oh ! I have lost my darling boy, 

In whom ray soul had all its joy ; 

And I for sorrow have torn my veil. 

And sorrow hath made ray very heart pale. 

*' Oh, I have lost my darling child. 
And that's the loss that makes me wild ; 
He stoop'd to the river down to drink, 
And there was a Crocodile by the brink. 

" He did not venture in to swim ; 

He only stoop'd to drink at the brim ; 

But under the reeds the Crocodile lay. 

And struck with his tail, and swept him away. 

" Now take me in your boat, I pray, 
For down the river lies ray way, 
And me to the Reed Island bring, 
For I will go to the Crocodile King. 

" He reigns not now in Crocodilople, 
Proud as the Turk at Constantinople ; 
No ruins of his great City remain. 
The Island of Reeds is his whole domain. 

" Like a Dervise there he passes his days. 
Turns up his eyes, and fasts and prays ; 
And being grown pious, and meek, and mild, 
He now never eats man, woman, or child. 



" The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong ; 
He has no tail, so stiff and strong ; 
He has no tail to strike and slay, 
But he has ears to hear what I say. 

" And to the King I will complain 
How my poor child was wickedly slain ; 
The King of the Crocodiles he is good, 
And I shall have the murderer's blood." 

The raan replied, " No, Woman, no, 
To the Island of Reeds I will not go ; 
I would not for any worldly thing 
See the face of the Crocodile King." 

" Then lend me now your little boat, 
And I will down the river float. 
I tell thee that no worldly thing 
Shall keep me from the Crocodile King. 

" The King of the Crocodiles he is good. 
And therefore will give me blood for blood ; 
Being so mighty and so just, 
He can revenge me ; he will, and he must." 

The Woman she leap'd into the boat. 
And down the river alone did she float; 
And fast with the stream the boat proceeds ; 
And now she is come to the Island of Reeds. 

The King of the Crocodiles there was seen ; 
He sat upon the eggs of the Queen ; 
And all around, a numerous rout. 
The young Prince Crocodiles crawl'd about. 

The Woman shook every limb with fear, 
As she to the Crocodile King came near ', 
For never man without fear and awe 
The face of his Crocodile Majesty saw. 

She fell upon her bended knee, 
And said, " O King, have pity on me, 
For I have lost my darling child, 
And that's the loss that makes me wild. 

" A Crocodile ate him for his food ; 
Now let me have the murderer's blood ; 
Let me have vengeance for my boy, 
The only thing that can give me joy. 

" I know that you. Sire ! never do wrong ; 
You have no tail, so stiff" and strong, i 

You have no tail to strike and slay, I 

But you have ears to hear what I say." 

" You have done well," the King replies, 
And fixed on her his little eyes ; 
" Good Woman, yes, you have done right, 
But you have not described me quite. 

" I have no tail to strike and slay. 
And I have ears to hear what you say ; 
I have teeth, moreover, as you may see. 
And I will make a meal of thee." 

Bristol, 1799. 



THE KING OF THE CROCODILES. — THE ROSE 



457 



PART II. 

Wicked the word, and bootless the boast, 
As cruel King Crocodile found to his cost; 
And proper reward of tyrannical might, 
He show'd his teeth, but he miss'd his bite. 

" A meal of me ! " the Woman cried. 
Taking wit in her anger, and courage beside ; 
She took him his forelegs and hind between. 
And trundled him off the eggs of the Queen. 

I To revenge herself then she did not fail ; 
He was slow in his motions for want of a tail ; 
But well for the Woman was it, the while. 
That the Queen was gadding abroad in the Nile. 

Two Crocodile Princes, as they play'd on the sand, 

She caught, and grasping them one in each hand, 

' Thrust the head of one into the throat of the other, 

And made each Prince Crocodile choke his brother. 

And when she had truss' d three couple this way, 
She carried them off, and hasten'd away, 
, And plying her oars with might and main, 
Cross'd the river, and got to the shore again. 

When the Crocodile Queen came home, she found 
That her eggs were broken and scattered around. 
And that six young Princes, darlings all, 
I Were missing, for none of them answer'd her call. 

Then many a not very pleasant thing 
Pass'd between her and the Crocodile King : 
" Is this your care of the nest? " cried she. 
\ *'It comes of your gadding abroad," said he. 

[! 

The queen had the better in this dispute. 
And the Crocodile King found it best to be mute, 
i While a terrible peal in his ears she rung, 
; For the Queen had a tail as well as a tongue. 

In woful patience he let her rail, 
i Standing less in fear of her tongue than her tail, 
i And knowing that all the words which were spoken 

Could not mend one of the eggs that were broken. 

,! The Woman, meantime, was very well pleased ; 
i She had saved her life, and her heart was eased ; 
' The justice she ask'd in vain for her son. 
She had taken herself, and six for one. 

" Mash- Allah [ " her neighbors exelaim'd in de- 
light. 
She gave them a funeral supper that night. 
Where they all agreed that revenge was sweet, 
And young Prince Crocodiles delicate meat. 



THE ROSE 



moche as a fayre Mayden was blamed with wrong and 
sclaundred, that sche hadd don fornicacioun, for whiche 
cause sche was domed to the dethe, and to be brent in that 
place, to the whiche she was ladd. And as the fyre begaa 
to brenne about hire, she made her preyeres to oure Lord, 
that als wissely as sche was not gylty of that synne, that he 
wold help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his 
mercyfulle grace : and whanne sche had thus seyd, sche en- 
tered into the fuyer, and anon was the fuyer quenched and 
oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge becomen white 
Roseres, fulle of roses, and theise werein the first Roseres 
and roses, both white and rede, that every ony man saughe. 
And thus was this Maiden saved by the grace of God. — 
The Voiage and Traivaile of Sir John Maundtville. 



Betwene the Cytee and the Chirche of Bethlehem, is the 
felde Floridus, that is to seyne, the felde florsched. For als 
58 



Nay, Edith ! spare the Rose; — perhaps it lives. 

And feels the noontide sun, and drinks refresh'd 

The dews of night ; let not thy gentle hand 

Tear its life-strings asunder, and destroy 

The sense of being ! — Why that infidel smile .' 

Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful ; 

And thou shalt have a tale of other days, — 

For I am skill'd in legendary lore, — 

So thou wilt let it live. There was a time 

Ere this, the freshest, sweetest flower that blooms, 

Bedeck'd the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard 

How first by miracle its fragrant leaves 

Spread to the sun their blushing loveliness. 

There dwelt in Bethlehem a Jewish maid, 
And Zillah was her name, so passing fair 
That all Judea spake the virgin's praise. 
He who had seen her eye's dark radiance 
How it reveal'd her soul, and what a soul 
Beam'd in the mild effulgence, woe to him ! 
For not in solitude, for not in crowds, 
Might he escape remembrance, nor avoid 
Her imaged form, which followed every where, 
And filled the heart, and fix'd the absent eye. 
Alas for him ! her bosom own'd no love 
Save the strong ardor of religious zeal, 
For Zillah on her God had centred all 
Her spirit's deep affections. So for her 
Her tribes-men sigh'd in vain, yet reverenced 
The obdurate virtue that destroy'd their hopes. 

One man there was, a vain and wretched man. 
Who saw, desired, despaired, and hated her. 
His sensual eye had gloated on her cheek 
Even till the flush of angry modesty 
Gave it new charms, and made him gloat the more. 
She loathed the man ; for Hamuel's eye was bold. 
And the strong workings of brute selfishness 
Had moulded his broad features ; and she fear'd 
The bitterness of wounded vanity 
That with a fiendish hue would overcast 
His faint and lying smile. Nor vain her fear; 
For Hamuel vow'd revenge, and laid a plot 
Against her virgin fame. He spread abroad 
Whispers that travel fast, and ill reports 
That soon obtain belief; how Zillah's eye, 
When in the temple heaven-ward it was raised, 
Did swim with rapturous zeal, but there were those 
Who had beheld the enthusiast's melting glance 
With other feelings fill'd ; — that 'twas a task 
Of easy sort to play the saint by day 
Before the public eye, but that all eyes 



458 



THE LOVER'S ROCK. 



Were closed at night; — that Zillah's life was foul, 
Yea, forfeit to the law. 

Shame — shame to man, 
That he should trust so easily the tongue 
Which stabs another's fame ! The ill report 
Was heard, repeated, and believed, and soon, — 
For Hamuel, by his well-schemed villany, 
Produced such semblances of guilt, — the Maid 
Was to the fire condemn'd. 

Without the walls, 
There was a barren field ; a place abhorr'd, 
For it was there where wretched criminals 
Receiv'd their death ; and there they fix'd the stake, 
And piled the fuel round, which should consume 
The injured Maid, abandon'd, as it seem'd. 
By God and Man. The assembled Bethlemites 
Beheld the scene, and when they saw the Maid 
Bound to the stake, with what calm holiness 
She lifted up her patient looks to Heaven, 
They doubted of her guilt. With other thoughts 
Stood Hamuel near the pile ; him savage joy 
Led thitherward, but now within his heart 
Unwonted feelings stirr'd, and the first pangs 
Of wakening guilt, anticipant of Hell. 
The eye of Zillah, as it glanced around, 
Fell on the slanderer once, and rested there 
A moment ; like a dagger did it pierce. 
And struck into his soul a cureless wound. 
Conscience ! thou God within us ! not in the hour 
Of triumph dost thou spare the guilty wretch ; 
Not in the hour of infamy and death 
Forsake the virtuous ! They draw near the stake, — 
They bring the torch ! — hold, hold your erring 

hands ! 
Yet quench the rising flames ! — they rise ! they 

spread ! 
They reach the suffering Maid ! oh God protect 
The innocent one ! 

They rose, they spread, they raged ; — 
The breath of God went forth; the ascending fire 
Beneath its influence bent, and all its flames 
In one long lightning-flash concentrating, 
Darted and blasted Hamuel, — him alone. 
Hark ! — what a fearful scream the multitude 
Pour forth ! — and yet more miracles ! the stake 
Branches and buds, and, spreading its green leaves, 
Embowers and canopies the innocent Maid, 
Who there stands glorified ; and Roses, then 
First seen on earth since Paradise was lost. 
Profusely blossom round her, white and red, 
In all their rich variety of hues ; 
And fragrance such as our first parents breathed 
In Eden she inhales, vouchsafed to her 
A presage sure of Paradise regain'd. 

Westbury, 1798. 



THE LOVER'S ROCK. 



De la Pena de los Enamorados. 
Un mogo Christiana estava cautivo en Granada, sus partes y 
diligencia eran tales, su bucn termino y cortesia, que su amo 



Jiazia mucha confianga del dentro y fuera de su casa. Una 
hija suya al tanto se le aficiona y puso en el los ojos. Pero 
conio quier que ella faesse casadera, y el mogo esclavo, no po- 
dianpassar adelantecomo deseavan; ca el amor mal se puede 
encubrir, y temian si el padre delta, y amo del, le sahia, paga- 
rian con las cabegas. Acordaron de huir a tierra de Christia- 
nos, resolucion que al mogo venia mejor, por bolver a los suyos, 
que a ella por desterrarse de su patria : si ya no la movia el 
deseo de hazerse Christiana, lo que yo no creo. Tomaron su 
camino con todo secrete, hasta llegar al penasco ya dlcho, en que 
la moga cansada se puso a reposar. En esto vieron assomar a 
su padre con gente de acavallo, que venia en su seguimiento. 
Que podian hater, o a que parte bolverse 7 que consejo temar ? 
meiitirosas las esperangas de los hombres y miserables sus inten- 
tos. Acudieron a lo que sole les quedava de encumbrar aquel 
penol, trepando por aquellos riscos, que era rcpare assazfiaco. 
El padre con un semblante sanudo los mando abaxar -. amena- 
gava les sine ohedecian de executar en ellos una muerte muy cru- 
el. Los que acompanavan al padre les amonestavan lo mismo, 
pues solo les restava aquella esperanga de alangar perdon de la 
misericordia de su padre, con hazer lo que les mandava, y 
echarseles a los pies. JVe quifieron venir en esto. Los Mores 
puestes a pie acemetieren a subir el penasco .- pero el mogo les 
defendio la subida con galgas, piedras y palos, y tedo lo demas 
que le venia a la mane, y le servia de armas en aquella desespe- 
racien. El padre viste esto, hize venir de un pueblo alii cerca 
vallesteres para que de lexes les flechassen. Ellos vista su 
perdicion, acordaron con su muerte librarse de les denuestos y 
tormentos may ores qui temian. Las palabras que en este trance 
se dizeron, no ay para que relatarlas. Finalmente abragades 
entresi fuertemente, se echaron del penol abaxe, por aquella 
parte en que les mirava su cruel y sanudo padre. Deste manera 
espiraron antes de llegar a lo baxo, con lastbna de los presentes, 
y aun con lagrimas de algunes que se movian con aquel triste 
expectacule de aquellos moges desgraciados, y a pesar del padre, 
como estavan, los enterraron en aquel mismo lugar ; censtancia 
que se empleara mejor en etra hazana, y les fuera bien contada 
la muerte, si la padecieren por la virtud y en defensa de la ver- . 
dadera religion, y neper satisfacer a sus apetites desenfrenados. ' 

Mariana 



The Maiden, through the favoring night, 
From Granada took her flight ; 
She bade her Father's house farewell, 
And fled away with Manuel. 

No Moorish maid might hope to vie 
With Laila's cheek or Laila's eye : 
No maiden loved with purer truth. 
Or ever loved a lovelier youth. 

In fear they fled, across the plain, 
The father's wrath, the captive's chain ; 
In hope to Seville on they flee, 
To peace, and love, and liberty. 

Chiuma they have left, and now, 
Beneath a precipice's brow, 
Where Guadalhorce winds its way, 
There in the shade awhile they lay ; — 

For now the sun was near its height, 
And she was weary with her flight; 
She laid her head on Manuel's breast. 
And pleasant was the maiden's rest. 

While thus the lovely Laila slept, 
A fearful watch young Manuel kept. 
Alas ! her Father and his train 
He sees come speeding o'er the plain. 



GARCI FERRANDEZ. 



459 



The Maiden started from her sleep ; 
They sought for refuge up the steep ; 
To scale the precipice's brow 
Their only hope of safety now. 

But them the angry Father sees ; 
With voice and arm he menaces ; 
And now the Moors approach the steep ; 
Loud are his curses, loud and deep. 

Then Manuel's heart grew wild with woe ; 
He loosen'd stones and roll'd below ; 
He loosen'd crags ; for Manuel strove 
For life, and liberty, and love. 

The ascent was perilous and high ; 
The Moors they durst not venture nigh ; 
The fugitives stood safely there ; 
They stood in safety and despair. 

The Moorish chief unmoved could see 
His daughter bend her suppliant knee ; 
He heard his child for pardon plead, 
And swore the offenders both should bleed. 

He bade the archers bend the bow. 
And make the Christian fall below ; 
He bade the archers aim the dart. 
And pierce the Maid's apostate heart. 

The archers aim'd their arrows there ; 
She clasp'd young Manuel in despair ; 
" Death, Manuel, shall set us free ! 
Then leap below, and die with me." 

He clasp'd her close, and cried. Farewell ! 
In one another's arms they fell ; 
And falling o'er the rock's steep side. 
In one another's arms they died. 

And side by side they there are laid. 
The Christian youth and Moorish maid ; 
But never Cross was planted there, 
Because they perish'd for despair. 

Yet every Moorish maid can tell 
Where Laila lies, who loved so well ; 
And every youth, who passes there, 
Says for Manuel's soul a prayer. 

Westbury, 1798. 



GARCI FERRANDEZ. 



This story, which later historians have taken some pains to 
disprove, may be found in the Coronica General de Espana. 



PART 1. 



In an evil day and an hour of woe 
Did Garci Ferrandez wed ! 



He wedded the Lady Argentine, 

As ancient stories tell ; 
He loved the Lady Argentine ; 

Alas ! for what befell ! 

The Lady Argentine hath fled ; 

In an evil day and an hour of woe 

She hath left the husband who loved her well, 

To go to Count Aymerique's bed. 

2. 

Garci Ferrandez was brave and young, 

The comeliest of the land ; 

There was never a knight of Leon in fight 

Who could meet the force of his matchless might; 

There was never a foe in the infidel band 

Who against his dreadful sword could stand ; 

And yet Count Garci's strong right hand 

Was shapely, and soft, and white ; 

As white and as soft as a lady's hand 

Was the hand of the beautiful knight. 



In an evil day and an hour of woe 
To Garci's Hall did Count Aymerique go ; 

In an evil hour and a luckless night 

From Garci's Hall did he take his flight, 

And bear with him that lady bright. 

That lady false, his bale and bane. 

There was feasting and joy in Count Aymerique's 

bower. 

When he, with triumph, and pomp, and pride, 

Brought home the adulteress like a bride : 

His daughter only sat in her tower ; 

She sat in her lonely tower alone, 

And for her dead mother she made her moan ; 

" Methinks," said she, "my father for me 

Might have brought a bridegroom home. 

A stepmother he brings hither instead ; 

Count Aymerique will not his daughter should 

wed. 

But he brings home a leman for his own bed." 

So thoughts of good and thoughts of ill 

Were working thus in Abba's will; 

And Argentine, with evil intent, 

Ever to work her woe was bent ; 

That still she sat in her tower alone, 

And in that melancholy gloom. 

When for her mother she made her moan. 

She wish'd her father too in the tomb. 



She watches the pilgrims and poor who wait 

For daily food at her father's gate. 

I would some Knight were there," thought she, 

" Disguised in pilgrim-weeds for me ! 

For Aymerique's blessing I would not stay. 

Nor he nor his leman should say me nay. 

But I with him would wend away." 



She watches her handmaid the pittance deal ; 

They took their dole and went away ; 

But yonder is one who lingers still ; 

As though he had something in his will. 

Some secret which he fain would say ; 



460 



GARCI FERRANDEZ. 



And close to the portal she sees him go; 

He talks with her handmaid in accents low ; 

Oh then she thought that time went slow, 

And long were the minutes that she must wait 

Till her handmaid came from the castle-gate. 



From the castle-gate her handmaid came, 

And told her that a Knight was there, 

. Who sought to speak with Abba the fair, 

Count Aymerique's beautiful daughter and heir. 

She bade the stranger to her bower ; 

His stature was tall, his features bold ; 

A goodlier form might never maid 

At tilt or tourney hope to see ; 

And though in pilgrim-weeds arrayed, 

Yet noble in his weeds was he, 

And did his arms in them enfold 

As they were robes of royalty. 



He told his name to the high-born fair ; 

He said that vengeance led him there. 

" Now aid me, lady dear," quoth he, 

" To smite the adulteress in her pride ; 

Your wrongs and mine avenged shall be, 

And I will take you for my bride." 

He pledged the word of a true Knight ; 

From out the weeds his hand he drew; 

She took the hand that Garci gave. 

And then she knew his tale was true. 

For she saw the warrior's hand so white. 

And she knew the fame of the beautiful Knight. 



PART II. 



'Tis the hour of noon ; 

The bell of the convent hath done, 

And the Sexts are begun ; 

The Count and his leman are gone to their meat. 

They look to their pages, and lo they see 

Where Abba, a stranger so long before. 

The ewer, and basin, and napkin bore ; 

She came and knelt on her bended knee. 

And first to her father minister'd she : 

Count Aymerique look'd on his daughter down ; 

He look'd on her then without a frown. 



And next to the Lady Argentine 

Humbly she went and knelt ; 
The Lady Argentine the while 

A haughty wonder felt ; 

Her face put on an evil smile ; 

" 1 little thought that I should see 

The Lady Abba kneel to me 

In service of love and courtesy ! 

Count Aymerique," the leman cried, 

"Is she weary of her solitude. 

Or hath she quell' d her pride .? " 

Abba no angry word replied ; 

She only raised her eyes, and cried, 



" Let not the Lady Argentine 

Be wroth at ministry of mine ! " 

She look'd at Aymerique, and sigh'd ; 

" My father will not frown, I ween, 

That Abba again at his board should be seen ! 

Then Aymerique raised her from her knee, 

And kiss'd her eyes, and bade her be 

The daughter she was wont to be. 

3. 

The wine hath warm'd Count Aymerique ; 

That mood his crafty daughter knew ; 

She came and kiss'd her father's cheek, 

And stroked his beard with gentle hand, 

And winning eye and action bland. 

As she in childhood used to do. 

"A boon ! Count Aymerique," quoth she; 

" If I have found favor in thy sight. 

Let me sleep at my father's feet to-night. 

Grant this," quoth she, " so I shall see 

That you will let your Abba be 

The daughter she was wont to be." 

With asking eye did Abba speak ; 

Her voice was soft and sweet ; 

The wine had warm'd Count Aymerique, 

And when the hour of rest was come, 

She lay at her father's feet. 



In Aymerique's arms the adulteress lay ; 
Their talk was of the distant day. 
How they from Garci fled away 

In the silent hour of night ; 

And then amid their wanton play 

They mock'd the beautiful Knight 

Far, far away his castle lay. 

The weary road of many a day ; 

" And travel long," they said, " to him. 

It seem'd, was small delight ; 

And he belike was loath with blood 

To stain his hands so white." 

They little thought that Garci then 

Heard every scornful word ! 

They little thought the avenging hand 

Was on the avenging sword ! 

Fearless, unpenitent, unblest. 

Without a prayer they sunk to rest. 

The adulterer on the leman's breast. 



Then Abba, listening still in fear. 

To hear the breathing long and slow. 

At length the appointed signal gave. 

And Garci rose and struck the blow. 

One blow sufficed for Aymerique, — 

He made no moan, he utter'd no groan ; 

But his death-start waken'd Argentine, 

And by the chamber lamp she saw 

The bloody falchion shine ! 

She raised for help her in-drawn breath ; 

But her shriek of fear was her shriek of death. 



In an evil day and an hour of woe 
Did Garci Ferrandez wed ! 



KING RAMIRO. 



461 



One wicked wife he has sent to her grave 
He hath taken a worse to his bed. 

Bnstol, 1801. 



KING RAMIRO. 



The remarkable story here versified is thus related in the 
MobiUario de D. Pedro, Conde de Bracelos,son of D. Diniz, 
king of Portugal, a singularly valuable and curious work, 
published by tlie Coronista Mayor of that kingdom, Juan 
Bautista Lavaiia, at Rome, in 1640. King D. Diniz reigned 
from 1279 to 1323. 

El Rey D. Ramiro o segundo de Leom, ouvio falar dafermosura 
e bondade de huma Maura ; e como era de alto sangue irma de 
Alboaiar Albucadam, filha de D. Zadani Zada, bisneta del Rey 
Jlbualli, que conquereo a terra no tempo del Rey Rodrigo, Este 
Alboaiar era Senhor de toda a terra dcsde Oaya atd Sanlarem ; 
e ouvemuijtas batalhas com Christaos, cstremadamente com este 
Rey Ramiro ; e el Rey Ramiro fez com elle grandes amizades 
por cobrar aquella Moara, que el muyto amava ; e fez emfinta 
que amava muyto ; e mandoulhe dizer que o queria ver, por se 
aver de conkecer com elle por as amizades screni mais firmes ; e 
Alboaiar mandoulhe dizer que Ike praiia dcllo, e que fosse a 
Oaya, e hi se veria com el. E el Rey Ramiro foyse Id emtres 
gales com fdalgos, e pidiolhe aquella Moura que Iha desse, e 
falaia Ckristam, e cazaria com ella ; e Alboazar Ihe respondeo, 
tu tens molher, e filhos della, e es Christao ; como podes tu 
casar duas vezes 7 E el Ihe dixe, ca verdade era, mas elle era 
tarn parente da Rainha D. Aldonza sua molher, ca a santa 
Igreja os partiria. E Alboazar juroulhe por sa ley de Mafa- 
mede, ca Iha nom daria por todo o reyno que elle avia, que a 
tenha desposada coin el Rey de JMarrocos. 

Este Rey D. Ramiro trazia hum grande Astrologo que avia nomc 
Amao ; e por sds artes tiroua huma noyte donde estava, e levoua 
ds galis que hi estavam prestas, e entrou Rey Ramiro com a 
Moura em huma gale. A esto chegou Alboazar, e allifoy con- 
' tenda grande entre elles ; e desparecerom hi dos de Rey Ramiro 
vinte dous dos boms que hi levava, e da outra compahna muyta : 
e el levou d Moura a Minhor, e de ahi a Leom, e bautizoua, 
e poslhe name Ortiga, que queria tanto dizer em aquel tempo, 
como castigada e ensinada, e comprida de todos os bens. 

Alboazar tevese por mal viltado dcsto, e pensou em como podcria 
vingar tal dcshonra, e oavio falar em como a Rainha D. Aldonza, 
molher del Rey Ramiro estava em Minhor. Postou sds naos e 
outras velas, o melhor quepode, e mais encuberto ; efoy d quelle 
lugar de Minhor, e entrou a villa, efilhou a Rainha D. Aldonga, 
e meteoa nas naos com donas e donzellas que achou, e das outras 
companhas muytas, veijose a o Castello de Oaya, que era em a 
quelle tempo de grandes edificios e nobres pagos. 

A el Rey Ramiro contarom este feyto, e fay em tamanha tristeza 
qtie foy louco hiis doze dias .- e coino cobrou seu entendimento 
mandou por seu filho o Infante D. Ordonho, e por algus sens 
vassallos que entendeo que erao para grao feyto, e metcose com 
elles em cinco gales, ca nom pode mais aver, e nom quiz levar 
galeotes se nom aquelles que entendeo que poderiom reger as 
gales, e mandou a osfidalgos que remassem em lugar de gale- 
otes ; e esto fez elle porque as gales erom poucas, e por irem 
mais fidalgos, e as gales irem mais aparadas para aquel mester 
para que ia ; e el cubrio as gales de pano verde, e entrou com 
ellas por Sam Joao de Eurado, que agora chamad Sam Joane 
de Foz. Aquel lugar de huma parte e outra era a ribeyra cu- 
berta de arbor es, e as gales encostouas so as ramos dellas ; e 
porque erao cubertas de pano verde, nom pareciao. El deceo 
de noyte a terra com todos os sens, e falou com o Infante, que 
se deytassem so as arbor es o mais encuberto quefazer podessem, 
e por nenhuma guiza nom se abulassem, ate que ouvissem a 
voz de seu como, e ouvindoo que Ihe acorrcsscm a grao pressa. 
El vestiose em panos de tacanho, e siia espada, e seu lorigo e o 
como so hi ; e foyse dcytar a huma fonte que estava so o cas- 
tello de Oaya. E estofazia Rey Ramiro por ver a Rainha sa 
molher, para aver conselho com ella, como poderia mais cum- 
pridamente aver direyto de Alboazar, e de todos seusjilhos, e de 



toda sa companha ; ca tinha que pello conselho della cobraria 
todo, ca cometendo este feyto em outra maneyra, poderia esca- 
par Alboazar e seus filhos .- e porque el era de grao corago, 
punha em esta guiza seu feyto em grao ventura ; mas as cousas 
que sao ordenadas de Dcos, vem a aquello que a elle aprai, e 
nom assim como os homes pensao. 
Aconteceo assi, que Alboazar Albucadao fora a correr montc con- 
tra Alafons, e huma sergente que avia nome Perona, natural de 
Franga, que aviao levado com a Rainha servia ante ella ; le- 
vantouse pella mankd, assi como avia de costume de the ir por 
agoa para as mads a aquella fonte, e achou hi jazer Rey 
Ramiro, e nom o conheceo. El pediolhena Aravia da agoa por 
Deos, ca se nom podia de alii levantar ; e ella deolha por huma 
aceter ; e el meteo hum camafeo na bora, e aquel camafeo avia 
partido com sa molher a Rainha por a mctade ; e el deose a 
bever, e deytou o camafeo no aceter. E a sergente foyse, e deo 
agoa d Rainha, e ella vio o camafeo, e reconheceo logo, e a 
Rainha pcrguntou, quern achara no caminho ? e ella respondeo, 
que nom achara ninguem ; e ella Ihe dixe que nientia, e que o 
nom negassp, e que Ihefaria bem e merce ; e a sergente Ihe dixe, 
que achara hi hum Monro doente e lazerado, e Ihe pedira agoa 
que bebesse por Dcos, e que Iha dera; e a Rainha dixe que Ihe 
fosse por elle, e o trouxcsse cncubcrtamente. E a sergente 
foy Id, e dixelhe, honiem pobre, a Rainha mivha senhora vos 
manda chamar, e esto he por vosso bem, cd ella mandara pcnsar 
de vos. E Rey Ramiro respondeo so si, assi a mande Deos. 
Foyse com ella, e enirarom pella porta da camara, e conheceo a 
Rainha, e dixelhe, Rey Ramiro que te aduce aqui 1 e el Ihe 
respondeo, o vosso amor. E ella Ihe dixe, veste morto : e el Ihe 
dixe, pequcna maravilha, pois of ago por vossso amor. E ella 
respondeo, nom me has tu amor, pois de aqui levaste Ortiga, que 
mais prezas que a mi ; mas vayte hora para essa trascamara, 
e escusarmeey destas donas e donzellas, e irmeey logo para ti. A 
camara era de abobeda, e como Rey Ramiro foy dcntro,fechou 
ella a porta com grande cadcado. E elle jazendo na camara, 
chegou Alboazar, e foyse para sd camara ; e a Rainha the 
dixe, se tu aqui tivesses Rey Ramiro, que Ihe fariast O 
Moura respondeo, a que faria a mini ; matalo com grandes 
tormentos. E Rey Ramiro ouvia tudo, e a Rainha dixe, Pois 
senhor, aprestes a tens ; cd aqui esta fechado em esta trasca- 
mara, ca ora te podes della vingar a lua vontade. 
Rey Ramiro entendeo que era enganado por sd molher, que jd 
de alii nom podia escapar se nom por arte alguma ; e maginou 
que era tempo de se ajudar de seu saber, c dixe a grao aha voz, 
Alboazar Albucadam, sabe que eu te errey mal ; mostrandote 
amizade, levy desta caza tdirma, que nom era deminhaley; 
e me confcssey este pecado a meu Abade ; e el me deo em pen- 
denga, que me veesse meter em teupoder o mais vilmente que 
pudcsse ; e se me tu matar quizesscs, que te pedisse que, com-o 
eufizera tain grande pecado ante a td pessoa, e ante os teus, 
emfilhar ta irma, mostrandote bom amor, que bem assi me desses 
morte cmpraga vergonhosa ; epor quanta a pecado que eufiz, 
foy em grandes terras soado, que bem assi fosse a minha morte 
soada por hum como, e mostrada a todos os teus. E hora te 
pego pois de morrer ey, que fagas chamar teus filhos efilhas, e 
teus parentes, e as gentes desta villa, e me fagas ir a este curral 
que he de grande ouvida, e me ponJias em lugar alto, e me leyxes 
tanger meu corno, quetrago para esto, a tanto, atd que me saya 
ofolgo e a alma do corpo. Em estafilharas venganga demi, e 
teus filhos e parentes arerao prater, e a minha alma sera salva. 
Esto me nom deves de negar yor salvamento de minha alma; 
que sabes que por td ley deves salvar se poderes as almas de 
todas as leys. 
E esto deiia el, porfazer vir alU todos seus filhos e parentes, por 
se vingar delles ; ca em outra guiza nom os poderia achar em 
hum ; e porque o curral era alto de muros, e nom avia mais que 
huma porta por hu os seus aviao de entrar. Alboazar pensou 
no que Ihe pedia, efilhou delle lastima, e dixe contra a Rainha, 
Este homem rependido he de seu pecado ; mais ey eu en-ado a 
elle cd elle d mi ; graO torto faria de o matar, pois se poe em 
meupoder. A Rainha respondeolhe, Alboazar, fraco de coragd, 
eu sey quern he Rey Ramiro ; e sey de certo, se o salvas de 
morte, que Ihc nom podes escapar que a nom prendas del ; ca el 
he arteijroso a vingador, assi como tu sabcs. E nom ouviste tu 
dizer, como el tirou os olhos a D. Ordonho seu irmaO que era 
mor de dias, por o deserdar do Reyno 7 e nom te acordas quan- ■ 
tas lides ouveste com elle, e te venceo ; e te matou e cativou 
muytos bons 7 e ja te esqueceo a. forga que te fez de te irma 7 
e em como eu era sd molher, me trouxeste, que he a mor des 



462 



KING RAMIRO. 



honra que os Christaos podcm aver ? JVo?« es para vivcr, nem 
es para nada, se te nom vingas. E se o tu now. faies por tua 
alma, porque assi a salvas, porque he hmiiem de outra ley, e 
em contrario da tua ; e tu dalhe a morte que te pede, poisja 
vem aconselhado de sea Made ; ca grao pecado f arias, se Iha 
partisses. 

Alboazar olhou o dizer da Rainha, e dixe em seu coragom, de md 
Ventura lie o homem que se fia de nenhua molher .- esta he sd 
molher lidbna, e tern Infantes e Infantas del, e quer sd morte 
deshonrada ; eu nom ey porque della fie ; eu alongalaey de mi. 
Epensou em a que Ihe dezia a Rainha, em como Rey Ramiro 
tra arteyroso e vingador ; e receouse dalle, se o nom matasse ; 
e mandou chamar todos os que erom naquelie lugar, e dixe a 
Rey Ramiro, Tu vieste aqui e fizeste gram locura, que nos 
tens pagos puderas filhar pendenga ,• e porque sey se me tu 
tivesses em tea poder, nom escaparia da morte, eu te quero 
cumprir o que me pides por salvamento de tua alma. 

Mandouo tirar da camnra, e levouo a o curral, e polio sohre hum 
gram padrao que hi estava, e mandou que tanjesse seu como d 
tanto atd que Ihe saisseo fulgo. E el Rey Ramiro ihe pcdio 
quejizesse hi estar a Rainha, e as donas e donzellas, e todos 
seusfilhos, e parentes e cidadaos naquel curral, e Alhoazar 
fezeo assi. 

El Rey Ramiro tangeo seu como a todo seu poder, para ouvir- 
em OS sens, e o Infante D. Ordonho seu filho quando ouvio o 
como, acorreolhe com todos sens vassallos, e meteromse pella 
porta do curral ; e Rey Ramiro decease do padrao donde estava, 
e veyo contra o Infante, e dixe : Meu filho, vossa madre nom 
moura, nem as donas e donzellas que com ella vierao ; e guar- 
daya de cajom, que outra morte merece. Jilli tirou a espada 
da bainha, e deo com ella a Alboazar por cima da cabega, que 
fendeo atd os peytos. Alii morerao quatro filhos e tres 
filhas de Alboazar Albucadao ; e todos os Mouros e Mouras 
que estavao no curral : e nom ficou em essa villa de Oaya pe~ 
dra com pedra, que toda nom fosse em terra. Filhou el Rey 
Ramiro sd molher com sds donas e donzellas que estavao com 
ella, e quanta aver achou, e meteo nas gales ; e despais que este 
ouve acabado, chamau o Infante seu filho, e os sens fidalgos, e 
contoulhes tuda, como Ihe aviera com a Rainha sd molher, e 
elle que Ihe dera ajuda parafazer della mais cruajustiga na sd 
terra. Esta ouverom todos par estranho de tamanha maldade 
de molher ; e a Infante D. Ordonho sairaolhe as lagrimas polos 
olhos, e dixe contra seu padre, Senhor a mi nom cabe defalar 
em esto, porque he mi madre ; se nom tanto, que olheis por 
vossa honra. 

E entrarom entom nas gales, e chegarom d faz de Ancara, e 
amarrarao as gales para folgar em, porque aviao muyto trabal- 
hado aquclles dias .- alii for om dizer a el Rey que a Rainha seia 
chorando ; e el Rey dixe, Vamola ver. Foy Id, e perguntoulhe 
porque chorava 7 E ella respondeo, Porque mataste aquclle 
Monro, que era melhor que ti. O Infante dixe contra seu pa- 
dre, Isto he demonio ; que quereis della 7 que pade ser que vos 
fugira. E el Rey mandoua entad amarrar a huma mo, e lanca- 
la na mar, e desaquelle tempo Ihe chamarom Foz de Ancora. Por 
este pecado que dixe a Infante D. Ordonho contra sd madre, dix- 
erom dcspois as gcntes que por essofara deserdada dos povos 
de Castella. Rey Ramiro foyse a Lead, e fez sds cartes muy 
ricas, efalou com as seus de sds terras, e mastraulhes a mal- 
dade da Rainha Aldonga sa molher : que elle avia por bem de 
cazar com D. Ortiga, que era de alto linhage : e elles todos a 
huma vaz o louvarom, e auveromno por bem. Elle foy da boa 
vida, efez o Mosteyro de S. Juliad, e outros haspitaes mvytos ; 
e OS que della decenderon forom muyto cumplidos. — Ff. Ill 
—116. 

A characteristic circumstance in the poem is added from tlie 
Livro Velho des Linha gens. Si work of the thirteenth century, 
printed among the Provas da historia Geneologica da Casa 
Real Portugueza, 1. 1. It is related there in these words : — 

E Monro Ihe disse, viestes a morrer ; mas querote pergmitar, 
que se me tiveces em Mier, que marte me darias 7 El Rey Ra- 
miro era muito faminto, e respondeolhe assim, eu te daria hum 
capab assado, e huma regucifa, afariate tuda comer, e dartehia 
em sima en sa capa chea de vinha que bebesse. — Provas, T. 
1, p. 213. 



Green grow the alder-trees, and close 
To the water-side by St. Joam da Foz, 



From the castle of Gaya the Warden sees 

The water and the alder-trees ; 

And only these the Warden sees ; 

No danger near doth Gaya fear ; 

No danger nigh doth the Warden spy ; 

He sees not where the galleys lie 

Under the alders silently ; 

For the galleys with green are cover 'd o'er ', 

They have crept by night along the shore ; 

And they lie at anchor, now it is morn, 

Awaiting the sound of Ramiro's horn. 

2. 

In traveller's weeds Ramiro sate 

By the fountain at the castle-gate ; 

But under the weeds was his breastplate, 

And the sword he had tried in so many fights. 

And the horn whose sound would ring around, 

And be known so well by his knights. 



From the gate Aldonza's damsel came 

To fill her pitcher at the spring. 

And she saw, but she knew not, her master the 

King. 

In the Moorish tongue Ramiro spake, 

And begg'd a draught for mercy's sake, 

That he his burning thirst might slake ; 

For, worn by a long malady. 

Not strength enow, he said, had he 

To lift it from the spring. 



She gave her pitcher to the King, 

And from his mouth he dropp'd a ring 

Which he had with Aldonza broken ; 

So in the water from the spring 

Queen Aldonza found the token. 

With that she bade her damsel bring 

Secretly the stranger in. 

5. 

" What brings thee hither, Ramiro ? " she cried ; 

" The love of you," the King replied. 

" Nay ! nay ! it is not so ! " quoth she ; 

" Ramiro, say not this to me ! 

I know your Moorish concubine 

Hath now the love which once was mine. 

If you had loved me as you say. 

You would never have stolen Ortiga away ; 

If you had never loved another, 

I had not been here in Gaya to-day 

The wife of Ortiga's brother ! 

But hide thee here, — a step I hear, 

King Alboazar draweth near." 



In her alcove she bade him hide : 
'King Alboazar, my lord," she cried, 
What wouldst thou do, if at this hour 
King Ramiro were in thy power? " 
' This I would do," the Moor replied ; 

" I would hew him limb from limb ; 

As he, I know, would deal by me, 
So I would deal by him," 



KING RAMIRO. 



463 



"Alboazar! " Queen Aldonza said, 

" Lo ! here I give him to thy will ; 

In yon alcove thou hast thy foe. 

Now thy vengeance then fulfil I " 



"With that up spake the Christian king : 

" O Alboazar, deal by me 

As I would surely deal with thee. 

If I were you, and you were me ! 

Like a friend you guested me many a day ; 

Like a foe I stole your sister away : 

The sin was great, and I felt its weight, 

All joy by day the thought oppress'd. 

And all night long it troubled my rest ; 

Till I could not bear the burden of care, 

But told my Confessor in despair. 

And he, my sinful soul to save. 

This penance for atonement gave ; 

That I before you should appear. 

And yield myself your prisoner here, 

If my repentance was sincere. 

That I might by a public death 

Breathe shamefully out my latest breath. 

8. 

" King Alboazar, this I would do. 

If you were I, and I were you ; 

That no one should say you were meanly fed, 

I would give you a roasted capon first. 

And a good ring loaf of whcaten bread. 

And a skinful of wine to quench your thirst; 

And after that I would grant you the thing 

Which you came to me petitioning. 

Now this, O King, is what I crave. 

That I my sinful soul may save : 

Let me be led to your bull-ring, 

And call your sons and daughters all. 

And assemble the people, both great and small. 

And let me be set upon a stone, 

That by all the multitude I may be known. 

And bid me then this horn to blow, 

And I will blow a blast so strong, 

And wind the horn so loud and long. 

That the breath in my body at last shall be gone. 

And I shall drop dead in sight of the throng. 
Thus your revenge, O King, will be brave. 
Granting the boon which I come to crave. 
And the people a holy day sight will have, 

And I my precious soul shall save ; 

For this is the penance my Confessor gave. 

King Alboazar, this I would do, 

If you were I, and I were you." 



"This man repents his sin, be sure ! " 

To Queen Aldonza said the Moor ; 

" He hath stolen my sister away from me ; 

I have taken from him his wife ; 

Shame then would it be, when he comes to me. 

And I his true repentance see. 

If I for vengeance should take his life," 

10. 
" O Alboazar ! " then quoth she, 
" Weak of heart as weak can be \ 



Full of revenge and wiles is he. 

Look at those eyes beneath that brow ; 

I know Ramiro better than thou ! 

Kill him, for thou hast him now ; 

He must die, be sure, or thou. 

Hast thou not heard the history 

How, to the throne that he might rise, 

He pluck'd out his brother Ordoifio's eyes.'' 

And dost not remember his prowess in fight, 

How often he met thee and put thee to flight, 

And plunder'd thy country for many a day .'' 

And how many Moors he has slain in the strife, 

And how many more carried captives away .-* 
How he came to show friendship — and thou didst 

believe him ? 

How he ravish'd thy sister — and wouldst thou 

forgive him ? 

And hast thou forgotten that I am his wife, 

And that now by thy side I lie like a bride. 

The worst shame that can ever a Christian betide.? 

And cruel it were, when you see his despair, 

If vainly you thought in compassion to spare, 

And refused him the boon he comes hither to 

crave. 

For no other way his poor soul can he save, 

Than by doing the penance his Confessor gave." 

11. 

As Queen Aldonza thus replies. 

The Moor upon her fixed his eyes. 

And he said in his heart, Unhappy is he 

Who putteth his trust in a woman ! 

Thou art King Ramiro's wedded wife, 

And thus wouldst thou take away his life ! 

What cause have I to confide in thee ,' 

I will put this woman away from me. 

These were the thoughts that pass'd in his breast 

But he call'd to mind Ramiro's might ; 

And he fear'd to meet him hereafter in fight, 

And he granted the King's request. 

12. 

So he gave him a roasted capon first, 

And a skinful of wine to quench his thirst ; 

And he called for his sons and daughters all. 

And assembled the people, both great and small; 

And to the bull-ring he led the king ; 

And he set him there upon a stone. 

That by all the multitude he might be known ; 

And he bade him blow through his horn a blast. 

As long as his breath and his life should last. 

13. 

Oh, then his horn Ramiro wound : 

The walls rebound the pealing sound. 

That far and wide rings echoing round ; 

Louder and louder Ramiro blows, 

And farther the blast and farther goes ; 

Till it reaches the galleys where they lie close 

Under the alders, by St. Joam da Foz. 

It roused his knights from their repose, 

And they and their merry men arose. 

Away to Gaya they speed them straight ; 

Like a torrent they burst through the city gate; 

And they rush among the Moorish throng, 

And slaughter their infidel foes. 



464 



THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 



14. 

Then his good sword Ramiro drew, 

Upon the Moorish King he flew, 

And he gave him one blow, for there needed not 

two; 

They killed his sons and his daughters too ; 

Every Moorish soul they slew ; 

Not one escaped of the infidel crew ; 

Neither old nor young, nor babe nor mother ; 

And they left not one stone upon another, 

15. 

They carried the wicked Queen aboard, 
And they took counsel what to do to her ; 

They tied a millstone round her neck. 

And overboard in the sea they threw her. 

But a heavier weight than that millstone lay 

On Ramiro's soul at his dying day. 

Bnstol, 1802. 



INCHCAPE ROCK 



An old writer mentions a curious tradition which may be 
worth quoting. " By east the Isle of May," says he, " twelve 
miles from all land in the German seas, lyes a great hidden 
rock, called Inchcape, very dangerous for navigators, because 
it is overflowed everie tide. It is reported, in old times, upon 
the saide rock there was a bell, fixed upon a tree or timber, 
which rang continually, being moved by the sea, giving no- 
tice to the saylers of the danger. This bell or clocke was 
put there and maintained by the Abbot of Aberbrothok, and 
being taken down by a sea pirate, a yeare thereafter he per- 
ished upon the same rocke, with ship and goodes, in the 
righteous judgement of God." — Stoddard's Remarks on 
Scotland. 



No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 
The ship was still as she could be ; 
Her sails from heaven received no motion ; 
Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their shock, 
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock ; 
So little they rose, so little they fell. 
They did not move the Inchcape Bell. 

The Abbot of Aberbrothok 
Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock ; 
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung. 
And over the waves its warning rung. 

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, 
The mariners heard the warning Bell ; 
And then they knew the perilous Rock, 
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The Sun in heaven was shining gay ; 
All things were joyful on that day; 



The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, 
And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of tlie Inchcape Bell was seen 
A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, 
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring ; 
It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
His heart was mirthful to excess. 
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 

His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat. 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

The boat is lower 'd, the boatmen row. 

And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; 

Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. 

And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. 

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound ; 
The bubbles rose and burst around ; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the Rock 
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away; 
He scour'd the seas for many a day ; 
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store, 
He steers his course for Scotland's shore. 

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, 
They cannot see the Sun on high ; 
The wind hath blown a gale all day; 
At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand ; 
So dark it is they see no land. 
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, 
For there is the dawn of the rising Moon." 

" Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar.? 
For methinks we should be near the shore." 
" Now where we are I cannot tell, 
But 1 wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." 

They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; 
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, 
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — 
" Oh Christ ! it is the Inchcape Rock ! " 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ; 
He curs'd himself in his despair ; 
The waves rush in on every side ; 
The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 

But, even in his dying fear. 
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear — 
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, 
The Devil below was ringing his knell. 

Bristol, 1802. 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. 



465 



WELL OF ST. KEYNE 



" I know not whether it be worth the reporting, that there is 
in Cornwall, near the parish of St. Neots, a Well, arched 
over with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, 
and ash, dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of 
the water is this, that whether husband or wife come first 
to drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby." — Fuller. 
This passage in one of the folios of the Worthy old Fuller, 
who, as he says, knew not whether it were worth the re- 
porting, suggested the following Ballad ; and the Ballad has 
produced so many imitations, that it may be prudent here 
thus to assert its originality, lest I should be accused here- 
after of having committed the plagiarism which has been 
practised upon it. 
" Next," says Carew, in his Survey of Cornwall, p. 150, " I 
will relate you another of the Cornish natural wonders, viz. 
St. Kayne's Well ; hut lest you make a wonder first at the 
Saint, before you take notice of the Well, you must under- 
stand, that this was not Kayne the manqueller, but one of a 
gently spirit and milder sex, to wit, a woman. He who 
caused the spring to be pictured, added this rhyme for an 
exposition : — 

' In name, in shape, in quality, 

Tliis Well is very quaint ; 
The name to lot of Kayne befell, 

No over-holy saint. 
The shape, four trees of divers kinde, 

Withy, Oak, Elm, and Ash, 
Make with their roots an arched roof, 
Whose floor this spring doth wash. 
The quality, that man or wife, 

Whose chance or choice attains 

First of this sacred stream to drink, 

Thereby the mastery gains.' " 

Carew 's Survey of Cornwall, p. 130. 
Of St. Keyne, whose death is placed in the year 490, and whose 
festival used to be celebrated in Brecknockshire, on Oc- 
tober 8, there is a brief account in the English Marty rologe. 
Father Cressy, the Benedictine, gives her history more fully. 
"Illustrious," says he, " she was for her birth, being the 
daughter of Braganus, prince of that province in Wales, 
■which, from him, was afterwards called Brecknockshire ; 
but more illustrious for her zeal to preserve her chastity, 
for which reason she was called in the British language 
Keynevayre, tliatis, Keyna the Virgin." 

2. This Prince Braganus, or Brachanus, the father of St. Key- 
na, is * said to have had twelve sons and twelve daughters 
by his lady, called Marcella, daughter of Theodoric son of 
Tethphalt, Prince of Garthmatrin, the same region called 
afterward Brecknock. Their first-born son was St. Canoc : 
and their eldest daughter was Gladus, who was mother of 
Cadocus by St. Gunley, a holy king of the southern Britons. 
The second daughter was Melaria, the mother of the holy 
Archbishop St. David. Thus writes Capgrave, neither doth 
he mention any other of their children besides St. Keyna. 

3. But in Giraldus Cambrensis f another daughter is commem- 
orated, called St. Almedha. And David PowelJ makes 
mention of a fifth named Tydvael, who was the wife of 
Congen the son of Cadel, Prince of Powisland ; and mother 
of Brochmael, surnamed Scithroc, who slew Ethelfred King 
of the Northumbers. 

4. Concerning the Holy Virgin St. Keyna, we find this nar- 
ration in the author of her life, extant in Capgrave ; § " She 
was of royal blood, being daughter of Braganus, Prince of 
Brecknockshire. When she came to ripe years many noble 
persons sought her in marriage ; but she utterly refused 
that state, having consecrated her virginity to our Lord by 
a perpetual vow. For which cause she was afterward by 
the Britons called Keyn-wiri, that is, Keyna the Virgin." 

5. At length she determined to forsake her country and find 



* Antiquit. Glaston. 

t Girald. Carabr. 1. i. c. 2. 



X D. Povvel in Annotat. ad Girald. 
§ Capgrav. in S. Keyna. 



out some desart place, where she might attend to contem- 
plation. Therefore, directing her journey beyond Severn, 
and there meeting with certain woody places, she made 
her request to the prince of that country that she might 
be permitted to serve God in that solitude. His answer 
was, that he was very willing to grant her request, hut that 
that place did so swarm with serpents that neither men nor 
beasts could inhabit it. But she constantly rephed, that her 
firm trust was in the name and assistance of Almighty 
God, to drive all that poisonous brood out of that region. 

6. Hereupon the place was granted to the Holy Virgin ; who 
presently prostrating herself in fervent prayer to God, ob- 
tained of him to change all the serpents and vipers there 
into stones. And to this day the stones in that region do 
resemble the windings of serpents through all the fields and 
villages, as if they had been framed so by the hand of the 
engraver. 

7. Our learned Camden, in his diligent search after antiqui- 
ties, seems to have visited this country, being a part of 
Somersetshire, though he is willing to disparage the miracle. 
His words are, " On the western bank of Avon is seen 
the town of Cainsham. Some are of opinion that it was 
named so from Keyna, a most holy British Virgin, who, ac- 
cording to the credulous persuasion of former ages, is be- 
lieved to have turned serpents into stones ; because such like 
miracles of sporting nature are there sometimes found in the 
quarries. I myself saw a stone brought from thence repre- 
senting a serpent rolled up into a spire ; the head of it stuck 
out in the outward surface, and the end of the tail termi- 
nated in the centre." 

8. But let us prosecute the life of this holy Virgin. Many 
years being spent by her in this solitary place, and the 
fame of her sanctity every where divulged, and many orato- 
ries built by her, her nephew St. Cadoc performing a pil- 
grimage to the Mount of St. Michael, met there with his 
blessed aunt, St. Keyna, at whose sight he was replenished 
with great joy. And being desirous to bring her back to 
her own country, the inhabitants of that region would not 
permit him. But afterward, by the admonition of an angel, 
the holy Maid returned to the place of her nativity, where, 
on the top of a hillock seated at the foot of a high mountain, 
she made a little habitation for herself j and by her prayers 
to God obtained a spring there to flow out of the earth, 
which, by the merits of the Holy Virgin, afforded health to 
divers infirmities. 

9. But when the time of her consummation approached, one 
night she, by the revelation of the Holy Ghost, saw in a 
vision, as it were, a fiery pillar, the base whereof was fixed 
on her bed; now her bed was the pavement strewed over witli 
a few branches of trees. And in this vision two angels ap- 
peared to her ; one of which approaching respectfully to her, 
seemed to take off" the sackcloth with which she was cov- 
ered, and instead thereof to put on her a smock of fine linen, 
and over that a tunic of purple, and last of all a mantle all 
woven with gold. Which having done, he thus said to her, 
" Prepare yourself to come with us, that we may lead you 
into your heavenly Father's kingdom." Hereupon she wept 
with excess of joy, and endeavoring to follow the angels she 
awaked, and found her body inflamed with a fever, so that 
she perceived her end was near. 

10. Therefore, sending for her nephew Cadocus, she said to 
him, " This is the place above all others beloved by me ; 
here my memory shall be perpetuated. This place I will 
often visit in spirit if it may be permitted me. And I am as- 
sured it shall be permitted me, because our Lord has granted 
me this place as a certain inheritance. The time will come 
when this place shall be inhabited by a sinful people, which 
notwithstanding I will violently root out of this seat. My 
tomb shall be a long while unknown, till the coming of other 
people, whom, by my prayers, I shall bring hither ; them 
will I protect and defend ; and in this place shall the name 
of our Lord be blessed for ever." 

11. After this, her soul being ready to depart out of her body, 
she saw standing before her a troop of heavenly angels, 
ready, joyfully, to receive her soul, and to transport it with- 
out any fear or danger from her spiritual enemies. Which, 
having told to those who stood by, her blessed soul was freed 
from the prison of her body, on the eighth day before the 
Ides of October. In her dissolution, her face smiled, and 



59 



466 



THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. — BISHOP BRUNO. 



was all of a rosy color ; and so sweet a fragrancy proceeded 
from her sacred virgin body, that those who were present 
thought themselves in the joy of Paradise, St. Cadocus 
buried her in Ijer own oratory, where for many years she 
had led a most holy, mortified life, very acceptable to God. 
Church History of Brittany, Book X., Ch. 14. 

Such is the history of St. Keyne, as related by F. Serenus 
Cressy, permissu superiorum, et approbatione Doctorum, 
There was evidently a scheme of setting up a shrine con- 
nected with the legend. In one part it was well conceived, 
for the Cornu Ammonis is no where so frequently found as 
near Keynsham ; fine specimens are to be seen over the 
doors of many of the houses there, and I have often ob- 
served fragments among the stones which were broken up 
to mend the road. The Welsh seem nearly to have forgot- 
ten this saint. Mr. Owen, in his Cambrian Biography, 
enumerates two daughters of Brychan, Ceindrech, and Cein- 
wen, both ranked among saints, and the latter having two 
churches dedicated to her in Mona. One of these is proba- 
bly St. Keyne. 



A Well there is in the west country, 

And a clearer one never was seen ; 
There is not a wife in the west country 

But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. 

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, 

And behind doth an ash-tree grow. 
And a willow from the bank above 

Droops to the water below. 

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne ; 

Joyfully he drew nigh, 
For from cock-crow he had been travelling. 

And there was not a cloud in the sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and clear, 

For thirsty and hot was he ; 
And he sat down upon the bank 

Under the willow-tree. 

There came a man from the house hard by, 

At the Well to fill his pail ; 
On the Well-side he rested it, 

And he bade the Stranger hail. 

"Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger? " quoth he; 

" For an if thou hast a wife. 
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day 

That ever thou didst in thy life. 

" Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast. 

Ever here in Cornwall been ? 
For an if she have, I'll venture my life. 

She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." 

"I have left a good woman who never was here," 

The Stranger he made reply ; 
« But that my draught should be the better for that, 

I pray you answer me why." 

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a 
Drank of this crystal Well ; [time 

And before the Angel summon'd her. 
She laid on the water a spell. 

" If the Husband of this gifted Well 
Shall drink before his Wife, 



A happy man thenceforth is he. 
For he shall be Master for life. 

" But if the Wife should drink of it first, — 

God help the Husband then ! " 
The Stranger stoop'd to the Well of St. Keyne, 

And drank of the water again. 

" You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes.'' " 

He to the Cornish-man said : 
But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake, 

And sheepishly shook his head. 

" I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, 

And left my Wife in the porch ; 
But i' faith she had been wiser than me. 

For she took a bottle to church." 

Westbury, 1798. 



BISHOP BRUNO. 



Bruno, the Bishop of Herbipolitanum, sailing in the river 
of Danubius, with Henry the Third, then Emperor, being 
not far from a place which the Germanes call Ben Strudel, 
or the devouring gulfe, which is neere unto Grinon, a castle 
in Austria, a spirit was heard clamoring aloud, ' Ho, ho, 
Bishop Bruno, whither art thou travelling .'' but dispose of 
thyselfe how thou pleasest, thou shalt be my prey and spoil.' 
At the hearing of these words they were all stupified, and 
the Bishop with the rest crossed and blessed themselves. 
The issue was, that within a short time after, the Bishop, 
feasting with the Emperor in a castle belonging to the 
Countesse of Esburch, a rafter fell from the roof of the 
chamber wherein they sate, and strooke him dead at the 
table." — Heywood's Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels. 



Bishop Bruno awoke in the dead midnight, 
And he heard his heart beat loud with affright : 
He dreamt he had rung the palace bell. 
And the sound it gave was his passing knell. 

Bishop Bruno smiled at his fears so vain ; 
He turned to sleep, and he dreamt again ; 
He rang at the palace gate once more. 
And Death was the Porter that open'd the door. 

He started up at the fearful dream, [scream ; 

And he heard at his window the screech-owl 
Bishop Bruno slept no more that night, — 
Oh ! glad was he when he saw the day-light ! 

Now he goes forth in proud array, 
For he with the Emperor dines to-day ; 
There was not a Baron in Germany 
That went with a nobler train than he. 

Before and behind his soldiers ride ; 
The people throng' d to see their pride , 
They bow'd the head, and the knee they bent, 
But nobody bless'd him as he went. 

So he went on stately and proud, ' 

When he heard a voice that cried aloud, 



THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 



467 



*' Ho ! ho ! Bishop Bruno ! you travel with glee ; 
But I would have you know, you travel to me ! " 

Behind, and before, and on either side, 
He look'd, but nobody he espied ; 
And the Bishop at that grew cold with fear, 
For he heard the words distinct and clear. 

And when he rang at the palace bell, 
He almost expected to hear his knell ; 
And when the Porter turn'd the key, 
He almost expected Death to see. 

But soon the Bishop recover'd his glee, 
For the Emperor welcomed him royally; 
And now the tables were spread, and there 
Were choicest wines an-d dainty fare. 

And now the Bishop had bless'd the meat. 
When a voice was heard as he sat in his seat, — 
" With the Emperor nowyou are dining with glee. 
But know. Bishop Bruno, you sup with me ! " 

The Bishop then grew pale with affright, 

And suddenly lost his appetite ; 

All the wine and dainty cheer 

Could not comfort his heart, that was sick with fear. 

But by little and little recovered he, 
For the wine went flowing merrily. 
Till at length he forgot his former dread, 
And his cheeks again grew rosy red. 

When he sat down to the royal fare. 
Bishop Bruno was the saddest man there ; 
But when the masquers enter'd the hall. 
He was the merriest man of all. 

Then from amid the masquers' crowd 

There went a voice hollow and loud, — 

" You have past the day, Bishop Bruno, in glee ; 

But you must pass the night with me ! " 

His cheek grows pale, and his eyeballs glare. 
And stiff round his tonsure bristled his hair ; 
With that there came one from the masquers' band. 
And took the Bishop by the hand. 

The bony hand suspended his breath ; 
His marrow grew cold at the touch of Death ; 
On saints in vain he attempted to call ; 
Bishop Bruno fell dead in the palace hall. 

Westbury, 1798. 



BATTLE OF BLENHEIM 



It was a summer evening ; 
Old Kaspar's work was done, 



And he before his cottage door 

Was sitting in the sun ; 
And by him sported on the green 
His little grandchild Wiihelmine. 



She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round. 

Which he beside the rivulet. 
In playing there, had found ; 

He came to ask what he had found, 

That was so large, and smooth, and round. 



Old Kaspar took it from the boy. 

Who stood expectant by ; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh, 
"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, 
" Who fell in the great victory. 



" I find them in the garden, 
For there's many here about; 

And often, when I go to plough. 
The ploughshare turns them out ; 

For many thousand men," said he, 

"Were slain in that great victory." 

5. 

" Now tell us what 'twas all about," 

Young Peterkin he cries ; 
And little Wiihelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes ; 
" Now tell us all about the war. 
And what they fought each other for. 



" It was the English," Kaspar cried, 
" Who put the French to rout; 

But what they fought each other for, 
I could not well make out ; 

But every body said," quoth he, 

" That 'twas a famous victory. 



" My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by ; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly ; 
So with his wife and child he fled. 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 



" With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide. 
And many a childing mother then. 

And new-born baby died ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

9. 

" They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won ; 
For many thousand bodies here 



468 



ST. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND THE DEVIL. 



Lay rotting in the sun ; 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

10. 
" Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, 

And our good Prince Eugene." 
*' Why, 'twas a very wicked thing ! " 

Said little Wilhelmine. 
" Nay — nay — my little girl," quoth he, 
" It was a famous victory. 

11. 

"And every body praised the Duke, 
Who this great fight did win." 

" But what good came of it at last .'' " 
Quoth little Peterkin. 

" Why, that I cannot tell," said he j 

" But 'twas a famous victory." 

Westbury, 1798. 



A TRUE BALLAD 

OF 

St. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND THE DEVIL. 



Deste Atendio cuentan las estorias que le avino, que el martes des- 
pues de Ramos, passo por la puente de un rio que ha nomhre 
Dlvino ; e vio en un campo gran compana de diahlos que esta- 
van contando a sus principes los males que fazien por las tier- 
ras ; e entre todos los otros estava un negro a manera de Ety- 
opiano .• e alabavase que avie siete anos que andava Udiando 
con el Papa por le fazer pecar ; e nunca pudiera sy non en- 
tonces que le fiiiera fater ya que pecado muy grave ; e esto 
provava lo por la sandalia del apostnligo que traye. E Sant 
Atendio que vide aquello, llamo aquel diablo, e conjurol por la 
virtud de Dios e por la Santa Cruz que lo llevasse a Roma ; c 
cavalgo en el ; e llevol a Roma, el jueves de la cena a hora de 
missa, el Papa que querie revestirse para dezir missa; dexo 
sant Atendio al diablo a la puerta e dixol que lo atendiese ; e el 
entro dentro e saco el Papa aparte, e dizol que fiziesse peni- 
teticia de aquel pecado ; e el quiso lo negar, masfizo gelo otor- 
gar el santo obispo con a sandalia que le dio. E fizo el Papa 
penitencia ; e dizo sant Atendio la missa en su logar, e con- 
sagro la crisma ; e tomo una partida della para sy ; e despe- 
diosse del Papa, e salio fuera, e cavalgo en el diablo, e llevo lo 
a su argobispado el sabado de pascua a hora de missa. — Coeo- 

NICA DE ESPANA. 

This Saint Atendio, according to the Chronica Genera], was 
Bishop of Vesytana in Gaul, and martyred by the Vandals 
in the year 411. The Spaniards have a tradition that he 
was Bishop of Jaen : they say, " that as the Devil was cross- 
ing the sea with this unwelcome load upon his back, he art- 
fully endeavored to make Atendio pronounce the name of 
Jesus, which, as it breaks all spells, would have enabled 
him to throw him off into the water 5 but that the Bishop, 
understanding his intent, only replied, Arre Diablo, " Gee- 
up Devil ! " and they add, " that when he arrived at Rome, 
his hat was still covered with the snow which had fallen 
upon it while he was passing the Alps, and that the hat is 
still shown at Rome in confirmation of the story and the 
miracle." Feyjoo has two letters upon this whimsical le- 
gend among his Cartas Eruditas. In the first (T. ], Carta 
24,) he replies to a correspondent who had gravely inquired 
his opinion upon the story, " De buen humor," says he, 
" estaba V. md. quando le ocurri6 inquirir mi dictamen, sobre 



la Historieta de el Obispo de Jahen, de quien se cuenta, que 
fue a Roma en una noche, caballero sobre la espalda de un 
Diablo de alquiler .- Triste de mi, si essa curiosidad se hace con- 
tagiosa, y dan muchos en sequir el exemplo de V. md. consultan- 
dome sobre cuentos demnosyviejas." Nevertheless, though he 
thus treats the story as an old wife's tale, he bestows some 
reasoning upon it. " As he heard it," he says, " it did not 
appear whether the use which the Bishop made of the Devil 
were licit or ilhcit ; that is, whether he made use of him as 
a wizard, by virtue of a compact, or by virtue of authority, 
having the permission of tlie Most High so to do. In either 
case there is a great incongruity. In the first, inasmuch as 
it is not credible that the Devil should voluntarily serve 
the Bishop for the purpose of preventing a great evil to the 
church : — I say voluntarily, because the notion that a com- 
pact is so binding upon the Devil that he can in no ways 
resist the pleasure of the person with whom he has con- 
tracted es cosa de Theologos de Vade d la cinta. In the 
second, because tlie journey being designed for a holy pur- 
pose, it is more conformable to reason that it should have 
been executed by the ministry of a good angel than of a bad 
one ; as, for instance, Habakkuk was transported by the 
ministry of a good angel from Judea to Babylon, that he 
might carry food to the imprisoned Daniel. If you should 
oppose to me the example of Christ, who was carried by the 
Devil to the pinnacle of the temple, I reply, that there are 
two manifest disparities. The first, that Christ conducted 
himself in this case passively and permissively 5 the second, 
that the Devil placed him upon the pinnacle of the Temple, 
not for any good end, but with a most wicked intention. 
" But," pursues the good Benedictine, " why should I 
fatigue myself with arguing ? I hold the story unworthy of 
being critically examined till it be shown me written in 
some history, either ecclesiastical or profane, which is en- 
titled to some credit." 
Soon after this letter was published, another correspondent in- 
formed Feyjoo, that the story in question was written in the 
General Chronicle of King D. Alphonso the Wise. This 
incited him to farther inquiry. He found the same legend 
in the SpecwZMm iJisforia/e of Vincenti us Belovacensis, and 
there discovered that the saint was called Antidius, not 
Athendius, and that the scene lay upon the river Dunius 
instead of the river Divinus. Here too he found a refer- 
ence to Sigebertus Gcmblacensis ; and in that author, the 
account which the Chronicler had followed and the expla- 
nation of his errors in the topography : his Vesytania prov- 
ing to be Besan^on, and the river the Doubs, which the 
Romans called Dubius, Dubis, and Aduadubis. But he 
found also to his comfort, that though Jean Jacques Chiflet, 
a physician of Besancon, had endeavored to prove the truth 
of the story for the honor of his nation or city, in a book 
entitled Vesontio Civitas Imperialis Libera Sequanorum, and 
had cited certain ancient Acts and Breviaries, in support of 
it, the veracious Bollandists had decided that these Acts 
were apocryphal, the Breviaries not to be believed in this 
point, and the whole story a fable which had been equally 
related of St. Maximus Taurinensis and Pope Leo the 
Great, These Bollandists strain at a gnat, and swallow an 
Aullay with equal gravity. Fortified by their authority, 
Feyjoo, who was worthy to have belonged to a more en- 
lightened church, triumphantly dismissed the legend, and 
observed, " that the contriver was a clumsy fabler to make 
the Devil spend two days upon the journey, which," as he 
says, " is slow travelling for an infernal postilion." ( Cartas 
Eruditas, T. 2, C. 21.) The discussion, however, reminded 
him of a curious story, which he thus relates : — " There is 
in this city of Oviedo a poor Porter, called by name Pedro 
Moreno, of whom a tale is told similar in substance to this 
of the Bishop of Jaen. The circumstance is related in this 
manner. Some letters had been delivered to him which he 
was to carry to Madrid with more than ordinary diligence, 
because expedition was of importance. At a little distance 
from this city, he met with a friar, who offered to join com- 
pany with him for the journey : to this he objected, upon 
the ground, that he was going in great haste, and that the 
friar would not be able to keep pace with him ; but in fine, 
the friar prevailed upon him to let it be so, and at the same 
time gave him a walking-stick for his use. So they began to 
travel together, and that so well, that Valladolid being forty 



ST. ANTIDIUS, THE POPE, AND THE DEVIL, 



469 



leagues (160 miles) from Oviedo, they got beyond that city 
on the first day to dinner. The rest of tlic journey was 
performed with the same celerity. This story spread 
through the whole place, and was believed by all the vulgar 
(and by some also who were not of the vulgar) when it 
came to my ears : the authority referred to was the man 
himself, who had related it to an infinite number of persons. 
I sent for him to my cell to examine him. He affirmed that 
the story was true, but by questioning and cross-questioning 
him concerning the particulars, I made him fall into many 
contradictions. Moreover, I found that he had told the 
story with many variations to difierent persons. What I 
clearly ascertained was, that he had heard the legend of the 
Bishop of Jaen, and thouglit to become a famous man, by 
making a like fable believed of himself. I believe that 
many persons were undeceived when my inquiry was 
known. But before this examination was made, to how 
many places had the report of this miraculous journey ex- 
tended, where the exposure of the falsehood will never 
reach ! Perhaps, if this writing should not prevent it, the 
journey of Pedro Moreno, the Porter, will one day be little 
less famous in Spain than that of the Bishop of Jaen." — 
Cartas Eruditas, T. 1, C. 24. 

According to Marullus, as quoted by Zuinger in his great 
Theatrum Humana Vitae, i. 417, Antidius was Bishop of 
Tours, and Zosimus was the Pope whom he served so essen- 
tially by riding post to his aid. 

A very incorrect copy of this Ballad was printed and sold by 
J. Bailey, 116 Chancery Lane, price 6d., with a print from 
a juvenile design by G. Cruickshank. I think myself fortu- 
nate in having accidentally obtained this broadside, which, 
for its rarity, will one day be deemed valuable in a collec- 
tion of the works of a truly original and inimitable artist. 



It is Antidius the Bishop 

Who now at even tide, 

Taking the air and saying a prayer, 

Walks by the river side. 

The Devil had business that evening, 

And he upon earth would go ; 
For it was in the month of August, 
And the weather was close below. 

He had his books to settle ; 

And up to earth he hied. 

To do it there in the evening air. 

All by the river side. 

His imps came flying around him, 

Of his affairs to tell ; 

From the north, and the south, and the east, and 

the west, 

They brought him the news that he liked best. 

Of things they had done. 

And the souls they had won, 

And how they sped well 

In the service of Hell. 

There came a devil posting in, 

Return'd from his employ ; 

Seven years had he been gone from Hell ; 

And now he came grinning for joy. 

" Seven years," quoth he, " of trouble and toil 

Have I labor'd the Pope to win ; 

And I to-day have caught him ; 

He hath done a deadly sin ! " 

And then he took the Devil's book, 

And wrote the deed therein. 



Oh, then King Beelzebub, for joy, 

He drew his mouth so wide 

You might have seen his iron teeth, 

Four and forty from side to side. 

He wagg'd his ears, he twisted his tail, 

He knew not for joy what to do ; 

In his hoofs and his horns, in his heels and his 

corns, 

It tickled him all through. 

The Bishop, who beheld all this. 

Straight how to act bethought him ; 

He leap'd upon the Devil's back, 

And by the horns he caught him. 

And he said a Pater-noster 

As fast as he could say, 

And made a cross on the Devil's head, 

And bade him to Rome away. 

Away, away, the Devil flew 

All through the clear moonlight ; 

I warrant who saw them on their way 

He did not sleep that night. 

Without bridle, or saddle, or whip, or spur, 

Away they go like the wind ; 

The beads of the Bishop are hanging before, 

And the tail of the Devil behind. 

They met a Witch, and she hail'd them, 

As soon as she came within call ; 

" Ave Maria ! " the Bishop exclaim' d ; 

It frightened her broomstick, and she got a fall. 

He ran against a shooting star. 

So fast for fear did he sail, 

And he singed the beard of the Bishop 

Against a comet's tail ; 

And he pass'd between the horns of the moon, 

With Antidius on his back ; 

And there was an eclipse that night 

Which was not in the almanac. 

The Bishop, just as they set out, 

To tell his beads begun ; 

And he was by the bed of the Pope 

Before the string was done. 

The Pope fell down upon his knees, 

In terror and confusion. 

And he confess'd the deadly sin, 

And he had absolution. 

And all the Popes in bliss that be, 

Sung, O be joyful ! then ; 

And all the Popes in bale that be, 

They howl'd for envy then ; 

For they before kept jubilee, 

Expecting his good company, 

Down in the Devil's den. 

But what was this the Pope had done 
To bind his soul to Hell ? 



470 



GONZALO HERMIGUEZ. 



Ah ! that is the mystery of this wonderful history, 
And I wish that I could tell ! 

But would you know, there you must go ; 

You can easily find the way ; 

It is a broad and a well-known road, 

That is travell'd by night and by day. 

And you must look in the Devil's book; 

You will find one debt that was never paid yet, 

If you search the leaves throughout ; 

And that is the mystery of this wonderful history. 

And the way to find it out. 

Bristol, 1802. 



GONZALO HERMIGUEZ 



This story is related at length hy Bernardo de Brito, in his 
Cronica de Cister., 1. vi. c. ], where he has preserved, also, 
part of a poem byJGonzalo Hermiguez. The verses are said 
to be the oldest in the Portuguese language ; and Brito says 
there were more of them, but he thought it sufficient to cite 
these for his purpose. If they had been correctly printed, 
it might have been difficult to make out their meaning j but 
from a text so corrupted, it is impossible. 



In arms and in anger, in struggle and strife, 

Gonzalo Hermiguez won his wife ; 

He slew the Moor who from the fray 

Was rescuing Fatima that day ; 

In vain she shriek' d : Gonzalo press' d 

The Moorish prisoner to his breast : 

That breast in iron was array 'd; 

The gauntlet was bloody that grasp'd the Maid ; 

Through the beaver-sight his eye 

Glared fierce, and red, and wrathfully; 

And while he bore the captive away, 

His heart rejoiced, and he blest the day. 



Under the lemon walk's odorous shade 
Gonzalo Hermiguez wooed the Maid ; 
The ringlets of his raven hair 
Waved upon the evening air, 
And gentle thoughts, that raise a sigh, 
Soften'd the warrior's dark-brown eye. 
When he with passion and sweet song 
Wooed her to forgive the wrong, 
Till she no more could say him nay ; 
And the Moorish Maiden blest the day 
When Gonzalo bore her a captive away. 

3. 

To the holy Church, with pomp and pride, 
Gonzalo Hermiguez led his bride. 
In the sacred font that happy day 
Her stain of sin was wash'd away ; 
There did the Moorish Maiden claim 
Another faith, another name ; 



There, as a Christian convert, plight 
Her faith unto the Christian Knight ; 
And Oriana blest the day 
When Gonzalo bore her a captive away. 



Of Affonso Henriques' court the pride 

Were Gonzalo Hermiguez and his bride; 

In battle strongest of the strong, 

In peace the master of the song, 

Gonzalo of all was first in fame. 

The loveliest she and the happiest dame. 

But ready for her heavenly birth. 

She was not left to fade on earth ; 

In that dread hour, with Heaven in view, 

The comfort of her faith she knew, 

And blest on her death-bed the day 

When Gonzalo bore her a captive away. 



Through a long and holy life, 

Gonzalo Hermiguez mourn'd his wife. 

The arms wherewith he won his bride. 

Sword, shield, and lance, were laid aside. 

That head which the high-plumed helm had worn 

Was now of its tresses shaven and shorn, 

A Monk of Alcobacja he 

Eminent for sanctity. 

Contented in his humble cell * 

The meekest of the meek to dwell. 

His business was, by night and day, 

For Oriana's soul to pray. 

Never day did he let pass 

But scored to her account a mass ; 

Devoutly for the dear one dead 

With self-inflicted stripes he bled ; 

This was Gonzalo's sole employ. 

This was Gonzalo's only joy; 

Till love, thus purified, became 

A holy, yea, a heavenly flame ; 

And now in heaven doth bless the day 

When he bore the Moorish captive away. 

Bristol, 1801. 



QUEEN ORRACA 

AND 

THE FIVE MARTYRS OF MOROCCO. 



This legend is related in the Chronicle of Affonso IL, and in 
the Historia Serafica of Fr. Manoel da Esperan^a. 



The Friars five have girt their loins. 

And taken staff" in hand; 
And never shall those Friars again 

Hear mass in Christian land. 

They went to Queen Orraca, 
To thank her and bless her then ; 



QUEEN ORRACA AND THE FIVE MARTYRS. 



471 



And Queen Orraca in tears 
Knelt to the holy men. 

" Three things, Queen Orraca, 

We prophesy to you : 
Hear us, in the name of God ! 

For time will prove them true 

" In Morocco we must martyr'd be ; 

Christ hath vouchsafed it thus : 
We shall shed our blood for Him 

Who shed his blood for us. 

" To Coimbra shall our bodies be brought, 

Such being the will divine ; 
That Christians may behold and feel 

Blessings at our shrine. 

" And when unto that place of rest 

Our bodies shall draw nigh, 
Who sees us first, the King or you, 

That one that night must die. 

" Fare thee well. Queen Orraca ! 

For thy soul a mass we will say, 
Every day as long as Ave live, 

And on thy dying day." 

The Friars they blest her, one by one, 
Where she knelt on her knee ; 

And they departed to the land 
Of the Moors beyond the sea. 



" What news, O King AfFonso, 
What news of the Friars five ? 

Have they preach'd to the Miramamolin; 
And are they still alive .? " 

*' They have fought the fight, O Queen ! 

They have run the race ; 
In robes of white they hold the palm 

Before the throne of Grace. 

" All naked in the sun and air 

Their mangled bodies lie ; 
What Christian dared to bury them, 

By the bloody Moors would die." 

3. 

" What news, O King AfFonso, 
Of the Martyrs five what news.'' 

Doth the bloody Miramamolin 
Their burial still refuse .'' " 

" That on a dunghill they should rot. 

The bloody Moor decreed ; 
That their dishonor'd bodies should 

The dogs and vultures feed ; — 

" But the thunder of God roll'd over them, 
And the lightning of God flash'd round} 

Nor thing impure, nor man impure. 
Could approach the holy ground. 



" A thousand miracles appall'd 
The cruel Pagan's mind ; 

Our brother Pedro brings them here, 
In Coimbra to be shrined." 



Every altar in Coimbra 

Is dress'd for the festival day; 
All the people in Coimbra 

Are dight in their richest array ; — 

Every bell in Coimbra 

Doth merrily, merrily ring ; 
The Clergy and the Knights await 

To go forth with the Queen and the King. 

"Come forth, come forth, Queen. Orraca; 

We make the procession stay." 
" I beseech thee, King AfFonso, 

Go you alone to-day. 

" I have pain in my head this morning ; 

I am ill at heart also : 
Go without me, King AfFonso, 

For I am too faint to go." 

" The relics of the Martyrs five 

All maladies can cure ; 
They will requite the charity 

You show'd them once, be sure : 

" Come forth then. Queen Orraca ; 

You make the procession stay : 
It were a scandal and a sin 

To abide at home to-day." 

Upon her palfrey she is set, 

And forward then they go ; 
And over the long bridge they pass. 

And up the long hill wind slow. 

" Prick forward. King AfFonso, 

And do not wait for me ; 
To meet them close by Coimbra, 

It were discourtesy ; — 

" A little while I needs must wait, 

Till this sore pain be gone ; — 
I will proceed the best I can ; 

But do you and your Knights prick on." 

The King and his Knights prick'd up the hill 

Faster than before ; 
The King and his Knights have topp'd the hill, 

And now they are seen no more. 

As the King and his Knights went down the hill, 

A wild boar cross 'd the way; 
" Follow him ! follow him ! " cried the King; 

" We have time by the Queen's delay." 

A-hunting of the boar astray 

Is King AfFonso gone : 
Slowly, slowly, but straight the while, 

Queen Orraca is coming on. 



472 



THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY. 



And winding now the train appears 

Between the olive-trees : 
Queen Orraca alighted then, 

And fell upon her knees. 

The Friars of Alanquer came first, 
And next the relics past ; — 

Queen Orraca look'd to see 

The King and his Knights come last. 

She heard the horses tramp behind j 
At that she turn'd her face : 

King AfFonso and his Knights came up 
All panting from the chase. 

" Have pity upon my poor soul, 
Holy Martyrs five ! " cried she : 

" Holy Mary, Mother of God, 
Virgin, pray for me ! " 



That day in Coimbra 

Many a heart was gay ; 
But the heaviest heai't in Coimbra 

Was that poor Queen's that day. 

The festival is over. 

The sun hath sunk in the west ; 
All the people in Coimbra 

Have betaken themselves to rest. 

Queen Orraca's Father Confessor 

At midnight is awake, 
Kneeling at the Martyrs' shrine, 

And praying for her sake. 

Just at the midnight hour, when all 

Was still as still could be. 
Into the Church of Santa Cruz 

Came a saintly company. 

All in robes of russet gray. 

Poorly were they dight ; 
Each one girdled with a cord. 

Like a Friar Minorite. 

But from those robes of russet gray, 
There flow'd a heavenly light; 

For each one was the blessed soul 
Of a Friar Minorite. 

Brighter than their brethren. 

Among the beautiful band, 
Five were there who each did bear 

A palm-branch in his hand. 

He who led the brethren, 

A living man was he ; 
And yet he shone the brightest 

Of all the company. 

Before the steps of the altar. 

Each one bow'd his head ; 
And then with solemn voice they sung 

The Service of the Dead. 



" And who are ye, ye blessed Saints ? " 

The Father Confessor said ; 
" And for what happy soul sing ye 

The Service of the Dead.? " 

" These are the souls of our brethren in bliss; 

The Martyrs five are we : 
And this is our father Francisco, 

Among us bodily. 

" We are come hither to perform 

Our promise to the Queen ; 
Go thou to King AfFonso, 

And say what thou hast seen." 

There was loud knocking at the door, 

As the heavenly vision fled ; 
And the porter called to the Confessor, 

To tell him the Queen was dead. 

Bristol, 1803. 



OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY, 

A BALLAD, 

SHOWING HOW AN OLD WOMAN RODE DOUBLE, 
AND WHO RODE BEFORE HER. 



A. D. 852. Circa dies istos, mulier qucedam malefica, in villSi 
qiicB Berkeleia dicitur degens, guloi amatrix ac petulanticBf 
fiagitiis modum usque in senium et auguriis nonponens, usque 
ad mortem ivipudica permansit. Hcbc die quadam cum sederet 
ad prandium, cornicula quam pro delitHs pascebat, nescio quid 
garrire ccepit ; quo audita, mulieris cultellus de manu excidit, 
simul et fades pallescere ccepit, et emisso rugitu, hodie, inquit, 
accipiam grande incommudum, liodieque ad sulcum ultimum 
meum pervenit aratrum. Quo dicto, nuncius doloris intravit ; 
muliere vcro percunctata ad quid veniret, affero, inquit, tibi 
Jilii tui obitum ettotius familicB ejus ex subitd. ruinci, interitum. 
Hoc quoque dolore mulier permota, lecto protinus decubuit gra- 
viter injirmata ; sentiensque morbum subrepere ad vitalia, liberos 
quos habuit superstites, monachum videlicet et monacham, per 
epistolam invitavit ; advenientes autem voce singultiente allo- 
quitur. Ego, inquit, o pueri, meo miserabili fato dcemoniacis 
semper artibus inservivi ; ego omnium vitiorum sentina, ego il- 
lecebrarum omnium fui magistra. Erat tamen mihi inter h<BC 
mala spes vestrm religionis, qucp, meam solidaret animam de- 
speratam ; vos ezpectabam propugnatores contra dcsmones, 
tutores contra sa:vissimos hastes. JVu7ic igitur quoniam ad 
finem vita; perveni, rogo vos per materna ubera, ut mea tenta- 
tis alleviare tormenta. Jnsuite me defunctam in corio cervino, 
ac delude in sarcophago lapideo supponite, operculumque ferro 
et plumbo constringite, ac demum lapidem tribus cathenis fer- 
reis et fortissimis circundantes, clericos quinquaginta psalmo- 
rum cantores, et tot per tres dies presbyteros missarum cele- 
bratores appUcate, quiferoces lenigent adversariorum incur sus. 
Ita si tribus noctibus secura jacuero, quartet, die me infodite 
humo. 

Factumque est ut prceceperat illis. Sed, proh dolor ! nil preceSy 
nil lacr]jm<B, nil demum valuere cathence. Primis enim duabus 
noctibus, cum chori psallentium corpori assistebant, advenientes 
Dcemones ostium ecclesim confregerunt ingenti obice clausum, 
extremasque cathenas negotio levi dirumpunt ; media autem 
qua; fortior erat, illibata manebat. Tertla autem nocte, circa 
gallicinium, strepitu hostium adventantium, omne monasterium 
visum est a fundamento moveri. Unus ergo dmmonum, et 
vultu ccBteris terribilior et staturd, eminentior, januas EcclesicB 
impetu violento concussas in fragmenta dejecit. Divezerunt 



THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY. 



473 



clerici cum laicis, metu stcterunt omnium capilli, et ■psalmoivim 
concentus drfecit. Damon ergo gestu ut videbatur arroganti 
ad sepulchrum accedens, ct nomen mulicris modicum ingemi- 
nans, surgere imperavit. Qu& respondente, quod nequiret pro 
vinculis, jam malo tuo, inquit, solveris ; et protiiius cathenam 
qucB cmterorum ferocium dccmonum deluserat, vclut stuppcum 
vinculum rumpebat. Operculum etiam sepulchri pede depel- 
lens, mulicrern palam omnibus ab ecclcsia extraxit, ubi prcc 
foribus niger equus supcrbe hinniens videbatur, uncis ferrets 
et clavis undique confixus, super quern misera mulier projecta, 
ab oculis assistentiurn evanuit. Aiidiebantur tamen clamores 
per quatuorferc miliaria horribilcs, auxilium postulantes. 

Ista itaque quce retuli incredibilia non erunt, si legatur beati 
Oregorii dialogus, in quo refert, hominem in ecclcsit sepultum, 
a doemonibus foras ejectum. Et apud Francos Carolus Mar- 
tellus ijisignis vir furtitudinis, qui Saracenos Oalliam in- 
gressos, Hispaniam redirc compuUt, exactis vitcB sucb dicbus, 
in EcclesicL beati Dionysii legitur fuisse sepultus. Scd quia 
patrimonia, cum decimis omnium fere ccclesiarum Oallia, pro 
stipendio commilitonum suorum mutilaverat, miserabiliter a 
malignis spiritibus de sepulchro corporaliter avulsus, usque in 
hodiernum diem nusquam comparuit. — Matthew of West- 
minster. 

This story is also related by Olaus Magnus, and in the Nu- 
remberg Chronicle. But William of Malmesbury seems to 
have been the original authority, and he had the story from 
an eye-witness. " When I shall have related it," he says, 
" the credit of the narrative will not be shaken, though the 
minds of the hearers should be incredulous, for I have heard 
it from a man of such character w/(o would swear he had seen 
it, that I should blush to disbelieve." — Sharpens Wii.hi\u 
OF Malmesburv, p. 264. 



The Raven croak'd as she sat at her meal, 
And the Old Woman knew what he said, 

And she grew pale at the Raven's tale, 
And sicken' d, and went to her bed. 

" Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with 
speed," 

The Old Woman of Berkeley said ; 
*' The Monk my son, and my daughter the Nun, 

Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead." 

The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun, 

Their way to Berkeley went ; 
And they have brought, with pious thought, 

The holy sacrament. 

The Old Woman shriek'd as they enter'd her 
door; 

And she cried with a voice of despair, 
" Now take away the sacrament, 

For its presence I cannot bear ! " 

Her lip it trembled with agony ; 

The sweat ran down her brow ; 
*' I have tortures in store for evermore, 

But spare me, my children, now ! " 

Away they sent the sacrament ; 

The fit it left her weak ; 
She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes, 

And faintly struggled to speak. 

"All kind of sin I have rioted in, 

And the judgment now must be ; 
But I secured my children's souls ; 

Oh ! pray, my children, for me ! 
60 



" I have 'nointed myself with infants' fat ; 

The fiends have been my slaves ; 
From sleeping babes I have suck'd the breath; 
And, breaking by charms the sleep of death, 

I have call'd the dead from their graves. 

" And the Devil will fetch me now in fire, 

My witchcrafts to atone ; 
And I, who have troubled the dead man's grave, 

Shall never have rest in my own. 

" Bless, I entreat, my winding sheet. 

My children, I beg of you ; 
And with holy water sprinkle my shroud. 

And sprinkle my coffin too. 

" And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone, 

And fasten it strong, I implore. 
With iron bars, and with three chains 

Chain it to the church floor. 

" And bless the chains, and sprinkle them ; 

And let fifty Priests stand round, 
Who night and day the mass may say 

Where I lie on the ground. 

" And see that fifty Choristers 

Beside the bier attend me. 
And day and night, by the tapers' light, 

With holy hymns defend me. 

" Let the church bells all, both great and small, 

Be toll'd by night and day, 
To drive from thence the fiends who come 

To bear my body away. 

" And ever have the church-door barr'd 

After the even-song ; 
And I beseech you, children dear. 

Let the bars and bolts be strong. 

" And let this be three days and nights, 

My wretched corpse to save ; 
Till the fourth morning keep me safe, 

And then I may rest in my grave." 

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down, 

And her eyes grew deadly dim ; 
Short came her breath, and the struggle of death 

Did loosen every limb. 

They bless'd the old woman's winding sheet 

With rites and prayers due ; 
With holy water they sprinkled her shroud, 

And they sprinkled her coffin too. 

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone, 

And with iron barr'd it down. 
And in the church with three strong chains 

They chain'd it to the ground. 

And they bless'd the chains, and sprinkled them 

And fifty Priests stood round. 
By night and day the mass to say 

Where she lay on the ground. 



474 



THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY, 



And fifty sacred Choristers - 

Beside the bier attend her, 
Who day and night, by the tapers' light, 

Should with holy hymns defend her. 

To see the Priests and Choristers 

It was a goodly sight, 
Each holding, as it were a staff, 

A taper burning bright. 

And the church bells all, both great and small, 

Did toll so loud and long ; 
And they have barr'd the church door hard, 

After the even-song. 

And the first night the tapers' light 

Burnt steadily and clear ; 
But they without a hideous rout 

Of angry fiends could hear ; — 

A hideous roar at the church door. 

Like a long thunder peal ; 
And the Priests they pray'd, and the Choristers 
sung 

Louder, in fearful zeal. 

Loud toll'd the bell ; the priests pray'd well ; 

The tapers they burnt bright ; 
The Monk her son, and her daughter the Nun, 

They told their beads all night. 

The cock he crew ; the Fiends they flew 
From the voice of the morning away ; 

Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing. 
And the fifty Priests they pray ; 

As they had sung and pray'd all night, 
They pray'd and sung all day. 

The second night the tapers' light 

Burnt dismally and blue. 
And every one saw his neighbor's face 

Like a dead man's face to view. 

And yells and cries without arise. 
That the stoutest heart might shock, 

And a deafening roaring like a cataract pouring 
Over a mountain rock. 

The Monk and Nun they told their beads 

As fast as they could tell, 
And aye as louder grew the noise. 

The faster went the bell. 

Louder and louder the Choristers sung, 

As they trembled more and more ; 
And the Priests as they pray'd to Heaven for aid. 

They smote their breasts full sore. 

The cock he crew ; the Fiends they flew 
From the voice of the morning away ; 

Then undisturb'd the Choristers sing. 
And the fifty Priests they pray ; 

As they had sung and pray'd all night. 
They pray'd and sung all day. 



The third night came, and the tapers' flame 

A frightful stench did make ; 
And they burnt as though they had been dipp'd 

In the burning brimstone lake. 

And the loud commotion, like the rushing of 
ocean. 

Grew momently more and more; 
And strokes as of a battering-ram 

Did shake the strong church door. 

The bellmen they for very fear 

Could toll the bell no longer ; 
And still as louder grew the strokes, 

Their fear it grew the stronger. 

The Monk and Nun forgot their beads ; 

They fell on the ground in dismay ; 
There was not a single Saint in heaven 

To whom they did not pray. 

And the Choristers' song, which late was so strong, 

Falter'd with consternation ; 
For the church did rock as an earthquake shock 

Uplifted its foundation. 

And a sound was heard like the trumpet's blast 

That shall one day wake the dead ; 
The strong church door could bear no more, 

And the bolts and the bars they fled ; — 

And the tapers' light was extinguish'd quite; 

And the Choristers faintly sung; 
And the Priests, dismay 'd, panted and pray'd, 
And on all Saints in heaven for aid 

They call'd with trembling tongue. 

And in He came with eyes of flame. 

The Devil, to fetch the dead ; 
And all the church with his presence glow'd 

Like a fiery furnace red. 

He laid his hand on the iron chains, 
And like flax they moulder'd asunder, 

And the coffin lid, which was barr'd so firm, 
He burst with his voice of thunder. 

And he bade the Old Woman of Berkeley rise, 

And come with her master away ; 
A cold sweat started on that cold corpse. 

At the voice she was forced to obey. 

She rose on her feet in her winding-sheet ; 

Her dead flesh quiver'd with fear ; 
And a groan like that which the Old Woman gave 

Never did mortal hear. 

She follow' d her Master to the church door ; 

There stood a black horse there ; 
His breath was red like furnace smoke. 

His eyes like a meteor's glare. 

The Devil he flung her on the horse. 
And he leap'd up before, 



THE SURGEON'S WARNING. 



475 



And away like the lightning's speed they went, 
And she was seen no more. 

They saw her no more ; but her cries 
For four miles round they could hear ; 

And children at rest at their mothers' breast 
Started, and scream'd with fear. 

Hereford, 1798. 



SURGEON'S WARNING. 



The subject of this parody was suggested by a friend, to whom 
also I am indebted for some of the stanzas. 

Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the man- 
ner of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute 
to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare 
that it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful in- 
vention ; and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come 
are requested to take notice, that nothing herein asserted 
concerning the aforesaid coffins is true, except that the 
maker and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane. 



The Doctor whisper'd to the Nurse, 
And the Surgeon knew what he said ; 

And he grew pale at the Doctor's tale, 
And trembled in his sick bed. 

" Now fetch me my brethren, and fetch them with 
r speed," 

The Surgeon affrighted said; 
" The Parson and the Undertaker, 

Let them hasten, or I shall be dead." 

The Parson and the Undertaker 

They hastily came complying. 
And the Surgeon's Prentices ran up stairs 

When they heard that their Master was dying. 

The Prentices all they enter'd the room, 

By one, by two, by three ; 
With a sly grin came Joseph in, 

First of the company. 

The Surgeon swore, as they enter'd his door, — 

'Twas fearful his oaths to hear, — 
" Now send these scoundrels out of my sight, 

I beseech ye, my brethren dear ! " 

He foam'd at the mouth with the rage he felt, 
And he wrinkled his black eyebrow : 

" That rascal Joe would be at me, I know. 
But, zounds, let him spare me now ! " 

Then out they sent the Prentices ; 

The fit it left him weak ; 
He look'd at his brothers with ghastly eyes. 

And faintly struggled to speak. 

" All kinds of carcasses I have cut up, 
And now my turn will be ; 



But, brothers, I took care of you ; 
So pray take care of me. 

"I have made candles of dead men's fat; 

The Sextons have been my slaves ; 
I have bottled babes unborn, and dried 

Hearts and livers from rifled graves. 

" And my Prentices now will surely come 

And carve me bone from bone ; 
And I, who have rifled the dead man's grave, 

Shall never have rest in my own. 

" Bury me in lead when 1 am dead, 

My brethren, I entreat. 
And see the coffin weigh'd, I beg. 

Lest the plumber should be a cheat. 

" And let it be solder'd closely down, 
Strong as strong can be, I implore ; 

And put it in a patent coffin. 
That I may rise no more. 

" If they carry me off in the patent coffin. 

Their labor will be in vain ; 
Let the Undertaker see it bought of the maker, 

Who lives by St. Martin's Lane. 

" And bury me in my brother's church, 

For that will safer be ; 
And, I implore, lock the church door, 

And pray take care of the key. 

" And all night long let three stout men 

The vestry watch within ; 
To each man give a gallon of beer, 

And a keg of Holland's gin ; — 

"Powder and ball, and blunderbuss. 

To save me if he can, 
And eke five guineas if he shoot 

A Resurrection Man. 

" And let them watch me for three weeks. 

My wretched corpse to save ; 
For then I think that I may stink 

Enough to rest in my grave." 

The Surgeon laid him down in his bed ; 

His eyes grew deadly dim; 
Short came his breath, and the struggle of death 

Did loosen every limb. 

They put him in lead when he was dead, 

And, with precaution meet, 
First they the leaden coffin weigh. 

Lest the plumber should be a cheat. 

They had it solder'd closely down, 

And examin'd it o'er and o'er ; 
And they put it in a patent coffin, 

That he might rise no more. 

For to carry him off in a patent coffin. 
Would, they thought, be but labor in vain , 



476 THE SURGEON'S WARNING. — HENRY THE HERMIT. 



So the Undertaker saw it bought of the maker, 
Who lives by St. Martin's Lane. 

In his brother's church they buried him, 

That safer he might be ; 
They lock'd the door, and would not trust 

The Sexton with the key. 

And three men in the vestry watch, 

To save him if they can ; 
And, should he come there, to shoot they swear 

A Resurrection Man. 

And the first night, by lantern light. 
Through the church-yard as they went, 

A guinea of gold the Sexton show'd 
That Mister Joseph sent. 

But conscience was tough ; it was not enough ; 

And their honesty never swerved ; 
And they bade him go, with Mister Joe, 

To the devil, as he deserved. 

So all night long, by the vestry fire, 

They quaff'd their gin and ale ; 
And they did drink, as you may think, 

And told full many a tale. 

The Cock he crew. Cock-a-doodle-doo ! 

Past five ! the watchmen said ; 
And they went away, for while it was day 

They might safely leave the dead. 

The second night, by lantern light. 

Through the church-yard as they went, 

He whisper'd anew, and show'd them two, 
That Mister Joseph sent. 

The guineas were bright, and attracted their sight. 

They look'd so heavy and new ; 
And their fingers itch'd as they were bewitch'd, 

And they knew not what to do. 

But they waver'd not long, for conscience was 
strong. 

And they thought they might get more ; 
And they refused the gold, but not 

So rudely as before. 

So all night long, by the vestry fire. 

They quaff"'d their gin and ale ; 
And they did drink, as you may think. 

And told full many a tale. 

The third night, as, by lantern light. 
Through the church-yard they went. 

He bade them see, and show'd them three, 
That Mister Joseph sent. 

They look'd askance with greedy glance ; 

The guineas they shone bright ; 
For the Sexton on the yellow gold 

Let fall his lantern light. 

And he look'd sly with his roguish eye, 
And gave a well-timed wink ; 



And they could not stand the sound in his hand, 
For he made the guineas chink. 

And conscience, late that had such weight, 

All in a moment fails ; 
For well they knew that it was true 

A dead man tells no tales. 

And they gave all their powder and ball, 

And took the gold so bright ; 
And they drank their beer, and made good cheer, 

Till now it was midnight. 

Then, though the key of the church-door 
Was left with the Parson, his brother, 

It open'd at the Sexton's touch, — 
Because he had another. 

And in they go, with that villain Joe, 

To fetch the body by night; 
And all the church look'd dismally 

By his dark-lantern light. 

They laid the pick-axe to the stones. 
And they moved them soon asunder ; 

They shovell'd away the hard-press'd clay. 
And came to the coffin under. 

They burst the patent coffin first. 

And they cut through the lead ; 
And they laugh'd aloud when they saw the shroud, 

Because they had got at the dead. 

And they allow'd the Sexton the shroud, 

And they put the coffin back ; 
And nose and knees they then did squeeze 

The Surgeon in a sack. 

The watchmen, as they pass'd along, 

Full four yards off" could smell. 
And a curse bestow' d upon the load 

So disagreeable. 

So they carried the sack a-pick-a-back. 
And they carved him bone from bone ; 

But what became of the Surgeon's soul 
Was never to mortal known. 

Westbury, 1798. 



HENRY THE HERMIT 



It was a little island where he dwelt, 

A solitary islet, bleak and bare. 

Short, scanty herbage spotting with dark spots 

Its gray stone surface. Never mariner 

Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast, 

Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark 

Anchor'd beside its shore. It was a place 

Befitting well a rigid anchoret, 

Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys, 

And purposes of life ; and he had dwelt 



ST. GUALBERTO 



477 



Many long years upon that lonely isle ; 
For in ripe manhood he abandon'd arms, 
Honors, and friends, and country, and the world, 
And had grown old in solitude. That isle 
Some solitary man, in other times, 
Had made his dwelling-place ; and Henry found 
The little chapel which his toil had built 
Now by the storms unroof d, his bed of leaves 
Wind-scatter'd; and his grave o'ergrown with 

grass. 
And thistles, whose white seeds there wing'd in 

vain, 
Wither'd on rocks, or in the waves were lost. 
So he repair'd the chapel's ruin'd roof, 
Clear'd the gray lichens from the altar-stone, 
And underneath a rock that shelter 'd him 
From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage. 

[food. 
The peasants from the shore would bring him 
And beg his prayers ; but human converse else 
He knew not in that utter solitude; 
Nor ever visited the haunts of men, 
Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed 
Implored his blessing and his aid in death. 
That summons he delay' d not to obey. 
Though the night-tempest or autumnal wind 
Madden'd the waves; and though the mariner. 
Albeit relying on his saintly load. 
Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived 
A most austere and self-denying man. 
Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness, 
Had worn him down, and it was pain at last 
To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves. 
And bend his knees in prayei*. Yet not the less, 
Though with reluctance of infirmity, 
Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves. 
And bent his knees in prayer ; but with more zeal, 
More self-condemning fervor, raised his voice, 
Imploring pardon for the natural sin 
Of that reluctance, till the atoning prayer 
Had satisfied his heart, and given it peace, 
And the repented fault became a joy. 

One night, upon the shore his chapel-bell 
Was heard ; the air was calm, and its far sounds 
Over the water came, distinct and loud. 
Alarm'd, at that unusual hour, to hear 
Its toll irregular, a monk arose. 
And cross'd to the island-chapel. On a stone 
Henry was sitting there, dead, cold, and stiff, 
The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet 
The lamp * that stream'd a long, unsteady light. 

Westbury, 1799. 



ST. GUALBERTO. 

ADDRESSED TO GEORGE BURNETT, 



Milton has made the name of Vallumbrosa familiar to English 
few of whom, unless they have visited the spot, 

This story is related in the English Martyrolog-y, 1608. 



know that it is the chief soat of a religious order founded by 
St. Gualberto. A passage in one of Miss Seward's early 
letters shows how well Milton had obs^erved the peculiar 
feature of its autumnal scenery. " I have heard my father 
say, that when he was in Italy with Lord Charles Fitzroy, 
they travelled through Vallumbrosa in autumn, after the 
leaves had begun to full ; and that their guide was obliged 
to try what was land, and what water, by pushing a long 
pole before him, which he carried in his hand, the vale 
being so very irriguous, and the leaves so totally covering 
the surface of the streams." — Puetical Works o/ Anne 
Seward, witJi Extracts from her Literary Correspondence, 
vol. i. p. Ixxxvi. 

1. 

The work is done ; the fabric is complete ; 

Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower, 
Yet, ere his steps attain the sacred seat, 

Must toil for many a league and many an hour. 
Elate the Abbot sees the pile, and knows, 
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose. 

2. 

Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride, 
Its columns' cluster'd strength and lofty state, 

How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side ; 
What intersecting arches graced its gate ; 

Its towers how high, its massy walls how strong, 
These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song. 



Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground, 

But little store of charity, I ween, 
The passing pilgrim at Moscera found ; 

And often there the mendicant was seen 
Hopeless to turn him from the convent door, 
Because this costly work still kept the brethren 
poor. 



Now all is finish' d, and from every side 

They flock to view the fabric, young and old. 

Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride. 
When, on the Sabbath-day, his eyes behold 

The multitudes that crowd his church's floor. 
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more ? 



So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way, 

Since sainted for a life of saintly deeds. 
He paused, the new-rear'd convent to survey. 

And, o'er the structure whilst his eye proceeds, 
Sorrowed, as one whose holier feelings deem 
That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem. 

6. 

Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw, 

And forth he came to greet the holy guest; 
For him he knew as one who held the law 

Of Benedict, and each severe behest 
So duly kept with such religious care. 
That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to 
his prayer. 



" Good brother, welcome ! " thus Rodulfo cries ; 
" In sooth it glads me to behold you here ; 



478 



ST. GUALBERTO 



It is Gualberto ! and mine aged eyes 

Did not deceive me : yet full many a year 
Hath slipp'd away, since last you bade farewell 
To me your host and my uncomfortable cell. 



" 'Twas but a sorry welcome then you found, 

And such as suited ill a guest so dear. 
The pile was ruinous, the base unsound ; 

It glads me more to bid you welcome here, 
For you can call to mind our former state } 
Come, brother, pass with me the new Moscera's 
gate." 



So spake the cheerful Abbot ; but no smile 
Of answering joy relax'd Gualberto's brow ; 

He raised his hand, and pointed to the pile — 
"Moscera better pleased me then, than now; 

A palace this, befitting kingly pride ! 
Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide ? " 

10. 
" Ay," cries Rodulfo, " 'tis a stately place ! 

And pomp becomes the House of Worship well. 
Nay, scowl not round with so severe a face ! 

When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell. 

Where art exhausted decks the sumptuous hall, 

Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all .? " 

11. 

" And ye have rear'd these stately towers on high 
To serve your God .? " the Monk severe replied ; 

" It rose from zeal and earnest piety. 

And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside .'' 

Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere, 
However poor the cell, God will incline his ear. 

12. 

" Rodulfo ! while this haughty building rose. 

Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door ? 
Did charity relieve the orphan's woes ? 

Clothed ye the naked .? did ye feed the poor .? 
He who with alms most succors the distress'd, 
Proud Abbot ! know he serves his heavenly Father 
best, 

13. 

" Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell 

Who first abandon'd all to serve the Lord ? 
Their place of worship was the desert cell; 
Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal 
board ; 
And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by, 
They bless'd their gracious God, and ' thought it 
luxury.' " 

14. 

Then anger darken'd in Rodulfo's face ; 

"Enough of preaching," sharply he replied; 
" Thou art grown envious ; 'tis a common case ; 

Humility is made the cloak of pride. 
Proud of our home's magnificence are we, 
But thou art far more proud in rags and beggary." 



15. 



With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone, 
" O Father, hear me ! If this costly pile 

Was for thine honor rear'd, and thine alone, 
Bless it, O Father, with thy fostering smile ! 

Still may it stand, and never evil know, i 

Long as beside its walls the endless stream shall I 



flow. 



16. 



"But, Lord, if vain and worldly-minded men 
Have wasted here the wealth which thou hast 
lent, 
To pamper worldly pride ; frown on it then ! ' 

Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent ! 
Let yonder brook, that gently flows beside, 
Now from its base sweep down the unholy house 
of pride!" 

17. 

He said, — and lo, the brook no longer flows ! 

The waters pause, and now they swell on high ; 
Erect in one collected heap they rose ; 

The affrighted brethren from Moscera fly, 
And upon all the Saints in Heaven they call. 
To save them in their flight from that impending 
fall. 

18. 
Down the heap'd waters came, and, with a sound 

Like thunder, overthrown the fabric falls ; 
Swept far and wide, its fragments strow the 
ground, 
Prone lie its columns now, its high-arch'd walls; j 
Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide. 
That from its base swept down the unholy house 
of pride. 



19. 

Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth, 

Dear George, or like Moscera's base unsound .? 
This sure I know, that glad am I, in sooth. 

He only play'd his pranks on foreign ground ; 
For had he turn'd the stream on England too. 
The Vandal monk had spoilt full many a goodly 
view. 

20. 
Then Malmesbury's arch had never met my 
sight. 
Nor Battle's vast and venerable pile ; 
I had not traversed then with such delight 
The hallowed ruins of our Alfred's isle, 
Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestow'd 
On those who rob its walls to mend the turnpike jl 
road. 

21. 

Wells would have fallen, dear George, our 

country's pride ; 

And Canning's stately church been rear'd in 

vain ; 

Nor had the traveller Ely's tower descried, 



ST. GUALBERTO. 



479 



Which when thou seest far o'er the fenny plain, 
Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way ; 
Its ancient beauties sure will well reward delay. 

22. 

And we should never then have heard, 1 think. 
At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous 
knell. 
The fountain streams that now in Christ-church 
stink. 
Had Niagara' d o'er the quadrangle ; 
But, as 'twas beauty that deserved the flood, 
I ween, dear George, thy own old Pompey might 
have stood. 

23. 

Then had not Westminster, the house of God, 

Served for a concert-room, or signal-post : 
Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod. 
Had swept down Greenwich, England's 
noblest boast ; 
And, eager to destroy the unholy walls. 
Fleet Ditch had roll'd up hill to overwhelm St. 
Paul's. 

24. 

George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds 
Of saints like this but rubbish, a mere store 
Of trash, that he flings time away who reads 1 
And wouldst thou rather bid me puzzle o'er 
Matter and Mind and all the eternal round. 
Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless 
profound .'' 

25. 

Now do I bless the man who undertook 
These Monks and Martyrs to biographize ; 

And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book, 
The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies, 

Where v/aking fancies mix'd with dreams appear, 
And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere. 

26. 
All is not truth ; and yet, methinks, 'twere hard 

Of wilful fraud such fablers to accuse ; 
What if a Monk, from better themes debarr d, 

Should for an edifying story choose 
How some great Saint the Flesh and Fiend 
o'ercame ; 
His taste I trow, and not his conscience, were to 
blame. 

27. 
No fault of his, if what he thus design'd. 
Like pious novels for the use of youth, 
Obtain'd such hold upon the simple mind 

That was received at length for gospel-truth. 
A fair account ! and shouldst thou like the plea. 
Thank thou our valued friend, dear George, who 
taught it me. 

28. 
All is not false which seems at first a lie, 

Fernan Antolinez, a Spanish knight. 
Knelt at the mass, when, lo ! the troops hard by 

Before the expected hour began the fight. 



Though courage, duty, honor, summon'd there, 
He chose to forfeit all, not leave the unfinish'd 
prayer. 

29. 
But while devoutly thus the unarm' d knight 

Waits till the holy service should be o'er, 
Even then the foremost in the furious fight 

Was he beheld to bathe his sword in gore ; 
First in the van his plumes w^ere seen to play, 
And all to him decreed the glory of the day. 

30. 
The truth is told, and men at once exclaim'd. 
Heaven had his Guardian Angel deign'd to 
send ; 
And thus the tale is handed down to fame. 
Now, if our good Sir Fernan had a friend 
Who in this critical season served him well. 
Dear George, the tale is true, and yet no miracle. 

31. 

I am not one who scan with scornful eyes 
The dreams which make the enthusiast's best 
delight ; 
Nor thou the legendary lore despise, 
If of Gualberto yet again I write. 
How first impel!' d he sought the convent cell ; 
A simple tale it is, but one that pleased me well. 



32. 

Fortune had smiled upon Gualberto's birth, 

The heir of Valdespesa's rich domains ; 
An only child, he grew in years and worth, 
And well repaid a father's anxious pains. 
In many a field that father had been tried. 
Well for his valor known, and not less known for 
pride. 

33. 

It chanced that one in kindred near allied 

Was slain by his hereditary foe ; 
Much by his sorrow moved, and more by pride. 
The father vow'd that blood for blood should 
flow ; 
And from his youth Gualberto had been taught 
That with unceasing hate should just revenge be 
sought. 

34. 
Long did they wait ; at length the tidings came 

That, through a lone and unfrequented way. 
Soon would Anselmo — such the murderer's 
name — 
Pass on his journey home, an easy prey. 
" Go," said the father, " meet him in the wood ! " 
And young Gualberto went, and laid in wait for 
blood. 

35. 

When now the youth was at the forest shade 
Arrived, it drew toward the close of day ; 

Anselmo haply might be long delay'd. 
And he, already wearied with his way. 



480 



ST. GUALBERTO. 



Beneath an ancient oak his limbs reclined, 
And thoughts of near revenge alone possess'd his 
mind. 

36. 

Slow sunk the glorious sun ; a roseate light 

Spread o'er the forest from his lingering rays ; 
The glowing clouds upon Gualberto's sight 
Soften'd in shade, — he could not choose but 
gaze; 
And now a placid grayness clad the heaven, 
Save where the west retain'd the last green light 
of even. 

37. 

Cool breathed the grateful air, and fresher now 
The fragrance of the autumnal leaves arose ; 
The passing gale scarce moved the o'erhanging 
bough, 
And not a sound disturb'd the deep repose. 
Save when a falling leaf came fluttering by, 
Save the near brooklet's stream that murmur'd 
quietly. 

38. 
Is there who has not felt the deep delight, 
The hush of soul, that scenes like these 
impart ? 
The heart they will not soften is not right ; 

And young Gualberto was not hard of heart. 
Yet sure he thinks revenge becomes him well. 
When from a neighboring church he heard the 
vesper-bell. 

39. 
The Romanist who hears that vesper-bell, 
Howe'er employ 'd, must send a prayer to 
Heaven. 
In foreign lands I liked the custom well ; 

For with the calm and sober thoughts of even 
It well accords; and wert thou journeying there. 
It would not hurt thee, George, to join that ves- 
per-prayer. 

40. 
Gualberto had been duly taught to hold 
All pious customs with religious care ; 
And — for the young man's feelings were not cold, — 
He never yet had miss'd his vesper-prayer. 
But strange misgivings now his heart invade ; 
And when the vesper-bell had ceased, he had not 
pray'd. 

41. 

And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd.? 

The sudden doubt arose within his mind, 
And many a former precept then he weigh'd, 

The words of Him who died to save mankind; 
How 'twas the meek who should inherit Heaven, 
And man must man forgive, if he would be 
forgiven. 

42. 

Troubled at heart, almost he felt a hope, 

That yet some chance his victim might delay. 



So as he mused adown the neighboring slope, 

He saw a lonely traveller on his way ; 
And now he knows the man so much abhorr'd, — 
His holier thoughts are gone, he bares the murder- 
ous sword. 

43. 

"The house of Valdespesa gives the blow! 

Go, and our vengeance to our kinsman tell ! " 

Despair and terror seized the unarm'd foe. 

And prostrate at the young man's knees he 

fell. 

And stopp'd his hand and cried, " Oh, do not take 

A wretched sinner's life ! mercy for Jesus' sake ! " 

44. 

At that most blessed name, as at a spell. 

Conscience, the power within him, smote his 
heart. 
His hand, for murder raised, unharming fell ; 

He felt cold sweat-drops on his forehead start; 
A moment mute in holy horror stood. 
Then cried, " Joy, joy, my God ! I have not shed 
his blood!" 

45. 

He raised Anselmo up, and bade him live, 
And bless, for both preserved, that holy name ; 

And pray'd the astonish'd foeman to forgive 
The bloody purpose led by which he came. 

Then to the neighboring church he sped away, 
His overburden'd soul before his God to lay. 

46. 
He ran with breathless speed, — he reach'd the 
door, — 
With rapid throbs his feverish pulses swell; — 
He came to crave for pardon, to adore 

For grace vouchsafed ; before the cross he fell, 
And raised his swimming eyes, and thought that 
there 
He saw the imaged Christ smile favoring on his 
prayer. 

47. 

A blest illusion ! from that very night 

The Monk's austerest life devout he led ; 
And still he felt the enthusiast's deep delight; 

Seraphic visions floated round his head ; 
The joys of heaven foretasted fill'd his soul ; 
And still the good man's name adorns the sainted 
roll. 

Westbury, 1799. 



NOTES. 

Earth shakes beneath the onward-roUing tide, 
That from its base swept down the unholy house of pride. 

Stanza ]8j p. 478. 

Era amigo de pohreza, en tanlo grado, que sentia mucho, que 
los Monasterios se edificassen sumptuosamente ; y assi visitando 
el de Moscera y viendo iin edificio grande, y elegante, buelto a 
Rodulpho, que era alii Ahad, con el rostra ayrado le dixo : Con 
lo que has gastado, siguiendo tu parecer, en este magnifico edi. 



NOTES TO ST. GUALBERTO. 



481 



fido, has quitado el sustento a mucJios pohres. Puso los ojos en 
un pcqueno arroyo, que corria alii cerca, y dixo, Dios Onnipo- 
tente, que sueles haccr grandes cosas de pequenas criaturas, yo te 
riiego, que vea pvr medio de esta pcqueno arroyo venganza de 
este gi-an edijicio. Dixo esto, y fuese de alii como ahominando 
el lugar ; y siendo oido, el arroyuelo comcnio a crecer, y fue de 
suerte, que recogiendo un inonte de agua, y tomando de atrds la 
eorrie.nte, vino con tan grande impctu, que llevando piedras y 
arboles consigo, derribo el edijicio. — 

Flos Sanctorum, por El Maestro Alonso de Villegas. 

Quodam itaque tempore cum monasteria, qua sub sua erant re- 
gimine, solito more inviseret, venit ad ccenobium cui vocabulum 
est Muscetum; ubi cum casas cerneret grandiores pulchrioresque 
quani velltt ; accersito venerabili viro domino Rodulfo, qui eas 
construxerat, et ab illo ibi ordinatvs fucrat Abbas, severissimo 
vultu dixit : Tu in isto loco hac tibi fabricasti palatia ? Et con- 
versus ad parvissimum rivwn qui inibi juxta currebat, dixit ; O 
Regambule, si me de Rodulfo, et istis ejus domibus viadica- 
veris, utrem aqua Sevce fluminis plenum, undis tuis augebo. Et 
lime dicens sine mora discessit. Cujus imperium, ac si rationa- 
bilis homo, rivus ille suscipiens, illo recedente intumescere capit, 
et nescio unde largissima aquarum jiuenta congregans, relicto 
proprio alveo de monte prxcipitantcr ruit, gravissimos petrarum 
scopulos atque arbores secum trahens, in praidictas dovios illisus 
terra tenus eas dejecit. Quoi ultione completa, quasi pro mercede, 
quod promiserat, Pater recepit. Qu& pro re Abbas ille tarbatus 
cum Fratribus, de loco mutare disponebat ccenobium. Quibus ille 
hwc consolationis verba locutus est: JVulite, inquit, timere ne ha- 
bitetis quia rivus ille nee quidquam mali vobis facturus est, nee 
ultra vobis nocebit. Quod ejus vaticinium vcrum firmumque 
usque hodie permanet. Denique ille smpe dictus rivulus, quod 
tunc casu, immo plus imperio Patris accident, nee antea facerat, 
nee ulterius fecit. 

B. Andreas de Strumis. Acta ss. Jul. T. 3, p. 351. 

The destruction of this Monastery is thus related in the 
Vita del Olorioso S. Oiovan Oualberto Azzini, JVobil Fiorentino, 
e Fondatore della sacra Religione di Vallombrosa, a poem in 
nine parts or books, by M. Niccolo Lorenzini, Fisico da Monte 
Pulciano. — Firenze, 1599. 

prcnde il sentiero 

Di Moscheto il Cenobio, in cui discerne, 
Benche da lunge, chc spento i quel vera 
Segno d'humili e pure voglie interne ; 
Varriva, e trova 'Z edijicio tutto 
Esser con pompa dal Rettor construtlo. 

Jl hiasma, e dice che cotanto argento 
Si speso, havria nudrito mille e mille 
Mendici, la cui vita aspro tormento 
Difame accorcia, e cW in eterne stille 
Si risolvon di pianto al gielo, e al vento, 
Che in tanto ei mena Phore sue tranquille, 
Oodendo in cosi ricca stanza e bella ; 
E lui superbo con disdegno appella. 

Hor dunque d^hiimiltd quel buon desio 

Ch'' esser de' verde, e secco 1 (ahi cieca voglia ! ) 

A che si tosto affondar neW ohlio 

Le nostre Leggi, e questa humile spoglia ? 

Opria che si dimostri alcun restio 

In ben servarle, sol in me s' accogUa 

Ogni angoscia e martir, ne le miepene 

In questa vita, altro che morte affrene. 

E paterno dolor con tai parole 
Sfoga, ed ha tanto VaUerczza d schivo, 
Che quel vano Rettor corregger vuole ; 
0»d' habbia sol d Dio la spirlo vivo, 
Cui prega, e poscia impetra, com' ei suole, 
Che si cresca un vicino e picciol Rivo 
Per le nubi, cW allhor solva e disserri, 
Che V edijicio e quelle pompe atterri. 

E quasi dimorar fosse inter detto 
Piu in quella chiostra, ratto fuor s' invia, 
Comandando al Ruscel che inondi il tetto 
Con ruina del loco ; ecc.o si cria 

61 



Horribil nembo, esce quel Rio del letto 
Usato, e per diversa alpestra via, 
Inconiro a quclP albergo prende il corso, 
E sol nella parcte adorna e scorso. 

Si alto govjia il torbido torrente 

E tragge si gran pietre e legni al muro, 

Che percotendo 'I fa che immantenente 

In tal assalto cosi strano e scuro, 

A terra caggia, e di timor la gente 

Ingombri il caso spaventoso e duro ; 

Indi sparisce il nembo ed e serena 

L'aria gidfosca, e V onda U corso ajffrena. 

J\ron e in memoria che i bel Rio gid mai 

Inondasse le rive, o quando il Sole 

Stragge le nevi, o quando i vaghi rai 

Di lui, gran pioggia avvien ch' al mondo invole ; 

Hur qual torrente adduce affanni e guai 

Al monaco superbo, e tanta mole 

{Perch' al Santo ubidisca) rompe e sface, 

Poi riede come pria tranquillo, e tace. 

Parte 7, pp. 233—5. 



Feruan Antolinez, a Spanish knight. — Stanza 28, p. 479, 

Acontecio en aquella * batalla una cosa digna de memoria. 
Fernan Antolinez, humbre noble y muy devoto, oia missa al 
tiempo que se dio serial de acometer, costumbre ordinaria suya 
antes de la peleaj porno dexarla comengada, se quedo en el 
templo quando se toco d la arma. Esta piedad quan agradable 
fuesse a Dios, se entendio por un milagro. Estavase primero 
en la Iglcsia, dcspues escondido en su casa, temia no le afren- 
tassen como a cobarde. En tanto, olro a el scmejante, es a saber, 
su Angel bueno, pelea entre los primeros tan valientemente, que 
la viioria de aqucl dia se atribuyo en gran parte al valor de el 
dicho Antolinez. Confirmaron el milagro las senales de los 
golpes, y las manchas de la sangre que se hallaron frescas en 
sus armas y cavullo. Assi publicado el casu, y sabido lo que 
passava, quedo mas conocida la inocencia y esfuergo de Antoli- 
nez. — Mariana. 

Perhaps this miracle, and its obvious interpretation, may 
have suggested to Florian the circumstance by which his 
Gonsalvo is prevented from combating and killing the brother 
of his mistress. Florian is fond of Spanish literature. 



A simple tale it is, but one that pleased me well. 

Stanza 31, p. 479. 

Llamose el padre Oualberto, y era senor de Valdespesa, 
que estd entre Sena, y Florencia .- seguia la milicia ; y como le 
matassen un su deudo cercano injustamente, indignados, assi el 
hijo, que era ya kombre, como el padre, con mucho cuydado bus- 
cavan ccasion, como vengar aquella muerte. Sucedio, que ve- 
niendo d Florencia el hijo, con un criado suyo, homhre valiente, y 
los dos bien armados, d cavallo, via d s^i enemigo, y en lugar 
que era impossible irseles .- lo qiLol considerado por el contrario, y 
que tenia cierta su muerte, descendid de un cavallo, en que venia, 
y puesto de rodillas le pidio , juntas las manos, por Jesu Christo 
crucijicado, le perdonasse la vida. Enterneciose Juan Oual- 
berto, oyendo el nombre de Jesu Christo crucijicado ; y dixdle, 
que por amor de aquel Senor, que rogo en la Cruz por los que 
le pusieron en ella, el le perdonava. Pidiole, que se levantasse, 
y perdiesse el temor, que ya no por enemigo, sino por amigo le 
queria, y que de Dios, por quien hacia esto, esperava el premio. 
Passd adelante Oualberto ; y viendo una Iglesia en un monte 
cerca de Florencia, llamada de San Jiliniato, que era de Monges 
negros, entro en ella para dar gracias a Jesu Christo nuestro 
Senor por la merced, que le havia hccho enfavorecerle, de que 
perdonasse, y no lomasse venganza de su enemigo : pusosedero- 
dillas delante de un Crucijixo, el qual, viendolo el, y otros que 
estavan presentes, desde la Cruz inclind la cabeza d Oualberto, 
como agradeciendo, y dandole gracias, de que por su amor huvi- 
esse perdonado la vida d su enemigo. Descubriose el caso, y 
fue publico, y muy celebrado, y el Crucijixo fue tenido en grande 

• Cerca de Santistevan de Gormaz, a la ribera del rio Duero. A. D. 982. 



482 



NOTES TO ST. GUALBERTO. 



reverencia en aquella Iglesia de S. Miniato. Quedo Juan 
Oualberto de este acaecimiento, trocado en otro varon, y deter- 
mind dexar el mundo, y las cosas perecederas de el. — Villegas. 
Flos Sanctorum. 



He saw the imaged Christ smile favoring on his prayer. 
Stanza 46, p. 480. 

Sir Peter Damian relates a story so similar to this of Gual- 
berto in almost all circumstances, that Cuper found it advisable 
to disparage his authority on this occasion, and quote some of 
his own declarations, that he was not always satisfied of the 
truth or accuracy of what he related. Cum in tot aliis narra- 
tionibus id sibi contigisse fateatur Petrus Damiani, idem in hcLc 
Crucifixi historid, ipsi evenisse non injuria suspicor. The Bol- 
landist then proceeds to declare his own stout belief in the mir- 
acle as belonging to St. Gualberto. Vt ut est, ego Crucifixi 
sese inclinantis miraculum S. Joanni Oualberto accidisse his- 
toricafide credo^ atque istud in dubium revocare, summce pervi- 
cacice, ne dicam dementia;, esse existimo. Q,uid enim historid 
tandem certum erit, si omnibus historicis, atque etiam vetustissi- 
mis synchronis aut sub cequalibus factum aliquod narrantibus, de 
eo dubitare liceat 7 Intolerabilis sane est luec mentis pertinacia, 
quam quidam nostri temporis Jlristarchi, ac prmsertim heterodoxi, 
prudentiam aut constantiam vocare non erubescunt. 

JVon ignoro scriptores aliquos in vitium contrarium incurrisse, 
et in exornando hoc miraculo nimios fuisse ; inter quos jure 
merito numerari potest Ludovicus Zacconius, qui sine ullo vete- 
rum testimonio, colloquium inter Crucifixum et S. Joannem 
Oualbertum ex suo, ut opinor, cerebro finxit. Hoec tamen addi- 
tamenta miraculi veritatem non negant, sed potius confirmant, 
quamvis per hyperbolen maxime reprehendendam. — Acta SS. 
fol. 3, p. 314. 

Ivi adora di Christo il morto e macro 
Sembiante (che rassembra il ver) depinto, 
II verfigura in croce eterno e sacro 
Re del mondo di sangue infuso e tinto ; 
Ma sovra gli altri con dolente ed aero 
Volto, e con suon mosso dal petto, e spinto ', 
A tanta Imago allhor^ pien d' alto zelo 
U Eroe s' inchina, eporge ipreghi al cielo. 

Signor sd ben, che me dalV empio Egitto 
(Dicia) salvasti, e dalP horror d' inferno ; 
Choggi in tutto quel mal c^havea prescritto, 
E quel pensier di vendicarmi interna 
Sol tua merce fu spento ; hor fia hen dritto 
ChHo commetta 'Z mio spirto al tuo governo, 
CWio di te segua I'opre, i detti, e Vorme, 
Che sia H mio cor al tuo desir conforme. 



In cotal modo humilemente d Dio 
Sacrd Giovanni li suoi preghi ardenti ; 
Poi surto in piedi in atto adorno epio, 
Porgendo gli occhi d quella Imago intenti, 
Con f route lieta, epuro e bel desio 
Move la lingua in questi nuovi accenti, 
Stende la destra al cielo, e al gid prigione 
L'aitra man siX la testa allarga, e pone. 

O mio pietoso Dio qual gid gradisti 

Abel co' sacrificii suoi perfetti, 

D^Abrahan Patriarca i voti udisti 

E di sxLafede i ran ardenti affett.i, 

Et d mill' altri i bei tesori apristi 

Delia tua grazia dagll empirei tetti, 

Tal quasi un olocausto quel perdono 

Ch'io diedi d questo, accetta, e prendi in dono. 

Et d me stringi 'I cor con mille nodi, 
iSil la Croce il ritien, teco il congiungi, 
Ivi H trafiggi co tuoi santi chiodi. 
Col sangue il lava, e con le spine il pungi ,■ 
JVe quindi Valma unqua si torca, e snodi, 
Ivi Vahbraccia, la, conforta, et ungi. 



E con la mirra et aloe del pianto 

Fa che purghi 'Z suo vil corporeo manto. 

Questo voto novello, e questa offerta, 
Q,uantunque e nulla al tuo gran merto, hor prendi 
Un raggio di tua grazia in me converta 
II ghiaccio in foco, hor al mio prego intendi ; 
La via cWal del conduce e stretta ed erta, 
Da noi Popre, lafede e'Z pianto attendi; 
Dunque riccvi i miei sospiri e 'Z duolo, 
S' a me, per esser tuo, me stesso involo. 



J\ron pria formd Vhumil preghiera honesta 
11 giovin degno, e'Z suo sermon finio, 
Che in un momenta la depinta testa 
Mosse quel che rassembra il morto Dio, 
E la inchino ver lui ; vide ognun questa 
Oran meraviglia, che del Cielo uscid, 
Quasi dicesse, al tuo desir consento, 
Com' in te Podio, in me 'Z furor sia spento. 

10 SI 'Z tue dono, e 'Z tuo dolor gradisco, 
C'hor d' ogni affanno, e di timor te spoglio, 
E qual ogni alm.a humil prendo e nudrisco 
Di sacro cibo, e d dcgne imprese invoglio ; 
Tal al tuo cor leggiadra rete ordisco 

In cui preso tenerlo meco io voglio, 

Lui d' ogni nebbia e d' ogni error disgombro., 

Lui di mia grazia dolcemente ingombro. 

In tal maniera parea dir col segno 
Del capo, e ne devenne ognun stupito. 
Si dal Fattor del glorioso regno 
Fu del suo servo Phumil prego udito, 
Ei sol mosse dal del quel volto degno, 
Ei sol HI cui poter sommo infinito, 
Quest' ampio globo diricchexze adorno 
Move ad ognor con dolci tempre intomo. 

Pur hoggi il simulacra santo e puro 
Visto e dal m.ondo nel medesmo tempio. 

11 memordbil di che tristo e scuro 
Sifece il Sol per I'aspro caso et empio 
Dal suo Fattor ; animo alpestre e duro 
J^Ton e, ch' ivi nol mova un tanto esempio 
Di nostra fede, e non sospiro, e gema, 
Si lega i cor la meraviglia estrema. 

Vide, come pur vuol P antica istoria 
In cotal giorno la cittd del Fiore 
Quel nobil segno, e del Signor la gloria 
In quella Imago, e 'I sempiterno amore, 
Si che viva ne serba ancor memoria, 
Le porge voti, d Dio sacrando il core } 
Perd ch' e scala quel depinto aspetto 
Onde P huom poggi al vera eterno oggetto. 

Avanzd tanto il natural confine 
Del sacro capo in ogni parte il moto. 
Si fur sopra natura alte e divine 
Quelle maniere, e P atto aperto e noto, 
Che tante genti ch' ivi humili, e chine 
11 vider, s' arrestrar col guardo immoto ; 
Che P estremo stupor fa P huom conforme 
A un sasso, o mezzo tra chi vegghia, e dorme 

Ma quel, per cui se fe 'I divin mistero, 
Poi che spense delP ira ilfoco avverso, 
Si di se dona al suo Signor P impero. 
Si al gran miracol dentro ha il cor converse, 
Ch' ad altro non rivolge unqua il pensiero, 
In questo sol tien P intelletto immerso 
Senza parlar s' affisa in terna, i a pena 
IP interna ardor per brave spazio affrena. 

NicoLo LoRENziNi, part I. pp. 25 — 32. 



THE MARCH TO MOSCOW. 



483 



MARCH TO MOSCOW 



The Emperor Nap he would set off 

On a summer excursion to Moscow ; 

The fields were green, and the sky was blue, 

Morbleu! Parbleu! 

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 



Four hundred thousand men and more 

Must go with him to Moscow : 

There were Marshals by the dozen, 

And Dukes by the score ; 

Princes a few, and Kings one or two ; 

While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

What a pleasant excursion to Moscow ! 



There was Junot and Augereau, 

Heigh-ho for Moscow ! 

Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky, 

Marshal Ney, lack-a-day ! 

General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap ; 

Nothing would do, 

While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

Nothing would do 

For the whole of this crew, 

But they must be marching to Moscow. 



The Emperor Nap he talk'd so big 

That he frighten'd Mr. Roscoe. 

John Bull, he cries, if you'll be wise, 

Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please 

To grant you peace, upon your knees, 

Because he is going to Moscow ! 

He'll make all the Poles come out of their holes, 

And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians ; 

For the fields are green, and the sky is blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

And he'll certainly march to Moscow ! 



And Counsellor Brougham was all in a fume 

At the thought of the march to Moscow : 

The Russians, he said, they were undone, 

And the great Fee-Faw-Fum 

Would presently come, 

With a hop, step, and jump, unto London. 

For, as for his conquering Russia, 

However some persons might scoff it, 

Do it he could, and do it he would, 

And from doing it nothing would come but good, 

And nothing could call him off it. 

Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know, 

For he was the Edinburgh Prophet. 
They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey's Review, 
Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckon'd : 



It was, through thick and thin, to its party true j 
Its back was buff, and its sides were blue, 

Morbleu! Parbleu I 
It served them for Law and for Gospel too. 



But the Russians stoutly they turned to 

Upon the road to Moscow. 

Nap had to fight his way all through ; 

They could fight, though they could not parlez- 

vous; 

But the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 

Morbleu! Parbleu! 

And so he got to Moscow. 



He found the place too warm for him, 

For they set fire to Moscow. 

To get there had cost him much ado. 

And then no better course he knew. 

While the fields were green, and the sky was blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

But to march back again from Moscow. 

8. 

The Russians they stuck close to him 

All on the road from Moscow. 

There was Tormazow and Jemalow, 

And all the others that end in ow ; 

Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch, 

And Karatschkowitch, 

And all the others that end in itch ; 

Schamscheff, Souchosaneff, 

And Schepaleff, 

And all the others that end in eff; 

Wasiltschikoff, Kostomaroff, 

And Tchoglokoff, 

And all the others that end in off; 

Rajeffsky, and Novereffsky, 

And Rieffsky, 

And all the others that end in effsky ; 

Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky, 

And all the others that end in offsky ; 

And Platoff he play'd them off, 

And Shouvaloff he shovell'd them off, 

And Markoff he mark'd them off. 

And Krosnoff he cross'd them off, 

And Tuchkoff he touch' d them off, 

And Boroskoff he bored them off. 

And Kutousoff he cut them off. 

And Parenzoff he pared them off. 

And Worronzoff he worried them off, 

And Doctoroff he doctor' d them off, 

And Rodionoff he flogg'd them off. 

And, last of all, an Admiral came, 

A terrible man with a terrible name, 

A name which you all know by sight very well. 

But which no one can speak, and no one can 

spell. 

They stuck close to Nap with all their might ; 

They were on the left and on the right. 

Behind and before, and by day and by night ; 

He would rather parlez-vous than fight ; 

But he look'd white, and he look'd blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 



484 



BROUGH BELLS. 



When parlez-vous no more would do, 
For they remember' d Moscow. 

9. 

And then came on the frost and snow, 

All on the road from Moscow. 

The wind and the weather he found, in that hour, 

Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power ; 

For him who, while Europe crouch'd under his rod, 

Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God. 

Worse and worse every day the elements grew, 

The fields were so white, and the sky so blue, 

Sacrebleu ! Ventrebleu ! 

What a horrible journey from Moscow ! 

10. 

What then thought the Emperor Nap 

Upon the road from Moscow ? 

Why, I ween he thought it small delight 

To fight all day, and to freeze all night ; 

And he was besides in a very great fright, 

For a whole skin he liked to be in ; 

And so, not knowing what else to do. 

When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue, 

Morbleu ! Parbleu ! 

He stole away, — I tell you true, — 

Upon the road from Moscow. 

'Tis myself, quoth he, I must mind most; 

So the Devil may take the hindmost. 

11. 

Too cold upon the road was he ; 

Too hot had he been at Moscow ; 

But colder and hotter he may be. 

For the grave is colder than Moscovy ; 

And a place there is to be kept in view. 

Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue, 

Morbleu! Parbleu! 

Which he must go to, 

If the Pope say true. 

If he does not in time look about him ', 

Where his namesake almost 

He may have for his Host ; 

He has reckon'd too long without him ; 

If that Host get him in Purgatory, 

He won't leave him there alone with his glory ; 

But there he must stay for a very long day. 

For from thence there is no stealing away, 

As there was on the road from Moscow. 

Keswick, 1813. 



BROUGH BELLS 



*«The church at Brough is a pretty large, handsome, ancient 
building. The steeple is not so old, having been built 
about the year 1513, under the direction of Thomas Blen- 
kinsop, of Helbeck, Esq. There are in it four excellent 
bells, by much the largest in the county, except the great 
bell at Kirkby Thore. Concerning these bells at Brough, 
there is a tradition that they were given by one Brunskill, 
who lived upon Stanemore, in the remotest part of the 
parish, and had a great many cattle. One time it happened 
that his Bull fell a bellowing, which in the dialect of the 
country is called cruning, this being the genuine Saxon 



word to denote that vociferation. Thereupon he said to 
one of his neighbors, ' Hearest thou how loud this bull 
crunes .'' If these cattle should all crune together, might 
they not be heard from Brough hither ? ' He answered, 
' Yea.' ' Well then,' says Brunskill, ' I'll make them all 
crune together.' And he sold them all, and with the price 
thereof he bought the said bells, (or perhaps he might get 
the old bells new cast and made larger.) There is a monu- 
ment in the body of the church, in the south wall, between 
the highest and second window, and in which it is said the 
said Brunskill was the last that was interred." — JVicolson 
and Burns' History and Antiquities of Westmoreland and 
Cumberland, vol. i. p. 571. 

" At the further Brough there was a chapel or oratory, founded 
by John Brunskill, (probably the same who gave the bells,) 
in 1506. Unto whom Thomas Blenkinsop, Esq. , of Helbeck, 
gave the ground called Gibgarth, on condition that he should 
build a chapel there, and also an hospital, with two beds in 
it for travellers and other poor people, and maintain for ever, 
paying to him and his heirs twopence rent at Pentecost 
yearly, and on defect of such maintaining and repairing the 
said chapel, hospital, and beds, the land to revert to the said 
Thomas and his heirs. In pursuance whereofj he, the said 
John Brunskill, founded an oratory or chapel, dedicated to 
Our Lady St. Mary, the Mother of Christ, and to St. Ga- 
briel, the Archangel ; who, as Roger, Bishop of Carlisle, 
and Richard, Abbot of Shap, did, by writing under their 
hands and seals, affirm, wrought many fair and divers mir- 
acles by the suiFerance of our Lord God. Two priests were 
established to sing and to pray in the said chapel for ever- 
more, for the souls of all the benefactors of the said chapel 
that were departed from the world, and for the welfare of 
those that were living. One of the said priests was to 
teach grammar, the other to instruct children willing to 
learn singing, freely, without any salary from them. The 
foundation of this chapel was confirmed both by the Bishop 
of Carlisle and the Archbishop of York, and yet was after- 
wards opposed by the Vicar of Brough, who conceived 
himself much prejudiced thereby, and particularly in respect 
of the oblations which were given from him to the said 
chapel. Whereupon he set up the cross, and lighted up 
candles in the church at mid-time of the day, caused the 
bells to be rung, and cursed with bell, book, and candle, all 
those that should receive any oblations of those that re- 
sorted to the said chape!, or should give any encouragement 
unto the same. Brunskill, the founder, complained to the 
Archbishop's Court, at York, against the vicar, Mr. Rase- 
beck, and obtained a sharp citation against him ; censuring 
him as an abandoned wretch, and inflated with diabolical 
venom for opposing so good a work. Notwithstanding which, 
Mr. Rasebeck appealed to the Pope, and an agreement was 
made between the founder and him, by a composition of 
twenty shillings yearly, to be paid to Mr. Rasebeck, and his 
successors, vicars of Brough. 

" Thus the chapel continued till the dissolution of the religious 
houses. And the priest that taught to sing being removed, 
the other that taught grammar was thought fit to be con- 
tinued as master of a free-school ; and by the commissioners, 
Sir Walter Mildmay and Robert Kellison, Esq., order was 
taken, and a fund settled for this purpose. So that a salary 
of 71. lis. 4d. was to be paid yearly to the master of tlie 
school by the king's auditors, they receiving all the rents 
and revenues which formerly belonged unto it as a chapel, 
and which were given to it by the founder and other bene- 
factors. 

" This is all the endowment which it hath at present, (1777,) 
except a convenient dwelling-house and garden, which were 
given by one of the schoolmasters, Mr. John Beck. But it 
was formerly very bountifully endowed by several benefac- 
tors ; as Henry, Earl of Cumberland, Edward Musgrave, of 
Hartley, Esq., William Musgrave, son of Richard Musgrave, 
of Brough, Thomas Blenkinsop, Esq., Hugh Newton, and 
divers others, who gave lands in Brough, Stanemore, More- 
ton, Yanewith, Mekel-Strickland, Bampton Cundall, and 
Mekel-Ashby, all in Westmoreland ; and in Penrith, in 
Cumberland, and West-Laton, in Yorkshire, and Bernard 
Castle, in the county of Durham." — 3. p. 574. 



BROUGH BELLS. 



485 



One day to Helbeck I had stroll'd, 

Among the Crossfell Hills, 
And, resting in its rocky grove, 

Sat listening to the rills, — 

The while to their sweet undersong 

The birds sang blithe around. 
And the soft west wind awoke the wood 

To an intermitting sound. 

Louder or fainter, as it rose 

Or died away, was borne 
The harmony of merry bells, 

From Brough, that pleasant morn. 

" Why are the merry bells of Brough, 

My friend, so few? " said I ; 
" They disappoint the expectant ear, 

Which they should gratify. 

" One, two, three, four ; one, two, three, four 

'Tis still one, two, three, four ; 
Mellow and silvery are the tones ; 

But I wish the bells were more ! " 

" What ! art thou critical ? " quoth he ; 

" Eschew that heart's disease 
That seeketh for displeasure where 

The intent hath been to please. 

" By those four bells there hangs a tale, 

Which being told, I guess. 
Will make thee hear their scanty peal 

With proper thankfulness. 

" Not by the Cliffords were they given, 

Nor by the Tuftons' line j 
Thou hearest in that peal the crune 

Of old John Brunskill's kine. 

" On Stanemore's side, one summer eve, 

John Brunskill sat to see 
His herds in yonder Borrodale 

Come winding up the lea. 

"Behind them, on the lowland's verge, 

In the evening light serene, 
Brough's silent tower, then newly built 

By Blenkinsop, was seen. 

*' Slowly they came in long array, 

With loitering pace at will ; 
At times a low from them was heard, 

Far off, for all was still. 

" The hills return'd that lonely sound 

Upon the tranquil air ; 
The only sound it was, which then 

Awoke the echoes there. 

" ' Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine, 
Neighbor,' quoth Brunskill then ; 

* How loudly to the hills he crunes, 
That crune to him again ! 



" ' Thinkest thou if yon whole herd at once 

Their voices should combine. 
Were they at Brough, that we might not 
Hear plainly from this upland spot 

That cruning of the kine ? ' 

" ' That were a crune, indeed,' replied 

His comrade, ' which, I ween. 
Might at the Spital well be heard, 

And in all dales between. 

" ' Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs, 
The eastern wind upon its wings 

The mighty voice would bear; 
And Appleby would hear the sound, 

Methinks, when skies are fair.' 

" ' Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried, 

' From yon dumb steeple crune, 
And thou and I, on this hill-side, 

Will listen to their tune. 

" ' So, while the merry Bells of Brough, 

For many an age ring on, 
John Brunskill will remember'd be, 

When he is dead and gone, — 

" ' As one who, in his latter years. 

Contented with enough. 
Gave freely what he well could spare 

To buy the Bells of Brough.' 

" Thus it hath proved : three hundred years 

Since then have past away. 
And Brunskill's is a living name 

Among us to this day." 

"More pleasure," I replied, " shall I 

From this time forth partake, 
When I remember Helbeck woods. 

For old John Brunskill's sake. 

" He knew how wholesome it would be, 

Among these wild, wide fells. 
And upland vales, to catch, at times. 

The sound of Christian bells ; — 

" What feelings and what impulses 

Their cadence might convey 
To herdsman or to shepherd boy, 
Whiling in indolent employ 

The solitary day ; — 

" That, when his brethren were convened 

To meet for social prayer. 
He too, admonish'd by the call, 

In spirit might be there ; — 

" Or, when a glad thanksgiving sound, 

Upon the winds of Heaven, 
Was sent to speak a Nation's joy. 

For some great blessing given, — 

" For victory by sea or land. 
And happy peace at length ; 



QUEEN MARY'S CHRISTENING. 



Peace by his country's valor won, 
And 'stablish'd by her strength; — 

" When such exultant peals were borne 

Upon the mountain air, 
The sound should stir his blood, and give 

An English impulse there." 

Such thoughts were in the old man's mind, 
When he that eve look'd down 

From Stanemore's side on Borrodale, 
And on the distant town. 

And had I store of wealth, methinks, 

Another herd of kine, 
John Brunskill, I would freely give, 

That they might crune with thine. 

Keswick, 1828. 



QUEEN MARY'S CHRISTENING. 



Estava la Reyna {Dona Maria) lo mas del tiempo en la villa 
de Mompeller, y las vezes que el Reij yva alia, no hazia con ella 
vida de marido ; y muy dissolutamente se rendia a otras muge- 
res, for que era muy sujeto a aquel vicio. Sucedio que estando 
en Miraval la Reyna, y el Rey Don Pedro en un lugar alii 
cerca, junto a Mompeller, que se dize Lates, un Rico Hombre 
de Aragon, que se dezia Don Guillen de cicala, par grandes 
ruegos y instancia llevo al Rey adonde la Reyna estava messa, 
segun se escrive, que tenia recabado que cumpliria su voluntad 
una dama de quien era servidor ; y en su lugar pusole en la 
camara de la Reyna ; y en aquella noche que tuvo participacion 
con ella, quedo prenada de un hijo, el qual pario en Mompeller 
en la casa de los de Tornamira, en la vespera de la Purijicacion 
de nuestra Senora del ano 1207. Mando luego la Reyna 
llevar al Infante a la Iglcsia de Santa Maria, y al templo de 
Sant Fermin, pare dar gracias a nuestro Senor, par averle 
dado hijo tan impensadamente ; y buelto a palacio mando en- 
cender doze velas de un mismo peso y tamano, y ponerles los 
nombres de los doze Apostoles, para que de aquella que mas 
durasse, tomasse el nombre ; y assi fue llamado Jayme. — 
ZuRiTA, L. 2, C. 59. 
The story is told at much greater length in La Historia del 
muy alto e invencible Rey Don Jayme deAragon, Primero deste 
nombre, llamado El Conquistador. Compucsta primero en 
lengua Latina por el Maestro Bernardino Gomes Miedcs, 
Arcediano de Murviedro, y Canonigo de Valencia, agora 
nuevamente traduzida por el mesmo Autor en lengua Castel- 
lana. — Valencia, 1584. 
There are three chapters relating to the " mystery of this 

wonderful history," in the first book of this work. 

Cap. X. Como bolvio el Rey {D. Pedro) de Roma a Zaragoza, y 

de los modos que la Reyna su madre tuvo para casarle con la 

Senora de Mompeller, y como fue alia. 

Cap. xi. De la notable invencion y arte que la Reyna Dona 

Maria uso viendose tan despreciada del Rey, para concebir del. 

Cap. xiii. Del JVacimiento del Principe Don Jayme, y de los 

estranos mysterios que en su bautismo acaecieron. 
Miedes thus gives his reason for taking much pains in com- 
piling a faithful statement of the circmnstances : — Con- 
forman todos los historiadores antiguos y modernos en contar 
la estrana concepcion y nacimiento del Infante Don Jayme j 
puesto que en el modo y discurso de cada cosa, y como ello passo, 
discrepan en alga ; pues los unos lepassan breve y succintamente 
por mas honcstidad, como la propria historia del Rey ; otros 
cuentan muchas y diversas cosas sobre ello, porque son amigos 
de passar por todo, y es cierto que convienen todos con el Rey, y 
como esta dicho, en solo el modo diffieren. Por tanto, tomando 
de cada uno lo mas provable y menos discrepante, nos resolve- 
mos en lo siguiente. — P. 13. 



In justice to the Queen, I am bound to say that Miedes repre- 
sents her as beautiful and of unblemished reputation, her- 
mosa y honestissima ; and in justice to the King, profligate 
as he was, that there was a very strong suspicion of Dona 
Maria's being secretly married to another husband, by whom 
she had two daughters, a story which had reached the King, 
and which Miedes seems to accredit. 



The first wish of Queen Mary's heart 

Is, that she may bear a son, 
Who shall inherit in his time 

The kingdom of Aragon. 

She hath put up prayers to all the Saints 

This blessing to accord. 
But chiefly she hath call'd upon 

The Apostles of our Lord. 

The second wish of Queen Mary's heart 

Is to have that son call'd James, 
Because she thought for a Spanish King 

'Twas the best of all good names. 

To give him this name of her own will 

Is what may not be done. 
For, having applied to all the Twelve, 

She may not prefer the one. 

By one of their names she hath vow'd to call 

Her son, if son it should be ; 
But which, is a point whereon she must let 

The Apostles themselves agree. 

Already Queen Mary hath to them 

Contracted a grateful debt; 
And from their patronage she hoped 

For these further blessings yet. 

Alas ! it was not her hap to be 

As handsome as she was good ; 
And that her husband King Pedro thought so, 

She very well understood. 

She had lost him from her lawful bed 

For lack of personal graces, 
And by prayers to them, and a pious deceit, 

She had compass'd his embraces. 

But if this hope of a son should fail, 

All hope must fail with it then. 
For she could not expect by a second device 

To compass the King again. 

Queen Mary hath had her first heart's wish — 
She hath brought forth a beautiful boy ; 

And the bells have rung, and masses been sung. 
And bonfires have blazed for joy. 

And many's the cask of the good red wine, 

And many the cask of the white. 
Which was broach'd for joy that morning, 

And emptied before it was night. 



But now for Queen Mary's second heart's wish, 
It must be determined now ; 






dUEEN MARY'S CHRISTENING 



487 



And Bishop Boyl, her Confessor, 
Is the person who taught her how. 

Twelve waxen tapers he hath had made, 

In size and weight the same ; 
And to each of these twelve tapers, 

He hath given an Apostle's name. 

One holy Nun had bleached the wax, 

Another the wicks had spun ; 
And the golden candlesticks were bless'd, 

Which they were set upon. 

From that which should burn the longest, 
The infant his name must take ; 

And the Saint who own'd it was to be 
His Patron for his name's sake. 

A godlier or a goodlier sight 

Was nowhere to be seen, 
Methinks, that day, in Christendom, 

Than in the chamber of that good Queen. 

Twelve little altars have been there 

Erected, for the nonce ; 
And the twelve tapers are set thereon, 

Which are all to be lit at once. 

Altars more gorgeously dress'd 

You nowhere could desire ; 
At each there stood a ministering Priest 

In his most rich attire. 

A high altar hath there been raised. 

Where the Crucifix you see ; 
And the sacred Pix that shines with gold 

And sparkles with jewelry. 

Bishop Boyl, with his precious mitre on. 

Hath taken there his stand. 
In robes which were embroidered 

By the Queen's own royal hand. 

In one part of the ante-room 

The Ladies of the Queen, 
All with their rosaries in hand, 

Upon their knees are seen. 

In the other part of the ante-room, 
The Chiefs of the realm you behold, 

Ricos Omes, and Bishops, and Abbots, 
And Knights, and Barons bold. 

Queen Mary could behold all this 

As she lay in her state bed ; 
And from the pillow needed not 

To lift her languid head. 

One fear she had, though still her heart 
The unwelcome thought eschew'd. 

That haply the unlucky lot 
Might fall upon St. Jude. 

But the Saints, she trusted, that ill chance 
Would certainly forefend ; 



And moreover there was a double hope 
Of seeing the wish'd-for end; — 

Because there was a double chance 

For the best of all good names ; 
If it should not be Santiago himself, 

It might be the lesser St. James. 

And now Bishop Boyl hath said the mass; 

And as soon as the mass was done, 
The priests, who by the twelve tapers stood, 

Each instantly lighted one. 

The tapers were short and slender too, 

Yet to the expectant throng. 
Before they to the socket burnt. 

The time, I trow, seem'd long 

The first that went out was St. Peter, 

The second was St. John ; 
And now St. Matthias is going. 

And now St. Matthew is gone. 

Next there went St. Andrew ; 

There goes St. Philip too ; 
And see ! there is an end 

Of St. Bartholomew. 

St. Simon is in the snuff; 

But it was a matter of doubt 
Whether he or St. Thomas could be said 

Soonest to have gone out. 

There are only three remaining, 
St. Jude, and the two St. James ; 

And great was then Queen Mary's hope 
For the best of all good names. 

Great was then Queen Mary's hope. 

But greater her fear, I guess. 
When one of the three went out, 

And that one was St. James the Less. 

They are now within less than quarter-inch, 

The only remaining two ! 
When there came a thief in St. James, 

And it made a gutter too ! 

Up started Queen Mary, 

Up she sat in her bed ; 
" I never can call him Judas ! " 

She clasp'd her hands and said. 

" I never can call him Judas ! " 

Again did she exclaim ; 
*' Holy Mother, preserve us ! 

It is not a Christian name ! " 

She spread her hands, and clasp'd them again, 

And the Infant in the cradle 
Set up a cry, an angry cry, 

As loud as he was able. 

" Holy Mother, preserve us ! " 
The Queen her prayer renew'd ; 



488 



ROPRECHT THE ROBBER, 



When in came a moth at the window. 
And flutter'd about St. Jude. 

St. James hath fallen in the socket, 
But as yet the flame is not out ; 

And St. Jude hath singed the silly moth 
That flutters so bhndly about. 

And before the flame and the molten wax 

That silly moth could kill, 
It hath beat out St. Jude with its wings. 

And St. James is burning still ! 

Oh, that was a joy for Queen Mary's heart: 

The babe is christened James ; 
The Prince of Aragon hath got 

The best of all good names ! 

Glory to Santiago, 

The mighty one in war ! 
James he is call'd, and he shall be 

King James the Conqueror ! 

Now shall the Crescent wane. 

The Cross be set on high 
In triumph upon many a Mosque ; 

Woe, woe to Mawmetry ! 

Valencia shall be subdued ; 

Majorca shall be won ; 
The Moors be routed every where ; 

Joy, joy, for Aragon ! 

Shine brighter now, ye stars, that crown 

Our Lady del Pilar, 
And rejoice in thy grave, Cid Campeadorj 

Ruydiez de Bivar ! 

Kestcick, 1829. 



ROPRECHT THE ROBBER 



The story here versified is told by Taylor the Water Poet, in 
his " Three Weeks, Three Days, and Three Hours' Obser- 
vations from London to Hamburgh, in Germany ; amongst 
Jews and Gentiles, with Descriptions of Towns and Towers, 
Castles and Citadels, artificial Gallowses and natural Hang- 
men ; and dedicated for the present to the absent Odcom- 
bian Knight Errant, Sir Thomas Coryat." It is in the 
volume of his collected works, p. 82, of the third paging. 

CoUein, which is tlie scene of this story, is more probably 
Kollen on the Elbe, in Bohemia, or a town of the same 
name in Prussia, than Cologne, to which great city the 
reader will perceive I had good reasons for transferring it. 



PART I. 



RoPRECHT the Robber is taken at last ; 

In Cologne they have him fast ; 

Trial is over, and sentence past ; 

And hopes of escape were vain, he knew, 

For the gallows now must have its due. 



But though pardon cannot here be bought, 
It may for the other world, he thought; 
And so, to his comfort, with one consent 
The Friars assured their penitent. 

Money, they teach him, when rightly given, 
Is put out to account with Heaven ; 
For suffrages therefore his plunder went, 
Sinfully gotten, but piously spent. 

All Saints, whose shrines are in that city, 
They tell him, will on him have pity. 
Seeing he hath liberally paid, 
In this time of need, for their good aid. 

In the Three Kings they bid him confide, 
Who there in Cologne lie side by side : 
And from the Eleven Thousand Virgins eke, 
Intercession for him will they bespeak. 

And also a sharer he shall be 

In the merits of their community ; 

All which they promise, he need not fear, 

Through Purgatory will carry him clear. 

Though the furnace of Babylon could not compare 
With the terrible fire that rages there. 
Yet they their part will so zealously do. 
He shall only but frizzle as he flies through. 

And they will help him to die well. 
And he shall be hang'd with book and bell ; 
And moreover with holy water they 
Will sprinkle him, ere they turn away. 

For buried Roprecht must not be ; 

He is to be left on the triple tree ; 

That they who pass along may spy 

Where the famous Robber is hanging on high. 

Seen is that gibbet far and wide • 

From the Rhine and from the DusseldorfF side j 
And from all roads which cross the sand. 
North, south, and west, in that level land. 

It will be a comfortable sight , 

To see him there by day and by night ; 
For Roprecht the Robber many a year 
Had kept the country round in fear. 

So the Friars assisted, by special grace, 
With book and bell to the fatal place ; 
And he was hang'd on the triple tree, 
With as much honor as man could be. 

In his suit of irons he was hung ; 

They sprinkled him then, and their psalm they 

sung; 
And turning away when this duty was paid. 
They said. What a goodly end he had made ! 

The crowd broke up, and went their way ; 
All were gone by the close of day ; 
And Roprecht the Robber was left there 
Hanging alone in the moonlight air 



ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. 



489 



The last who look'd back for a parting sight, 
Beheld him there in the clear moonlight; 
But the first who look'd when the morning shone, 
j Saw in dismay that Roprecht was gone. 



PART II. 



The stir m Cologne is greater to-day 
Than all the bustle of yesterday ; 
Hundreds and thousands went out to see ; 
The irons and chains, as well as he, 
Were gone, but the rope was left on the tree. 

A wonderful thing ! for every one said 
He had hung till he was dead, dead, dead, 
And on the gallows was seen, from noon 
Till ten o'clock, in the light of the moon. 

Moreover the Hangman was ready to swear 
He had done his part with all due care ; 
And that certainly better hang'd than he 
No one ever was, or ever could be. 

Neither kith nor kin, to bear him away, 
And funeral rites in secret pay. 
Had he ; and none that pains would take. 
With risk of the law, for a stranger's sake. 

So 'twas thought, because he had died so well, 
He was taken away by miracle. 
But would he again alive be found ? 
Or had he been laid in holy ground ? 

If in holy ground his relics were laid. 

Some marvellous sign would show, they said ; 

If restored to life, a Friar he would be. 

Or a holy Hermit certainly, 

And die in the odor of sanctity. 

That thus it would prove they could not doubt. 
Of a man whose end had been so devout ; 
And to disputing then they fell 
About who had wrought this miracle. 

Had the Three Kings this mercy shown. 
Who were the pride and honor of Cologne .'' 
Or was it an act of proper grace. 
From the Army of Virgins of British race. 
Who were also the glory of that place ? 

Pardon, some said, they might presume. 
Being a kingly act, from the Kings must come ; 
But others maintained that St. Ursula's heart 
Would sooner be moved to the merciful part. 

There was one who thought this aid divine 
Came from the other bank of the Rhine ; 
For Roprecht there, too, had for favor applied, 
Because his birthplace was on that side. 

To DusseldorfF then the praise might belong. 
And its Army of Martyrs, ten thousand strong; 
But he for a Dusseldorff man was known, 
62 



And no one would listen to him in Cologne, 
Where the people would have the whole wonder 
their own. 

The Friars, who help'd him to die so well. 

Put in their claim to the miracle ; 

Greater things than this, as their Annals could tell, 

The stock of their merits for sinful men 

Had done before, and would do again. 

'Twas a whole Aveek's wonder in that great town, 
And in all places, up the river and down; 
But a greater wonder took place of it then. 
For Roprecht was found on the gallows again ! 



PART III. 



With that the whole city flocked out to see; 
There Roprecht was on the triple tree. 
Dead, past all doubt, as dead could be ; 
But fresh he was as if spells had charm'd him, 
And neither wind nor weather had harm'd him. 

While the multitude stood in a muse. 
One said, I am sure he was hang'd in shoes ! 
In this the Hangman and all concurr'd; 
But now, behold, he was booted and spurr'd ! 

Plainly therefore it was to be seen. 

That somewhere on horseback he had been ; 

And at this the people marvelled more, 

Than at any thing which had happened before. 

Foi: not in riding trim was he 

When he disappeared from the triple tree ; 

And his suit of irons he still was in. 

With the collar that clipp'd him under the chin. 

With that this second thought befell. 
That perhaps he had not died so well. 
Nor had Saints perform'd the miracle ; 
But rather there was cause to fear, 
That tlie foul Fiend had been busy here ! 

Roprecht the Robber had long been their curse, 
And hanging had only made him worse ; 
For bad as he was when living, they said 
They had ratlier meet him alive than dead. 

What a horse must it be which he had ridden ! 
No earthly beast could be so bestridden ; 
And when by a hell horse a dead rider was carried. 
The whole land would be fearfully harried ! 

So some were for digging a pit in the place. 
And burying him there with a stone on his face ; 
And that hard on his body the earth should be 

press'd. 
And exorcists be sent for to lay him at rest. 

But others, wJiose knowledge was greater, opined 
That this corpse was too strong to be confined ; 
No weight of earth which they could lay 



490 



ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. 



Would hold him down a single day, 
If he chose to get up and ride away. 

There was no keeping Vampires under ground 
And bad as a Vampire he might be found, 
Pests against whom, it was understood, 
Exorcism never had done any good. 

But fire, they said, had been proved to be 
The only infallible remedy ; 
So they were for burning the body outright. 
Which would put a stop to his riding by night. 

Others were for searching the mystery out. 
And setting a guard the gallows about, 
Who should keep a careful watch, and see 
Whether Witch or Devil it might be 
That helped him down from tlie triple tree ; — 

For that there were Witches in the land, 
Was what all by this might understand ; 
And they must not let the occasion slip 
For detecting that cursed fellowship. 

Some were for this, and some for that, 
And some they could not tell for what ; 
And never was such commotion known 
In that great city of Cologne. 



PART IV. 



PiETER Snoye was a boor of good renown. 
Who dwelt about an hour and a half from the town ; 
And he, while the people were all in debate, 
Went quietly in at the city gate. 

For Father Kijf he sought about, 

His confessor, till he found him out; 

But the Father Confessor wondered to see 

The old man, and what his errand might be. 

The good Priest did not wonder less 
When Pieter said he was come to confess ; 
" Why, Pieter, how can this be so .'' 
I confessed thee some ten days ago ! 

" Thy conscience, methlnks, may be well at rest. 

An honest man among the best ; 

I would that all my flock, like thee. 

Kept clear accounts with Pleaven and me ! " 

Always before, without confusion, 

Being sure of easy absolution, 

Pieter his little slips had summ'd ; 

But he hesitated now, and he haw'd, and humm'd. 

And something so strange the Father saw 
In Pieter's looks, and his hum and his haw, 
That he began to doubt it was something more 
Than a trifle omitted in last week's score. 

At length it came out, that in the affair 

Of Roprecht the Robber he had some share ; 



The Confessor then gave a start in fear — 

" God grant there have been no witchcraft here ! " 

Pieter Snoye, who was looking down. 
With something between a smile and a frown. 
Felt that suspicion move his bile, 
And look'd up with more of a frown than a 
smile. 

" Fifty years I, Pieter Snoye, 
Have lived in this country, man and boy. 
And have always paid the Church her due, 
And kept short scores with Heaven and you. 

" The Devil himself, though Devil he be, 
Would not dare impute that sin to me ; 
He might charge me as well with heresy ; 
And if he did, here, in this place, 
I'd call him liar, and spit in his face ! " 

The Father, he saw, cast a gracious eye 
When he heard him thus the Devil defy ; 
The wrath, of which he had eased his mind, 
Left a comfortable sort of warmth behind. 

Like what a cheerful cup will impart. 
In a social hour, to an honest man's heart ; 
And he added, " For all the witchcraft here, 
I shall presently make that matter clear. 

" Though I am, as you very well know, Father Kijf, 
A peaceable man, and keep clear of strife. 
It's a queerish business that now I've been inj 
But I can't say that it's much of a sin. 

" However, it needs must be confess'd, 

And as it will set this people at rest, 

To come with it at once was best : 

Moreover, if I delayed, I thought 

That some might perhaps into trouble be brought. 

" Under the seal I tell it you. 

And you will judge what is best to do. 

That no hurt to me and my son may ensue. 

No earthly harm have we intended, 

And what was ill done has been well mended. 

" I and my son, Piet Pieterszoon, 

Were returning home by the light of the moon, 

From this good city of Cologne, 

On the night of the execution day; 

And hard by the gibbet was our way. 

" About midnight it was we were passing by. 
My son, Piet Pieterszoon, and I, 
When we heard a moaning as we came near, 
Which made us quake at first for fear. 

" But the moaning was presently heard again, 
And we knew it was nothing ghostly then ; 
' Lord help us, Father ! ' Piet Pieterszoon said, 
' Roprecht, for certain, is not dead ! ' 

'' So under the gallows our cart we drive, 
And, sure enough, the man was alive ; 



ROPRECHT THE ROBBER. 



491 



Because of the irons tliat he was in, 

He was hanging, not by the neck, but the chin. 

" The reason why tilings had got thus wrong, 
Was, that the rope had been left too long ; 
The Hangman's fault — a clumsy rogue, 
He is not fit to hang a dog. 

" Now Roprecht, as long as the people were there, 

Never stirr'd hand or foot in the air; 

But when at last he was left alone. 

By that time so much of his strength was gone, 

That he could do little more than groan. 

" Piet and I had been sitting it out, 
Till a latish hour, at a christening bout ; 
And perhaps we were rash, as you may think, 
And a little soft, or so, for drink. 

"Father Kijf, we could not bear 

To leave him hanging in misery there ; 

And 'twas an act of mercy, I cannot but say, . 

To get him down, and take him away. 

" And, as you know, all people said 
What a goodly end that day he had made ; 
So we thought for certain. Father Kijf, 
That, if he were saved, he would mend his life. 

" My son, Piet Pieterszoon, and I, 
We took him down, seeing none was nigh; 
And we took off his suit of irons with care, 
When we got him home, and we hid him there. 

*' The secret, as you may guess, was known 
To Alit, my wife, but to her alone ; 
And never sick man, I dare aver. 
Was better tended than he was by her. 

" Good advice, moreover, as good could be, 
He had from Alit, my Avife, and me ; 
And no one could promise fairer than he : 
So that we and Piet Pieterszoon, our son. 
Thought that we a very good deed had done. 

" You may well think we laughed in our sleeve, 
At what the people then seem'd to believe ; 
Queer enough it was to hear them say. 
That the Three Kings took Roprecht away ; — 

" Or that St. Ursula, who is in bliss. 
With her Army of Virgins had done this : 
The Three Kings and St. Ursula, too, 
I warrant, had something better to do. 

" Piet Pieterszoon, my son, and I, 
We heard them talk as we stood by, 
And Piet look'd at me with a comical eye. 

j We thought them fools, but, as you shall see, 

i Not over- wise ourselves were we. 

" For I must tell you, Father Kijf, 
That when we told this to Alit, my wife. 
She at the notion perk'd up with delight, 
And said she believed the people were right. 



" Had not Roprecht put in the Saints his hope, 
And who but they should have loosen'd the rope, 
When they saw that no one could intend 
To make at the gallows a better end ? 

" Yes, she said, it was perfectly clear 
That there must have been a miracle here ; 
And we had the happiness to be in it. 
Having been brought there just at the minute, 

" And therefore it would become us to make 
An offering for this favor's sake 
To the Three Kings and the Virgins too, 
Since we could not tell to which it was due. 

" For greater honor there could be none 

Than what in this business the Saints had done 

To us and Piet Pieterszoon, our son ; 

She talk'd me over. Father Kijf, 

With that tongue of hers, did Alit, my wife. 

"Lord, forgive us ! as if the Saints would deign 
To come and help such a rogue in grain ; 
When the only mercy the case could admit 
Would have been to make his halter fit ! 

'■' That would have made one hanging do, 

In happy season for him too, 

When he was in a proper cue ; 

And have saved some work, as you will see, 

To my son, Piet Pieterszoon, and me. 

" Well, Father, we kept him at bed and board, 
Till his neck was cured and his strength restored J 
And we should have sent him off this day 
With something to help him on his way. 

" But this wicked Roprecht, what did he ? 
Though he had been saved thus mercifully. 
Hanging had done him so little good, 
That he took to his old ways as soon as he could. 

"■ Last night, when we were all asleep. 
Out of his bed did this gallows-bird creep ; 
Piet Pieterszoon's boots and spurs he put on. 
And stole my best horse, and away he was gone ! 

" Now Alit, my wife, did not sleep so hard, 
But she heard the horse's feet in the yard ; 
And when she jogg'd me, and bade me awake, 
My mind misgave me as soon as she spake. 

" To the window my good woman went. 
And watch'd which way his course he bent; 
And in such time as a pipe can be lit. 
Our horses were ready with bridle and bit. 

" Away, as fast as we could hie, 

We went, Piet Pieterszoon and I ; 

And still on the plain we had him in sight ; 

The moon did not shine for nothing that night. 

" Knowing the ground, and riding fast. 

We came up with him at last. 

And — would you believe it.? Father Kijf, 



492 



THE YOUNG DRAGON. 



The ungrateful wretch would have taken my life, 
If he had not miss'd his stroke with a knife ! 

" The struggle in no long time was done, 
Because, you know, we were two to one ; 
But yet all our strength we were fain to try, 
Piet Pieterszoon, my son, and I. 

" When we had got him on the ground, 
We fastened his hands, and his legs we bound; 
And across the horse we laid him then, 
And brought him back to the house again, 

" ' We have robb'd the gallows, and that was ill 
Said I to Piet Pieterszoon, my son ; [done ! ' 

' And restitution we must make 
To that same gallows, for justice' sake.' 

" In his suit of irons the rogue we array'd, 
And once again in the cart he was laid ! 
Night not yet so far was spent, 
But there was time enough for our intent; 
And back to the triple tree we went, 

" His own rope was ready there ; 

To measure the length we took good care ; 

And the job which the bungling Hangman begun. 

This time, I think, was properly done 

By me and Piet Pieterszoon, my son." 



THE YOUNG DRAGON. 



The legend on which this poem is founded is related in the 
Vida y Hazanas del Oran Tamorlan, con la descripcion de 
las Tierras de su Impcrio y Senorio, escrita por Ruy Qonza- 
lei de Clavijo, Camarero del muy alto y Poderoso Senor Don 
Enrique. Tercero' deste nomhre, Rey dc Castilla y de Leon ; 
con un Itinerario de lo sucedido en la Embajada, que por dicho 
Senor el Rey hizo al dicho Principe, llanado por otro nombre 
Tamurbec, ano delnacimiento de 1403. 

The ambassadors had seen at Constantinople, in the Church 
of St. John of the Stone, el brazo izqnierdo de Sant Juan 
Baptista ; el qual brazo era de so el ombro ayuso fasta en la 
mano. E este brazo fue quamado, e non tenia salvo el cuero 
e el liueso, e a las coijunturas del codo a de la mano estaba 
guamecida dc oro con picdras. They then went to a church 
of our Lady, called Peribelico, e aqui in esta Igiesia estaba 
el otra brazo del bienaventurado Sant Juan Baptista, el qual 
fue mostrado a los dichos Embajadorcs ; el qual brazo era el 
derecho, y era desde el codo ayuso con su mano ; e estaba bien 
fresco e sano ; e como quiera que dicen que todo el cuerpo del 
bienaventurado Sant Juan fue que mado, salvo elun de.do de la 
mano derecha con que senalo quando dixo, Ecce Agnus Dei, 
todo este dicho brazo estaba sano segun alii parescid .• estaba 
engastonado con unas vcrgas de oro dclgadas, yfallesciale el 
dcdo pulgar ; y larazon que los Manges decianporquefallcscia 
aquel dedo de alii, era esta ; Decian que en la ciudad de An- 
tiochia, al tiempo que en ella avia idolatras, que andaba en &l 
unafigura de Dragon, a que avian por costumbre los de la 
ciudad de dar cada ano a comer a aquel Dragon una persona. 
E qui echahan suei-tes a qual caeria ; e que aquel a, quien caia, 
que non pudiese escusar que lo non comiese aquel Dragon. La 
qual suorte diz que cayd en aquel tiempo a unafja de un ome 
bueno, e que quando vido que non podia escusar de dar sufja 
a aquel Dragon, que ovo gran cuita en su corazon, e que con 
dolor de lafija, que se fuera a, una Jglesia de Monges Christi- 
anos, que entonces en la dicha ciudad avia, e dizo d los Monges 



que el avia oido algimas veces, que Dios avia fecho muchos 
milagros por Sant Juan ; por ende que el queria creer que era 
verdad, e adorar en aquel brazo suyo que alii tenian. E de- 
manddle merced que entre los otros milagros que Dios nuestro 
Senor avia mostrado por el, que quisiere agora facerle merced 
de mostrar este, eficiese como su fja non m.uriese tan mala 
muerte, como era comida de aquella fiera, e la librase de aquel 
peligro : e que los Monges aviendo compasion del, que Ic mos- 
traron el dicho brazo, e que el que fincdra los hinojos por lo 
adorar j e que con dolor de lafija que travdra con los dientes 
del dedo pulgar de la mano del Sancto glorioso, e que ge lo ar- 
rancdra e llevdra en su boca, que los Monges non lo vieron, e 
que quando quisieron dar la doncella al Dragon, que el que 
abrio la voca por la comer, e que el entonces qui le lanzo cl 
dedo del bienaventurado Sant Juan Baptista en la boca, e que 
rebento luego cl Dragon, que fue un gran milagro ; e que 
aquel ome que se convirtio d le Fe de nuestro Senor Jesu 
Christo. pp. 53, 54. 



PART I. 



PiTHYRiAN was a Pagan, 

An easy-hearted man. 
And Pagan sure he thought to end, 

As Pagan he began ; 
Thought he, the one must needs be true, 
The old Religion, or the new. 

And therefore nothing care I ; 
I call Diana the Divine ; 
My daughter worships at the shrine 

Of the Christian Goddess, Mary. 

hi this uncertain matter 

If I the wrong course take, 
Mary to me will mercy show 

For my Marana's sake. 
If I am right, and Dian bend 
Her dreadful bow, or Phoebus send 

His shafts abroad for slaughter, 
Safe from their arrows shall I be, 
And the twin Deities for me 

Will spare my dear-loved daughter. 

If every one in Antioch 

Had reasoned in this strain, 
It never would have raised alarm 

In Satan's dark domain. 
But Mary's Image every day 
Looks down on crowds who come to pray ; 

Her votaries never falter ; 
While Dian's temple is so bare. 
That unless her Priestess take good care, 

She will have a grass-green altar. 

Perceiving this, the old Dragon 

Inflamed with anger grew ; 
Earthquakes and Plagues were common ills, 

There needed som.ething new ; 
Some vengeance so severe and strange 
That forepast times, in all their range. 

With no portent could match it ; 
So for himself a nest he made. 
And in that nest an egg he laid. 

And down he sat to hatch it. 

He built it by the fountain 
Of Phlegethon's red flood. 



THE YOUNG DRAGON. 



In the innermost abyss, the place 

Of central solitude ; 
Of adamantine blocks unhewn, 
With lava scoria interstrewn, 

The sole material fitting ; 
With amianth he lined the nest. 
And incombustible asbest. 

To bear the fiery sitting. 

There, with malignant patience, 

He sat in fell despite. 
Till this dracontine cockatrice 

Should break its way to light. 
Meantime his angry heart to cheer. 
He thought that all this while no fear 

The Antiocheans stood in. 
Of what, on deadliest vengeance bent, 
With imperturbable intent. 

He there for them was brooding. 

The months of incubation 

At length were duly past ; 
And now the infernal Dragon-chick 

Hath burst its shell at last ; 
At which long-look'd-for sight enrapt, 
For joy the father Dragon clapp'd 

His brazen wings like thunder. 
So loudly that the mighty sound 
Was like an earthquake felt around, 

And all above and under. 

The diabolic youngling 

Came out no callow birth. 
Puling, defenceless, bhnd and weak. 

Like bird or beast of earth ; 
Or man, most helpless thing of all 
That fly, or swim, or creep, or crawl ; 

But in his perfect figure ; 
His horns, his dreadful tail, his sting, 
Scales, teeth, and claws, and every thmg. 

Complete and in their vigor. 

The Old Dragon was delighted. 

And proud withal to see 
In what perfection he had hatch 'd 

His hellish progeny ; 
And round and round, with fold on fold. 
His tail about the imp he roll'd. 

In fond and close enlacement ; 
And neck round neck, with many a turn. 
He coil'd, which was, you may discern. 

Their manner of embracement. 



PART II. 



A VOICE was heard in Antioch, 
Whence uttered none could know ; 

But from their sleep it wakened all. 
Proclaiming, Woe, woe, woe ! 

It sounded here, it sounded there. 

Within, without, and every where, 
A terror and a warning ; 



Repeated thrice the dreadful word 
By every living soul was heard 
Before the hour of morning. 

And in the air a rushing 

Past over, in the night; 
And as it past, there past with it 

A meteoric light ; 
The blind that piercing light intense 
Felt in their long-seal'd visual sense, 

With sudden, short sensation : 
The deaf that rushing in the sky 
Could hear, and that portentous cry 

Reach'd them with consternation. 

The astonished Antiocheans 

Impatiently await 
The break of day, not knowing when 

Or what might be their fate. 
Alas ! what then the people hear. 
Only with certitude of fear 

Their sinking hearts affrighted ; 
For in the fertile vale below. 
Came news that, in that night of woe, 

A Dragon had alighted. 

It was no earthly monster 

In Libyan deserts nurs'd; 
Nor had the Lerna lake sent forth 

This winged worm accurs'd ; 
The Old Dragon's own laid egg was this, 
The fierce Young Dragon of the abyss. 

Who from the fiery fountain, 
Through earth's concavities, that night 
Had made his way, and taken flight 

Out of a burning mountain. 

A voice that went before him 

The cry of woe preferred ; 
The motion of his brazen wings 

Was what the deaf had heard ; 
The flashing of his eyes, that light 
The which upon their inward sight 

The blind had felt astounded; 
What wonder then, when from the wall 
They saw him in the vale, if all 

With terror were confounded } 

Compared to that strong armor 

Of scales which he was in, 
The hide of a rhinoceros 

Was like a lady's skin. 
A battering-ram might play in vain 
Upon his head, with might and main, 

Though fifty men had work'd it; 
And from his tail they saw him fling 
Out, like a rocket, a long sting. 

When he for pastime jerk'd it. 

To whom of Gods or Heroes 

Should they for aid apply .'' 
Where should they look for succor now, 

Or whither should they fly .'' 
For now no Demigods were found 
Like those whose deathless deeds abound 



494 



THE YOUNG DRAGON 



In ancient song and story ; 
No Hercules was then on earth, 
Nor yet of her St. George's birth 

Could Cappadocia glory. 

And even these against him 

Had found their strength but small; 
He could have swallowed Hercules, 

Club, lion-skin, and all. 
Yea, had St. George himself been there 
Upon the fiercest steed that e'er 

To battle bore bestrider, 
This dreadful Dragon, in his might. 
One mouthful only, and one bite, 

Had made of horse and rider. 

They see how unavailing 

All human force must prove ; 
Oh, might their earnest prayers obtain 

Protection from above ! 
The Christians sought our Lady's shrine, 
To invocate her aid divine ; 

And, with a like emotion. 
The Pagans, on that fearful day, 
Took to Diana's fane their way, 

And offered their devotion. 

But there the offended Goddess 

Beheld them with a frown ; 
The indignant altar heaved itself. 

And shook their offerings down ; 
The Priestess, with a deathlike hue. 
Pale as the marble Image grew ; 

The marble Image redden'd ; 
And these poor suppliants, at the sight. 
Felt, in fresh access of affright. 

Their hearts within them deaden'd. 

Behold the marble eyeballs 

With life and motion shine ! 
And from the moving marble lips 

There comes a voice divine, 
A demon voice, by all the crowd 
Distinctly heard, nor low, nor loud. 

But deep, and clear, and thrilling ; 
And carrying to the soul such dread 
That they perforce must what it said 

Obey, however unwilling. 

Hear ! hear ! it said, ye people ! 

The ancient Gods have sent. 
In anger for your long neglect, 

This signal punishment. 
To mortal Mary vows were paid. 
And prayers preferr'd, and offerings made 

Our temples were deserted ; 
Now when our vengeance makes ye wise. 
Unto your proper Deities 

In fear, ye have reverted i 

Hear now the dreadful judgment 
For this which ye have done : — 

The infernal Dragon will devour 
Your daughters, one by one ; 



A Christian Virgin, every day, 
Ye must present him for his prey. 

With garlands deck'd, as meet is : 
That with the Christians he begins 
Is what, in mercy to your sins, 

Ye owe to my entreaties. 

Whether, if to my worship 

Ye now continue true, 
I may, when these are all consumed, 

Avert the ill from you. 
That on the Ancient Gods depends. 
If they be made once more your friends 

By your sincere repentance : 
But for the present, no delay ; 
Cast lots among ye, and obey 

The inexorable sentence. 



PART III. 



Though to the Pagan priesthood 

A triumph this might seem. 
Few families there were who thus 

Could in their grief misdeem ; 
For, oft in those distracted days, 
Parent and child went different ways, 

The sister and the brother ; 
And when, in spirit moved, the wife 
Chose one religious course of life, 

The husband took the other. 

Therefore in every household 

Was seen the face of fear; 
They who were safe themselves, exposed 

In those whom they held dear. 
The lists are made, and in the urn 
The names are placed to wait their turn 

For this far worse than slaughter ; 
And from that fatal urn, the first 
Drawn for this dreadful death accurs'd 

Was of Pithyrian's daughter. 

With Christian-like composure, 

Marana heard her lot ; 
And though her countenance at first 

Grew pale, she trembled not. 
Not for herself the Virgin grieved ; 
She knew in whom she had believed. 

Knew that a crown of glory 
In Heaven would recompense her worth, 
And her good name remain on earth 

The theme of sacred story. 

Her fears were for her father. 

How he should bear this grief. 
Poor wretched heathen, if he still 

Remain'd in misbelief; 
Her looks amid the multitude. 
Who struck with deep compassion stood, 

Are seeking for Pithyrian : 
He cannot bear to meet her eye. 
Where goest thou ? whither wouldst thou fly, 

Thou miserable Syrian ? 



THE YOUNG DRAGON. 



495 



Hath sudden hope inspired him, 

Or is it in despair 
That through the throng he made his way, 

And sped he knew not where ? 
For how could he the sight sustain, 
When now the sacrificial train 

Inhumanly surround her ! 
How hear to see her when, with flowers 
From rosiers and from jasmine bowers, 

They like a victim crown'd her ! 

He knew not why nor whither 

So fast he hurried thence, 
But felt like one possess'd by some 

Controlling influence ; 
Nor turn'd he to Diana's fane, 
Inly assured that prayers were vain 

If made for such protection ; 
His pagan faith he now forgot. 
And the wild way he took was not 

His own, but Heaven's direction. 

He who had never enter'd 

A Christian church till then, 
Except in idle mood profane. 

To view the ways of men. 
Now to a Christian church made straight. 
And hastened through its open gate. 

By his good Angel guided, 
And thinking, though he knew not why, 
That there some blessed Power on high 

Had help for him provided. 

Wildly he look'd about him 

On many a form divine, 
Whose Image o'er its altar stood, 

And many a sculptured shrine, 
In which believers might behold 
Relics more precious than the gold 

And jewels which encased them, 
With painful search from far and near 
Brought to be venerated here. 

Where piety had placed them. 

There stood the Virgin Mother, 

Crown'd with a starry wreath, 
And there the awful Crucifix 

Appeared to bleed and breathe ; 
Martyrs to whom their palm is given, 
And sainted Maids who now in Heaven 

With glory are invested ; 
Glancing o'er these, his rapid eye 
Toward one image that stood nigh 

Was drawn, and there it rested. 

The countenance that fix'd him 

Was of a sun-burnt mien ; 
The face was like a Prophet's face 

Inspired, but yet serene ; 
His arms, and legs, and feet were bare ; 
The raiment was of camel's hair. 

That, loosely hanging round him. 
Fell from the shoulders to the knee ; 
And round the loins, though elsewhere free, 

A leathern girdle bound him. 



With his right arm uplifted. 

The great Precursor stood, 
Thus represented to the life 

In carved and painted wood. 
Below the real arm was laid 
Within a crystal shrine display'd 

For public veneration ; 
Not now of flesh and blood, — but bone, 
Sinews, and shrivell'd skin alone, 

In ghastly preservation. 

Moved by a secret impulse 

Which he could not withstand. 
Let me, Pithyrian cried, adore 

That blessed arm and hand ! 
This day, this miserable day, . 
My pagan faith I put away, 

Abjure it and abhor it; 
And in the Saints I put my trust, 
And in the Cross ; and, if I must, 

Will die a Martyr for it. 

This is the arm whose succor 

Heaven brings me here to seek ! 
Oh, let me press it to my lips, 

And so its aid bespeak I 
A strong faith makes me now presume 
That wlien to this unhappy doom 

A hellish power hath brought her, 
The heavenly hand, whose mortal mould 
I humbly worship, will unfold 

Its strength, and save my daughter. 

The Sacristan with wonder 

And pity heard his prayer. 
And placed the relic in his hand. 

As he knelt humbly there. 
Right thankfully the kneeling man 
To that confiding Sacristan 

Return'd it, after kissing; 
And he within its crystal shrine 
Replaced the precious arm divine, 

Nor saw that aught was missing. 



PART IV. 



Oh piety audacious ! 

Oh boldness of belief! 
Oh sacrilegious force of faith, 

That then inspired the thief! 
Oh wonderful extent of love. 
That Saints enthroned in bliss above 

Should bear such profanation. 
And not by some immediate act, 
Striking the offender in the fact, 

Prevent the perpetration ! 

But sure the Saint that impulse 
Himself from Heaven had sent. 

In mercy predetermining 
The marvellous event; 

So inconceivable a thought, 

Seeming with such irreverence fraught, 



496 



THE YOUNG DRAGON. 



Could else have no beginning ; 
Nor else might such a deed be done, 
As then Pithyrian ventured on, 

Yet had no fear of sinning. 

Not as that Church he enter' d 

Did he from it depart, 
Like one bewildered by his grief, 

But confident at heart ; 
Triumphantly he v\^ent his way. 
And bore the Holy Thumb away. 
Elated with his plunder ; 
That Holy Thumb which well he knew 
Could pierce the Dragon through and through, 
Like Jupiter's own thunder. 

Meantime was meek Marana 

For sacrifice array 'd; 
And now in sad procession forth 

They led the flower-crown'd Maid. 
Of this infernal triumph vain. 
The Pagan Priests precede the train ; 

Oh hearts devoid of pity ! 
And to behold the abhorr'd event. 
At far or nearer distance went 

The whole of that great city. 

The Christians go to succor 

The sufferer with their prayers. 
The Pagans to a spectacle 

Which dreadfully declares. 
In this their over-ruling hour. 
Their Gods' abominable power ; 

Yet not without emotion 
Of grief, and horror, and remorse. 
And natural piety, whose force 

Prevail'd o'er false devotion. 

The walls and towers are cluster'd, 

And every hill and height 
That overlooks the vale, is throng'd 

For this accursed sight. 
Why art thou joyful, thou green Earth ? 
Wherefore, ye happy Birds, your mirth 

Are ye in carols voicing ? 
And thou, O Sun, in yon blue sky, 
How canst thou hold thy course on high 

This day, as if rejoicing.? 

Already the procession 

Hath past the city gate ; 
And now along the vale it moves 

With solemn pace sedate. 
And now the spot before them lies 
Where, waiting for his promised prize. 

The Dragon's chosen haunt is ; 
Blacken'd beneath his blasting feet. 
Though yesterday a green retreat 

Beside the clear Orontes. 

There the procession halted ; 

The Priests on either hand 
Dividing then, a long array. 

In order took their stand. 



Midway between the Maid is left, 
Alone, of human aid bereft : 

The Dragon now hath spied her; 
But in that moment of most need. 
Arriving breathless with his speed, 

Her Father stood beside her. 

On came the Dragon rampant. 

Half running, half on wing, 
His tail uplifted o'er his back 

In many a spiral ring ; 
His scales he ruflled in his pride ; 
His brazen pennons, waving wide. 

Were gloriously distended ; 
His nosti-ils smoked; his eyes flash'd fire j 
His lips were drawn ; and in his ire 

His mighty jaws extended. 

On came the Dragon rampant. 

Expecting there no check, 
And open-mouth'd to swallow both 

He stretch'd his burnish'd neck. 
Pithyrian put his daughter by. 
Waiting for this with watchful eye, 

And ready to prevent it ; 
Within arm's length he let him come. 
Then in he threw the Holy Thumb, 

And down his throat he sent it. 

The hugest brazen mortar 

That ever yet fired bomb. 
Could not have check'd this fiendish beast 

As did that Holy Thumb. 
He stagger'd as he wheel'd short round j 
His loose feet scraped along the ground. 

To lift themselves unable ; 
His pennons in their weakness flagg'd j 
His tail, erected late, now dragg'd, 

Just like a long, wet cable. 

A rumbling and a tumbling 

Was heard in his inside ; 
He gasp'd, he panted, he lay down, 

He roll'd from side to side ; 
He moan'd, he groan'd, he snufF'd, he snored 
He growl'd, he howl'd, he raved, he roar'd; 

But loud as were his clamors. 
Far louder was the inward din, 
Like a hundred braziers working in 

A caldron with their hammers. 

The hammering came faster. 

More faint the moaning sound ; 
And now his body swells, and now 

It rises from the ground. 
Not upward with his own consent. 
Nor borne by his own wings, he went ; 

Their vigor was abated ; 
But lifted, no one could tell how. 
By power unseen, with which he now 

Was visibly inflated. 

Abominable Dragon, 
Now art thou overmatch'd ; 



EPILOGUE TO THE YOUNG DRAGON 



497 



And better had it been for thee 

That thou hadst ne'er been hatch'd; 
For now, distended like a ball 
To its full stretch, in sight of all, 

The body mounts ascendant; 
The head before, the tail behind, 
The wings, like sails that want a wind, 
On either side are pendant. 

Not without special mercy 

Was he thus borne on high, 
Till he appear' d no bigger than 

An Eagle in the sky. 
For when about some three miles height. 
Yet still in perfect reach of sight, — 

Oh, wonder of all wonders ! — 
He burst in pieces, with a sound 
Heard for a hundred leagues around. 

And like a thousand thunders. 

But had that great explosion 

Been in the lower sky, 
All Antioch would have been laid 

In ruins, certainly. 
And in that vast assembled rout 
Who crowded joyfully about 

Pithyrian and his daughter. 
The splinters of the monster's hide 
Must needs have made on every side 

A very dreadful slaughter. 

So far the broken pieces 

Were now dispersed around. 
And shiver' d so to dust, that not 

A fragment e'er was found. 
The Holy Thumb, (so it is thought,) 
When it this miracle had wrought. 

At once to Heaven ascended ; 
As if, when it had thus display' d 
Its power, and saved the Christian Maid, 

Its work on earth was ended. 

But at Constantinople 

The arm and hand were shown, 
Until the mighty Ottoman 

O'erthrew the Grecian throne. 
And when the Monks, this tale who told 
To pious visitors, would hold 

The holy hand for kissing. 
They aever fail'd, with faith devout, 
In confirmation to point out 

That there the Thumb was missing. 

Keswick, 1829. 



EPILOGUE 

TO 

THE YOUNG DRAGON 



I TOLD my tale of the Holy Thumb 
That split the Dragon asunder, 
63 



And my daughters made great eyes as they heard, 
Which were full of delight and wonder. 

With listening lips and looks intent, 

There sat an eager boy. 
Who shouted sometimes, and clapp'd his hands. 

And could not sit still for joy. 

But when I look'd at my Mistress's face. 

It was all too grave the while ; 
And when I ceased, methought there was more 

Of reproof than of praise in her smile. 

That smile I read aright, for thus 

Reprovingly said she, 
" Such tales are meet for youthful ears. 

But give little content to me. 

•' From thee far rather v/ould I hear 

Some sober, sadder lay. 
Such as I oft have heard, well pleased 

Before those locks were gray." 

" Nay, Mistress mine," I made reply, 

" The Autumn hath its flowers, 
Nor ever is the sky more gay 

Than in its evening hours. 

" Our good old Cat, Earl Tomlemagne, 

Upon a warm Spring day, 
Even like a kitten at its sport. 

Is sometimes seen to play. 

" That sense which held me back in youth 

From all intemperate gladness, 
That same good instinct bids me shun 

Unprofitable sadness. 

" Nor marvel you if I prefer 

Of playful themes to sing ; 
The October grove hath brighter tints 

Than Summer or than Spring ; 

" For o'er the leaves, before they fall. 

Such hues hath Nature thrown, 
That the woods wear, in sunless days, 

A sunshine of their own. 

" Why should I seek to call forth tears ? 

The source from whence we weep 
Too near the surface lies in youth ; 

In age it lies too deep. 

"Enough of foresight sad, too much 

Of retrospect, have I; 
And well for me that I sometimes 

Can put those feelings by ; — 

" From public ills, and thoughts that else 

Might weigh me down to earth. 
That I can gain some intervals 

For healthful, hopeful mirth ; — 

" That I can sport in tales which suit 

Young auditors like these. 
Yet, if 1 err not, may content 

The few I seek to please. 



498 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY; PREFACE. 



" I know in what responsive minds 

My lightest lay will wake 
A sense of pleasure, for its own, 

And for its author's sake 

" I know the eyes in which the light 

Of memory will appear; 
I know the lips, which, while they read, 

Will wear a smile sincere ; — 

" The hearts to which my sportive song 
The thought of days will bring, 

When they and I, whose Winter now 
Comes on, were in our Spring. 

" And I their well-known voices too, 
Though far away, can hear, 



Distinctly, even as when in dreams 
They reach the inward ear. 

" ' There speaks the man we knew of yore,' 

Well pleased I hear them say ; 
' Such was he in his lighter moods, 

Before our heads were gray. 

" ' Buoyant he was in spirit, quick 

Of fancy, blithe of heart. 
And Care, and Time, and Change have left 

Untouch'd his better part.' 

" Thus say my morning friends who now 

Are in the vale of years, 
And I, save such as thus may rise, 

Would draw no other tears." 

Keswick, 1829. 



VOL. n. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The two volumes of this collection, which con- 
sist of Ballads and Metrical Tales, contain the 
Author's earliest and latest productions of that 
kind ; those which were written with most facility 
and most glee, and those upon which most time 
and pains were bestowed, according to the subject 
and the mode of treating it. 

The Tale of Paraguay was published, separately 
in 1825, having been so long in hand that the Ded- 
ication was written many years before the Poem 
was completed. 

All for Love, and The Legend of a Cock and a 
Hen, were published together in a little volume in 
1829. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



PREFACE 



One of my friends observed to me, in a letter, tliat many 
stories which are said to be founded on fact, have in reality 
been foundered on it. This is the case, if there be any gross 
violation committed, or ignorance betrayed, of historical 
manners in the prominent parts of a narrative vi'herein the 
writer affects to observe them ; or when the ground-work 
is taken from some part of history so popular and well known 
that any mixture of fiction disturbs the sense of truth. Still 
more so, if the subject be in itself so momentous that any 
alloy of invention must of necessity debase itj hut most of all 
in themes drawn from Scripture, whether from the more fa- 
miliar or the more awful portions ; for when what is true is 



sacred, v/hatever may be added to it is so surely felt to be 
false, that it appears profane. 

Founded on fact the Poem is, which is here committed to 
the world; but, whatever may be its defects, it is liable to 
none of these objections. The story is so singular, so simple, 
and, withal, so complete, that it must have been injured by 
any alteration. How faithfully it has been followed, the 
reader may perceive, if he chooses to consult the abridged 
translation of Dobrizhoffer's History of the Abipones ; and 
for those who may be gratified with what Pinkerton has 
well called the lively singularity of the old man's Latin, 
the passage from the original is here subjoined. 



" Ad Australes fluvii Empalado ripas Hispanorum turma 
Herbse Paraquaricse conficiendsB operam dabat. Deficientibus 
jam arboribus, e quibus ilia folia rescinduntur, exploratores 
tres emiserant, qui trans illud flumen arbores desideratas in- 
vestigarent. Forte in tugurium, agrumque frumento Turcico 
consitum incidere, ex quo banc sylvam barbarorum contuber- 
niis scatere perperam arguebant. Hsec notitia tanto omnes 
perculit metu, ut suspense, ad quem conducti fuerant, labors 
suis aliquamdiu in tuguriis laterent, ut limax intra concham. 
Diu noctuque hostilis aggressio formidabatur. Ad liberandos 
se hoc terrore cursor ad S. Joachimi oppidum missus, qui, ut 
barbaros istic habitantes perquiramus, inventosque ad nostram 
transferamus coloniam flagitavit. Sine tergiversatione ope- 
ram addixi meam. Licet trium hebdomadum itinere defunctus 
Nato servatori sacra die ex Mbaebera domum redierim, S. Jo- 
annis apostoli festo iter mox aggressus sum cum quadraginta 
Indorum meorum comitatu. Fluviis ob continuatum dies 
complures imbrem turgentibus profectio perardua nobis ex- 
stitit. Accepto ex Hispanorum tugurio viarum duce, trajec- 
toque flumine Empalado sylvas omnes ad fluvii Mondag miri 
ripas usque attentis oculis pervagati, tertio demum die, hu- 
mane, quod deteximus, vestigio nos ducente sediculam attigi- 
mus, ubi mater vetula, cum filio vicesimum, filiaque quintum 
decimum annum agente annis abhinc multis degebat. Uuibus 
in latebris Indi ahi versarentur, k me rogata mater, neminem 
mortalium praeter se, binasque proles, his in sylvis superesse, 
omnes, qui per banc viciniam habitaverant, variolarum dira 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY: PREFACE. 



499 



peste dudum extinctos fuisse, respondit. De dicti veritate 
anci[)item me dum observaret filius : tuto, ait, fidem adhibue- 
lis matri mea) ista affiimanti : namque ipsus ego uxorem mihi 
quaesiturus remotissimas etiam sylvas identidem percursavi, 
quin tameii vel hominis umbram reperirem uspiam. En! na- 
turae instinctu adolescens barburus, conjugium cum sorore sibi 
neutiquam licerc, intellexit. Is multis post mensibus meo in 
oppido, nullos praeter se homines illis in sylvis dcgere, iterum, 
iterumque ingenue mihi asseveravit. Idem confirmarunt His- 
pani, k quibus evocatus sum, uUra biennium in conquirenda 
herba dein per illas sylvas occupati, non mediocri cum quastu. 

" Vetulam matrem congruis argumentis hortatus sum ad 
meum ut oppidum, siquidem luberet, commigaret ocyus, se, 
suosque meliori fortuna iilic usuros, policitus. Lubenter in- 
vitationi meae obtemperatam se, respondit ; rem unicam mi- 
grationi suae obstare. Sunt mihi, ait, tres, quos coram vides, 
apri i prima aetate mansuefacti 5 nos quoquo euntes caniculi 
more sequuntur. Hi, si campuin aridum vidoant, vel extra 
sylvarum umbram k sole ardenti videantur, peribunt confestim, 
timeo. IJanc solicitudinem, quteso, animo ejicias tuo, reposui ; 
cordi mihi fore chara animalcula, nil dubites. Sole oestuante 
umbram, ubi ubi demum, captabimus. Neque lacunae, amnes, 
paludes, ubi refrigerentur tua base corcula, usquam deerunt. 
Talibus delinita promissis se nobiscum ituram, spopondit. Et 
vero postridie iter ingressi, calendis Januarii incolumes oppi- 
dum attigimus, licet per viam binae fulminibus, imbribusque 
horrendis foetae tempestatee nobis jncubuerint, ac tigris rugitu 
assiduo totam per noctem minitans nobis iterum, iterumque 
propinqu^rit. Hispanos, quels matrem duabus cum prolibus 
per transennam exhibui, nihilque omnino Indoinim sylvestrium 
in tota late vicinia superesse, significavi, timoris sui et puduit, 
et pcenituit. Autumaverant equidem sylvas Empalado, et 
Mondag fluminibus interjectas barbarorum habitationibus, per- 
inde ut formicis, undique scatere. Jam de forma, habitudine, 
Vivendi ratione, quam in matre, ejusque prolibus observaveram, 
dicendum obiter aliquid. Ab ineunte aetate in Mondag litori- 
bus, culicum, serpentum, aliorumque animalculorum noxiorum 
frequentia oppido infectis consedere. Palmarum ramis tugu- 
riolum defiiiiebatur. Aqua semper lutulenta potum ; arborum 
fructus, alces, damulae, cuniculi, aves variae, frumentum tur- 
cicum, radices arboris mandio dapem ; tela ex foliis caraquati 
contexta vestitum, lectumque praebuere. Mel, quod exesis 
in arboribus passim prostat, inter cupedias numerabatur. Ta- 
bacaB, quam peti vocant Cluaranii, fumum ex arundine, cui 
ligneum vasculum cacabi instar pracfixum, diu noctuque hau- 
sorat vetula ; filius tabacae folia in pulverem redacta ore man- 
dere nunquam desiit. Concha ad lapidem exacuta pro cultro 
utcbantur, interdum arundine fissa. Adolescens matris, soro- 
risque nutricius bina ferri frustilla, cultri olini confracti reli- 
quias, pollicem lata, et poUice nil longiora, ligno, ceu manu- 
brio inserta, cera, tiloque circumligata cingulo gestabat suo. 
Hoc instrumento sagittas scitissime elaborare, decipulas e 
ligno ad capiendas alces facere, arbores, ubi mellis indicium 
viderat, perfodere, aliaque id genus praestare solebat. Cum 
argilla, e qua ollae conficiuntur, nusquam esset, carnibus assis, 
lion coctis vescebantur per omncra vitam. Herbae Paraquari- 
cae folia non nisi frigida perfudere, cum vas, quo aquam re- 
cepto more calefacerent, non haberent. Ignem per aftVictum 
celerem duorum lignellorum norunt promptissirae elicere, 
omnium Americanorum more, quod alio loco exponam uberi- 
us. Ad restinguendam sitim aqua palustri, semperque, ni ab 
Austro frigido refrigeretur tantisper, tepida utebantur, cui ad- 
ferendae, asservandaeque ingentes cucurbitae pro cantharis 
serviunt. Ut, quam curta illis domi fuerit suppellex, porro 
videas, de eorum vestitu facienda est mentio. 

" Juveni lacerna e caraquati fills concinnata e scapulis ad 
genua utrinque defluebat ; ventre funiculis praecincto, e quibus 
cucurbitam tabacae pulveribus, quos mandit, plenam suspendit. 
Rete crassioribus e filis matri lectus noctu, interdiu vestis 
fuit unica. 

" Puellae pariter breve reticulum, in quo noctibus cubabat, 
per diem vestitus instar fuerat. Cum nimis diaphana mihi 
videretur, ut verecundiae consultum iremin Indorum, Hispano- 
rumque praesentia, linteum gossipinum, quo lotas manus ter- 
gimus, illius nuditati tegendae destinavi. Puella linteum, 
quod illi Indi mei porrexerant, iterum, iterumque complica- 
tum papyri instar, caplti imposuit suo, ceu clypeum contra 
soils aastus ; verum admonita ab Indis illo se involvit, Juve- 
ni quoque, ne vcrecundos offcnderct oculos, perizomata linea, 



quibus in itineribus contra culicum morsus caput obvolveram 
meum, invito obtrusi. Prius celsissimas arbores simii veloci- 
tate scandebat, ut fructus ab apris tribus devorandos, inde de- 
cerperet. Caligis, veluti compedibus impeditus vix gressura 
figere potuit. Tanta rerum penuria, frugalitate tanta cum in 
solitudine victitarent semper, ac anachoretarum veterum ri- 
gores, asperitatesque experirentur, sorte sua contentissimos, 
tranquillo animo, corporeque morburum nescios illos suspexi. 
Ex quopalam fit, naturam panels contentam esse ; erubescant 
illi, quibus saturandis, ornandisque totus orbis vix sufficit. 
Ex ultimis terrae finibus, ex oceani, sylvarum, camporum, 
montium, tellurisque gremio, ex elementis omnibus, et unde 
non? avide petuntur subsidia, quae ad comendum corpus, ad 
oblectandum palatum faciunt. Verum dum oblectare se, or- 
nareque putant, se onerant, opprimuntque. Dum delicias 
multiplicant suas, opes, viresque imminuunt quotidie, formae 
venustatem labefactant, morbos adsciscunt sibi, mortemque 
accelerant eo infeliciores, quo fuerint delicatiores. 

"Tres mei sylvicolae, de quibus sermo, rituum Quaraniis 
barbaris propriorum ve! immemores, vel contemptores fuerunt. 
Crinibus passis sine ulla incisione, vel ligamine incedebant. 
Juveni nee labium pertusum, nee vertex psittacorum plumis 
coronatus. Matri, filia^quo inaures nulte, quamvis ilia collo 
circumdederit monilis loco funiculum, e quo frustilla ligni 
pyramidati, sat multi ponderis pendebant ; e mutuo illorum 
collisu ad quemvis gressum strepitus edebatur. Primo con- 
spectu interrogavi vetulam: num ad terrendos culices strepi- 
tanshocmonile e collo suspenderit? moxqueglobulorum vitre- 
orum exquisiti coloris fascem ligneis his ponderibus substitui. 
Mater, filiusque corpore erant procero, forma honesta; filia 
vultu tam candido, tamque eleganti, ut i Poetis Driadas inter 
Nyraphas, Hamadriadasque numerari, ab Europaeo quovis 
pulcbra dici tuto posset. Hilaritatem decoram aft'ahilitatl 
conjunctam prae se ferebat. Nostro adventu repentino minime 
terreri, recreari potius videbatur. duaraiiica lingua loquentes 
nos liberalos inter cachinnos risit, nos illam eadem respon- 
dentem. Cum enim extra aliorum Indorum societatem fratri, 
matrlque duntaxat colloqueretur, verbis Quaranicis retentis 
quidem, ridicula quadam diulectus irrepsit. Sic quaragi sol : 
yagi luna: cheragi asgroto dicimus reliqui, et illud c cum 
subjecta notula veluti s pronunciamus, quarassi, yassi, che- 
rassi ; illi qiiaratschi, yatschi, chcratschi dicebant. Juvenis 
prffiter matrem, sororemque nullam unquam vidit foeminam ; 
neque propter patrem suum virum aliquem. Puella matrem 
duntaxat novit, nullam praBterea foeminam. Virum praster 
fratrem suum ne eminus quidem conspexit, dum enim utero i 
matre gestabatur, pater ejus k tigride fuerat discerptus. Ad 
fructus seu humi, seu in arboribus natos conquirendos, ad 
ligna, foco necessaria, colligenda sylvam dumetis, arundinibus, 
spinisque horrentem solers puella peragravit quotidie, quibus 
pedes misere pertusos habebat. Ne incomitata esset, psitta- 
cum exiJem humero, simiolum brachio insidentem circumtulit 
plerumque, nullo tigridum metu, queis omnis ilia vicinia abun- 
dat, vel me ipso teste oculato. Pridie ejus diei, quo in isto- 
rum contubernium incurrimus, parum abfuit, quin dormiens k 
propinqua jam tigride devorarer. Indi mei ejus rugitu exper- 
gefacti et hastis et admotis celeriter ignibus vitam servarunt 
meam. His in nemoribus, cum minor sit fernrum copia, tigri- 
des fame stimulante ferociunt atrocius, avidiusque in obvios 
assiliunt homines, quam in campis, ubi, cum infinita vis peco- 
rum (Ihnnis generis oberret, praeda, famisque remedium, quoties 
lubet, illis in promptu est. Novi proselyti in oppido mcx 
vestiti reliquorum more, et prae reliquis quotidiano cibo libe- 
raliter refecti sunt. Curatum quoque k me diligenter, ad 
sylvas vicinas cum aliis ut excurrant frequentius, umbra, 
amoenaque arborum, queis assueverant, viriditate fruituri. 
Experientia equidem novimus, ut pisces extra aquam cite 
intereunt, sic barbaros e sylvis ad oppida translates saepe 
contabescere, victus, aerisque mutatione, ac soils potissimum 
aestu corporum habitudinem perturbante, quippe quae k pueritia 
humidis, frigidiusculis, opacisque nemoribus assueverunt. 
Idem fuit matris, filii, filiaeque nostro in oppido fatum. Paucis 
ab adventu suo hebdomadibus gravedine, rheumateque totum 
corpus pervadente tentabantur omnes. His oculorum, auri- 
umque dolor, ac baud multo post surditas successit. Moerore 
animi, cibique omnis fastidium vires absumpsit adeo, ut ex- 
trema demum macies, tabesque nullis remediis proficientibus 
consequeretur. Aliquot mensibus languescens mater seni- 
cula. Christians disciplince rudimentis rite imbuta, sacroque 



500 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY; DEDICATION 



tincta latice prima occubuit, animo tam sereno, Divinisque 
voluutatibus acquiescente, ut illam ad supeios transisse nil 
dubitaverim. Puella, quae plena vigoris, venustatisque oppi- 
dum ingrediebatur, viribus exhausta, sui omnino jam dis- 
similis, floris instar paulatim marcescens vix ossibus heesit, ac 
denique matrem ad tumulum secuta est, et nisi vehemen- 
tissime fkllor, ad Coelum. Quid si cum regum sapientissimo 
dicamus : illam post sacrum, quo expiata est, baptisma con- 
smnmatum in brevi explevisse tempora multa: placitam Deo 
fuisse animam illius : raptam esse, ne malitia mutaret intel- 
lectum ejus. Illud certissimum : qui innocentissima puellffi 
integritatem laudibus, funus praepropernm lacrymis non prose- 
queretur, neminem in oppido fuisse. Frater illius turn su- 
perstes eandem, qua mater, sororque extinctce sunt, invaletu- 
dinem sensit, sed, quia robustior, superavit. Q,uin et ex mor- 
billis, qui multas in oppido edebant strages, subinde convaluit 
adeo, ut confirmata penitus valetudine nihil illi porro metu- 
endum esse videretur. Hilari erat animo, statis horis sacram 
adivit aidem, Christiana dogmata condidicit perdiligenter, 
morigerum, placidumque se praebuit omnibus, ac frugis optima 
indicia passim dedit. Ad periclitandam tamen illius in oppido 
perseverantiam tantisper differendum ejus baptismum existi- 
niavi. Hsec inter adest forte Indus Christianus, qui hunc 
catechumenum me jubente suis dudum habebat in aedibus, vir 
probus, et agri dives. Hie: mi Pater, ajebat, sylvicolanoster 
equidem optime valet, verum mihi videtur ad delirandum 
propendere. Nil sibi jam dolere, sed noctes sibi insomnes 
al)ire, inquit, spectabilem sibi matrem cum sorore adesse quot 
noctibus, et amica voce sibi dicere : JVdeca7-ay, ndecaray &nga, 
ndereinimd a cyrupioro yu yebindererahabone. Sine te, quaeso, 
baptizari. Prseter tuam expectationem veniemus iterum te 
abducturae. Hoc alloquio, hoc aspectu sibi somnum impediri, 
ait. Jubeas ilium meo nomine, respondi, bono esse animo. 
Tristem matris, sororisque, quibuscum, per omnem aetatem 
versatus est, recordationem somniorum ejusmodicausam esse. 
Illas coelo, ut quidem mihi verisimile, receptas nihil jam ne- 
gotii his in terris habere. Hsec ego. Verum paucos post dies 
idem redit Indus, eadem, qua nuper, refert, suamque de ti- 
menda catechumen! deliratione suspicionem confirmat. Ali- 
quid rei subesse, suspicatus actutum ejus in domum propero, 
sedentem deprehendo. Rogatus i me : qui se habeat.'' inco- 
lumem, doloris omnis expertem se esse ridens reponit, addit 
tamen : vigilando semper se noctem agere, quod mater, soror- 
que identidem praesentes sibi offerantur, de baptismo acce- 
lerando moneant, et inopinate se abducendum, minentur5 id- 
circonullam se quietis partem capere posse, iterum, iterumque 
mihi affirmat candore, ut semper alias, summo. Somniari ab 
illo talia, atque adeo contemni posse, autumaveram ; memor 
tamen, somnia monitiones ccelestes, Dei oracula non raro ex- 
stitisse, uti divinis ex literis patet, in negotio tanti momenti 
visum mihi est catechumeni et securitati et tranquillitati con- 
sulere. De illius perseverantia, de religionis capitum scientia 
sat ccrtua prsmissis interrogationibusque necessariis eum sa- 
cris undis mox ablui, Ludovici nomine insignivi. Hoc a me 
praestitum 23 Junii, S. .Toannis Baptistae vigilia circa horam 
decimam antemeridianam. Eodem die circa vesperum nullo 
morbo, aut apoplexiae indicio accedente placidissime expiravit. 
" Hie eventus, universe oppido compertus, quemque juratus 
testari possum, in admirationera rapuit omnes. Lectoris 
arbitrio, quid de hoc sentiendum sit, relinquo. Nunquam 
tamen in animum inducere meum, potui, ut factum hoc for- 
tuitum putarem. Eximice Dei dementias tribuo, quod hi tres 
sylvicolae k me sint reperti in ignotis sylvarum latebris, quod 
mihi ad oppidum meum, ad amplectendam religionem se hor- 
tanti morem promptissime gesserint, quod sacro latice expiati 
vitam clauserint. Optimum Numen in Coelo consociatos vo- 
luit, qui tot annos in sylva contubernales fuere incredibili 
morum integritate. Fateor, dulcissimam mihi etiamnum ac- 
cidere expeditionis ad flumcn Empalado memoriam, quae licet 
multis molcstiis, periculisque mihi constiterit, ternis illis 
sylvicolis felicissima fuit ; Hispanis utilissima : hi equidem i 
me facti certiores, quod per immensos illos nemorum tractus 
nulla porro Earbarorum vestigia extent, istic per triennium 
quaestu maximo multa centenariorum millia herbaj Paraquaricae 
collegerunt. Neque id rarum, missionariorum, qui sylvas 
herbae feraces barbaris liberant, sudore, ac periculo Hispanos 
ditescere mercatores. His tamen nunquam in mentem venit 
ad alendos, vestiendosque catechumenos vel micam, filumve 
contribuere. Illorum corpora, ut animi missionariorum saepis- 



sime inopum curae Yelinquuntvn:" — DoMzJwffe?- de Miponi- 
bus, Lib. Prodromus, pp. 97—106. 



DEDICATION. 



TO EDITH MAY SOUTHEY. 



Edtth ! ten years are number'd, since the day, 
Which ushers in the cheerful month of May, 
To us by thy dear birth, my daughter dear, 
Was blest. Thou therefore didst the name 

partake 
Of that sweet month, the sweetest of the year ; 
But fitlier was it given thee for the sake 
Of a good man, thy father's friend sincere, 
Who at the font made answer in thy name. 
Thy love and reverence rightly may he claim, 
For closely hath he been with me allied 
In friendship's holy bonds, from that first hour 
When in our youth we met on Tejo's side ; 
Bonds which, defying now all Fortune's power, 
Time hath not loosen'd, nor will Death divide. 



A child more welcome, by indulgent Heaven 
Never to parents' tears and prayers was given : 
For scarcely eight months at thy happy birth 
Had pass'd, since of thy sister we v/ere left, — 
Our first-born and our only babe, bereft. 
Too fair a flower was she for this rude earth ! 
The features of her beauteous infancy 
Have faded from me, like a passing cloud, 
Or like the glories of an evening sky : 
And seldom hath my tongue pronounced her 

name 
Since she was summon'd to a happier sphere. 
But that dear love, so deeply wounded then, 
I in my soul with silent faith sincere 
Devoutly cherish till we meet again. 

3. 

I saw thee first with trembling thankfulness, 
O daughter of my hopes and of my fears ! 
Press' d on thy senseless cheek a troubled kiss. 
And breathed my blessing over thee with tears. 
But memory did not long our bliss alloy ; 
For gentle nature, who had given relief, 
Wean'd with new love the chasten'd heart from 

grief; 
And the sweet season minister'd to joy. 

4. 

It was a season when their leaves and flowers 
The trees as to an Arctic summer spread ; 
When chilling wintry winds and snowy showers, 
Which had too long usurp'd the vernal hours. 
Like spectres from the sight of morning, fled 
Before the presence of that joyous May; 
And groves and gardens all the live-long day 
Rung with the birds' loud love-songs. Over all, 
One thrush was heard from morn till even-fall ; 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY; DEDICATION; PROEM. 



501 



Thy Mother well remembers when she lay 
The happy prisoner of the genial bed, 
How from yon lofty poplar's topmost spray, 
At earliest dawn his thrilling pipe was heard; 
And when the light of evening died away, 
That blithe and indefatigable bird 
Still his redundant song of joy and love preferr'd. 



How I have doted on thine infant smiles 
< At morning, when thine eyes unclosed on mine ; 
[ How, as the months in swift succession roll'd, 
! I mark'd thy human faculties unfold, 
j And watch'd the dawning of the light divine; 
[ And with what artifice of playful guiles 
Won from thy lips with still-repeated wiles 
Kiss after kiss, a reckoning often told, — 
Something I ween thou know'st; for thou hast 

seen 
Thy sisters in their turn such fondness prove, 
And felt how childhood, in its winning years, 
The attemper'd soul to tenderness can move. 
This thou canst tell ; but not the hopes and fears 
With which a parent's heart doth overflow, — 
The thoughts and cares inwoven with that 
love, — 
Its nature and its depth, thou dost not, canst not 
know. 



The years which since thy birth have pass'd away 
May well to thy young retrospect appear 
A measureless extent : — like yesterday 
To me, so soon they fill'd their short career. 
To thee discourse of reason have they brought, 
With sense of time and change ; and something 

too 
Of this precarious state of things have taught, 
Where Man abideth never in one stay ; 
And of mortality a mournful thought. 
And I have seen thine eyes suffused in grief. 
When I have said that with autumnal gray 
The touch of eld hath mark'd thy father's head; 
That even the longest day of life is brief. 
And mine is falling fast into the yellow leaf. 

7. 
Thy happy nature from the painful thought 
With instinct turns, and scarcely canst thou bear 
To hear me name the Grave. Thou knowest not 
How large a portion of my heart is there I 
The faces which I loved in infancy 
Are gone ; and bosom-friends of riper age, 
With whom I fondly talk'd of years to come, 
Summon'd before me to their heritage 
Are in the better world, beyond the tomb. 
And I have brethren there, and sisters dear. 
And dearer babes. I therefore ne^s must dwell 
Often in thought with those whom still I love so 
well. 



Thus wilt thou feel in thy maturer mind ; 
When grief shall be thy portion, thou wilt find 
Safe consolation in such thoughts as these, — 



A present refuge in affliction's hour. 

And if indulgent Heaven thy lot should bless 

With all imaginable happiness. 

Here shalt thou have, my child, beyond all power 

Of chance, thy holiest, surest, best delight. 

Take therefore now thy Father's latest lay, — 

Perhaps his last ; — and treasure in thine heart 

The feelings that its musing strains convey. 

A song it is of life's declining day. 

Yet meet for youth. Vain passions to excite, 

No strains of morbid sentiment I sing, 

Nor tell of idle loves with ill-spent breath ; 

A reverent offering to the Grave I bring. 

And twine a garland for the brow of Death. 

Kesioick, 1814. 



PROEM. 

That was a memorable day for Spain, 
When on Pamplona's towers, so basely won, 
The Frenchmen stood, and saw upon the plain 
Their long-expected succors hastening on : 
Exultingly they mark'd the brave array. 
And deem'd their leader should his purpose gain, 
Though Wellington and England barr'd the way. 
Anon the bayonets glitter'd in the sun. 
And frequent cannon flash'd, whose lurid light 
Redden'd through sulphurous smoke ; fast vol- 
leying round 
Roll'd the war-thunders, and with long rebound 
Backward from many a rock and cloud-capt 

height 
In answering peals Pyrene sent the sound. 
Impatient for relief, toward the fight 
The hungry garrison their eye-balls strain : 
Vain was the Frenchman's skill, his valor vain ; 
And even then, when eager hope almost 
Had moved their irreligious lips to prayer, 
Averting from the fatal scene their sight, 
They breathed the execrations of despair. 
For Wellesley's star hath risen ascendant there , 
Once more he drove the host of France to flight, 
And triumph'd once again for God and for the right. 

That was a day, whose influence far and wide 
The struggling nations felt ; it was a joy 
Wherewith all Europe rung from side to side. 
Yet hath Pamplona seen, in former time, 
A moment big with mightier consequence, 
Affecting many an age and distant clime. 
That day it was which saw in her defence, 
Contending with the French before her wall, 
A noble soldier of Guipuzcoa fall, 
Sore hurt, but not to death. For when long care 
Restored his shatter'd leg, and set him free, 
He would not brook a slight deformity. 
As one who, being gay and debonnair, 
In courts conspicuous as in camps must be : 
So he, forsooth, a shapely boot must wear ; 
And the vain man, with peril of his life, 
Laid the recover'd limb again beneath the knife. 



502 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



Long time upon the bed of pain he lay, 
Whiling with books the weary hours away ; 
And from that circumstance and this vain man 
A train of long events their course began, 
Whose term it is not given us yet to see. 
Who hath not heard Loyola's sainted name, 
Before whom Kings and Nations bow'd the knee ? 
Thy annals, Ethiopia, might proclaim 
What deeds arose from tliat prolific day ; 
And of dark plots might shuddering Europe tell. 
But Science, too, her trophies would display; 
Faith give the martyrs of Japan their fame ; 
And Charity on works of love would dwell 
In California's dolorous regions drear ; 
And where, amid a pathless world of wood, 
Gathering a thousand rivers on his way, 
Huge Orellana rolls his affluent flood ; 
And where the happier sons of Paraguay, 
By gentleness and pious art subdued, 
Bow'd their meek heads beneath the Jesuits' 

sway. 
And lived and died in filial servitude. 

I love thus uncontroll'd, as in a dream. 
To muse upon the course of human things ; 
Exploring sometimes the remotest springs, 
Far as tradition lends one guiding gleam ; 
Or following, upon Thought's audacious wings, 
Into Futurity, the endless stream. 
But now, in quest of no ambitious height, 
I go where Truth and Nature lead my way. 
And ceasing here from desultory flight. 
In measured strains I tell a Tale of Paraguay, 



CANTO I. 



Jenner ! forever shall thy honor'd name 
Among the children of mankind be bless'd. 
Who by thy skill hast taught us how to tame 
One dire disease, — the lamentable pest 
Which Africa sent forth to scourge the West, 
As if in vengeance for her sable brood 
So many an age remorselessly oppress'd. 
For that most fearful malady subdued 
Receive a poet's praise, a father's gratitude. 



Fair promise be this triumph of an age 
When Man, with vain desires no longer blind. 
And wise, though late, his only war shall wage. 
Against the miseries which afflict mankind. 
Striving with virtuous heart and strenuous mind 
Till evil from the earth shall pass away. 
Lo, this his glorious destiny assign'd ! 
For that bless'd consummation let us pray. 
And trust in fervent faith, and labor as we may. 



The hideous malady which lost its power 
When Jenner's art the dire contagion stay'd, 
Among Columbia's sons, in fatal hour. 
Across the wide Atlantic wave convey'd, 



Its fiercest form of pestilence display'd : 
Where'er its deadly course the plague began, 
Vainly the wretched sufferer look'd for aid; 
Parent from child, and child from parent ran, 
For tyrannous fear dissolved all natural bonds 
of man. 



A feeble nation of Guarani race, 
Thinn'd by perpetual wars, but unsubdued, 
Had taken up at length a resting-place 
Among those tracts of lake, and swamp, and 

wood, 
Where Mondai, issuing from its solitude. 
Flows with slow stream to Empalado's bed. 
It was a region desolate and rude ; 
But thither had the horde for safety fled. 
And being there conceal'd, in peace their lives 

they led. 



There had the tribe a safe asylum found 
Amid those marshes wide and woodlands dense, 
With pathless wilds and waters spread around, 
And labyrinthine swamps, a sure defence 
From human foes, — but not from pestilence. 
The spotted plague appear'd, that direst ill; 
How brought among them none could tell, or 

whence ; 
The mortal seed had lain among them still. 
And quicken'd now to work the Lord's mysterious 

will. 



Alas, it was no medicable grief 
Which herbs might reach ! Nor could the jug- 
gler's power. 
With all his antic mummeries, bring relief. 
Faith might not aid him in that ruling hour, 
Plimself a victim now. The dreadful stour 
None could escape, nor aught its force assuage. 
The marriageable maiden had her dower 
From death; the strong man sunk beneath its 
rage. 
And death cut short the thread of childhood and 
of age. 



No time for customary mourning now ; 

With hand close-clinch'd to pluck the rooted 

hair, 
To beat the bosom, on the swelling brow 
Inflict redoubled blows, and blindly tear 
The cheeks, indenting bloody furrows there. 
The deep-traced signs indelible of woe ; 
Then to some crag, or bank abrupt, repair. 
And giving grief its scope, infuriate throw 
The impatient body thence upon the earth below. 

8. 
Devices these by poor, weak nature taught. 
Which thus a change of suffering would obtain; 
And flying from intolerable thought. 
And piercing recollections, would full fain 
Distract itself by sense of fleshly pain 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



503 



From anguish that the soul must else endure. 
Easier all outward torments to sustain, 
Than those heart- Avounds which only time can 
cure, 
And He in whom alone the hopes of man are sure. 



None sorrow'd here ; the sense of woe was sear'd, 
When every one endured his own sore ill. 
The prostrate sufferers neither hoped nor fear'd ; 
The body labor'd, but the heart was still : — 
So let the conquering malady fulfil 
Its fatal course, rest cometh at the end ! 
Passive they lay with neither wish nor will 
For aught but this ; nor did they long attend 
That welcome boon from death, the never-failing 
friend. 

10. 
Who is there to make ready now the pit. 
The house that will content from this day forth 
Its easy tenant ? Who in vestments fit 
Shall swathe the sleeper for his bed of earth, 
Now tractable as when a babe at birth ? 
Who now the ample funeral urn shall knead, 
And, burying it beneath his proper hearth, 
Deposit there with careful hands the dead. 
And lightly then relay the floor above his head .' 

11. 

Unwept, unshrouded, and unsepulchred. 
The hammock, where they hang, for winding- 
sheet 
And grave suffices the deserted dead : 
There from the armadillo's searching feet 
Safer than if within the tomb's retreat. 
The carrion birds obscene in vain essay 
To find that quarry : round and round they beat 
The air, but fear to enter for their prey, 
And from the silent door the jaguar turns away. 

12. 

But nature for her universal law 
Hath other, surer instruments in store. 
Whom from the haunts of men no wonted awe 
! Withholds as with a spell. In swarms they pour 
1 From wood and swamp ; and when their work 
is o'er. 
On the white bones the mouldering roof will fall ; 
Seeds will take root, and spring in sun and 

shower ; 
And Mother Earth ere long with her green pall. 
Resuming to herself the wreck, will cover all. 

I 13. 

Oh ! better thus with earth to have their part, 

Than in Egyptian catacombs to lie, 

Age after age preserved by horrid art. 

In ghastly image of humanity ! 

Strange pride that with corruption thus would 

vie ! 
And strange delusion that would thus maintain 
The fleshly form, till cycles shall pass by. 
And in the series of the eternal chain, 

The spirit come to seek its old abode again. 



14. 

One pair alone survived the general fate ; 
Left in such drear and mournful solitude, 
That death might seem a preferable state. 
Not more depress'd the Arkite patriarch stood, 
When landing first on Ararat he view'd, 
Where all around the mountain summits lay, 
Like islands seen amid the boundless flood : 
Nor our first parents more forlorn than they. 
Through Eden when they took their solitary way. 

15. 

Alike to them it seem'd, in their despair, 
Whither they wander'd from the infected spot. 
Chance might direct their steps : they took no 

care; 
Come well or ill to them, it matter'd not! 
Left as they were in that unhappy lot, 
The sole survivors they of all their race. 
They reck'd not when their fate, nor where, 

nor what. 
In this resignment to their hopeless case. 
Indifferent to all choice or circumstance of place. 

16. 

That palsying stupor past away ere long, 
And as the spring of health resumed its power. 
They felt that life was dear, and hope was strong. 
What marvel ? 'Twas with them the morning 

hour, 
When bliss appears to be the natural dower 
Of all the creatures of this joyous earth 5 
And sorrow, fleeting, like a vernal shower, 
Scarce interrupts the current of our mirth; 
Such is the happy heart we bring with us at birth. 

17. 

Though of his nature and his boundless love 
Erring, yet tutor'd by instinctive sense. 
They rightly deem'd the Power who rules above 
Had saved them from the wasting pestilence. 
That favoring power would still be their defence : 
Thus were they by their late deliverance taught 
To place a child-like trust in Providence, 
And in their state forlorn they found this thought 
Of natural faith with hope and consolation fraught. 

18. 
And now they built themselves a leafy bower. 
Amid a glade, slow Mondai's stream beside, 
Screen'd from the southern blast of piercing 

power ; 
Not like their native dwelling, long and wide. 
By skilful toil of numbers edified, 
The common home of all, their human nest, 
Where threescore hammocks, pendant side by 

side, 
Were ranged, and on the ground the fires were 

dress 'd ; 
Alas, that populous hive hath now no living guest ! 

19. 
A few firm stakes they planted in the ground, 
Circling a narrow space, yet large enow ; 
These, strongly interknit, they closed around 



504 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



With basket-work of many a pliant bough. 
The roof was like the sides ; the door was low, 
And rude the hut, and trimm'd with little care. 
For little heart had they to dress it now ; 
Yet was the humble structure fresh and fair, 
And soon its inmates found that love might so- 
journ there. 

20. 
Quiara could recall to mind the course 
Of twenty summers ; perfectly he knew 
Whate'er his fathers taught of skill or force. 
Right to the mark his whizzing lance he threw. 
And from his bow the unerring arrow flew 
With fatal aim : and when the laden bee 
Buzz'd by him in its flight, he could pursue 
Its path with certain ken, and follow free 
Until he traced the hive in hidden bank or tree. 

21. 

Of answering years was Monnema, nor less 
Expert in all her sex's household ways. 
The Indian weed she skilfully could dress ; 
And in what depth to drop the yellow maize 
She knew, and when around its stem to raise 
The lighten'd soil; and well could she prepare 
Its ripen'd seed for food, her proper praise ; 
Or in the embers turn with frequent care 

Its succulent head yet green, sometimes for daintier 

[fare. 
22. 
And how to macerate the bark she knew, 
And draw apart its beaten fibres fine. 
And bleaching them in sun, and air, and dew, 
From dry and glossy filaments entwine, 
With rapid twirl of hand, the lengthening line ; 
Next interknitting well the twisted thread, 
In many an even mesh its knots combine. 
And shape in tapering length the pensile bed. 

Light hammock there to hang beneath the leafy- 
shed. 

23. 

Time had been when, expert in works of clay. 
She lent her hands the swelling u.rn to mould, 
And fill'd it for the appointed festal day 
With the beloved beverage which the bold 
Quaff 'd in their triumph and their joy of old; 
The fruitful cause of many an uproar rude. 
When, in their drunken bravery uncontroll'd, 
Some bitter jest awoke the dormant feud. 
And wrath, and rage, and strife, and wounds, and 
death ensued. 

24. 

These occupations were gone by : the skill 
Was useless now, which once had been her pride. 
Content were they, when thirst impell'd, to fill 
The dry and hollow gourd from Mondai's side ; 
The river from its sluggish bed supplied 
A draught for repetition all unmeet ; 
Howbeit the bodily want was satisfied; 
No feverish pulse ensued, nor ireful heat ; 
Their days were undisturb'd, their natural sleep 
was sweet. 



25. 
She, too, had learn'd in youth how best to trim 
The honor'd Chief for his triumphal day. 
And covering with soft gums the obedient limb 
And body, then with feathers overlay. 
In regular hues disposed, a rich display. 
Well pleased the glorious savage stood, and eyed 
The growing work ; then, vain of his array, 
Look'd with complacent frown from side to side, 
Stalk'd with elater step, and swell'd with statelier 
pride. 

26. 
Feasts and carousals, vanity and strife, 
Could have no place with them in solitude 
To break the tenor of their even life. 
Quiara day by day his game pursued, 
Searching the air, the water, and the wood. 
With hawk -like eye, and arrow sure as fate ; 
And Monnema prepared the hunter's food : 
Cast with him here in this forlorn estate, 
In all things for the man was she a fitting mate. 

27. 
The Moon had gather'd oft her monthly store 
Of light, and oft in darkness left the sky, 
Since Monnema a growing burden bore 
Of life and hope. The appointed weeks go by; 
And now her hour is come, and none is nigh 
To help : but human help she needed none. 
A few short throes endured with scarce a cry, 
Upon the bank she laid her new-born son. 
Then slid into the stream, and bathed, and all was 
done. 

28. 
Might old observances have there been kept. 
Then should the husband to that pensile bed, 
Like one exhausted with the birth, have crept, 
And laying down in feeble guise his head, 
For many a day been nursed and dieted 
With tender care, to childing mothers due. 
Certes a custom strange, and yet far spread 
Through many a savage tribe, howe'er it grew, 
And once in the old , world known as widely as 
the new. 

29. 
This could not then be done ; he might not lay 
The bow and those unerring shafts aside ; 
Nor through the appointed weeks forego the 

prey, 
Still to be sought amid those regions wide. 
None being there who should the while provide 
That lonely household with their needful food : 
So, still Quiara through the forest plied 
His daily task, and in the thickest Avood 
Still laid his snares for birds, and still the chase 

pursued. 

30. 

But seldom may such thoughts of mingled joy 
A father's agitated breast dilate. 
As when he first beheld that infant boy. 
Who hath not proved it, ill can estimate 



CliNTO I. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



505 



The feeling of that stirring hour, — the weight 
Of that new sense, the thoughtful, pensive bliss. 
In all the changes of our changeful state, 
Even from the cradle to the grave, I wis, 
rhe heart doth undergo no change so great as this. 

31. 
A deeper and unwonted feeling fill'd 
These parents, gazing on their new-born son. 
Already in their busy hopes they build 
On this frail sand. Now let the seasons run, 
And let the natural work of time be done 
With them, — for unto them a child is born ; 
And when the hand of Death may reach the one, 
The other will not now be left to mourn 
\ solitary wretch, all utterly forlorn. 

32. 
Thus Monnema and thus Quiara thought. 
Though each the melancholy thought repress'd ; 
They could not choose but feel, yet litter' d not 
The human feeling, which in hours of rest 
Often would rise, and fill the boding breast 
With a dread foretaste of that mournful day. 
When, at the inexorable Power's behest. 
The unwilling spirit, called perforce away. 
Must leave, forever leave, its dear connatural clay. 

33. 

Link'd as they were, where each to each was all, 
How might the poor survivor hope to bear 
That heaviest loss which one day must befall. 
Nor sink beneath the weight of his despair .'' 
Scarce could the heart even for a moment dare 
That miserable time to contemplate. 
When the dread Messenger should find them 

there, 
From whom is no escape, — and reckless Fate, 
^hom it had bound so close, forever separate. 

34. 
Lighter that burden lay upon the heart 
When this dear babe was born to share tlieir lot ; 
They could endure to think that they must 

part. 
Then too a glad consolatory thought 
Arose, while gazing on the child they sought 
With hope their dreary prospect to delude, 
Till they almost believed, as fancy taught, 
How that from them a tribe should spring re- 

new'd, 
Co people and possess that ample solitude. 

35. 
Such hope they felt, but felt that whatsoe'er 
The undiscoverable to come might prove, 
Unwise it were to let that bootless care 
Disturb the present hours of peace and love. 
For they had gain'd a happiness above 
The state which in their native horde was known : 
No outward causes were there here to move 
Discord and alien thoughts ; being thus alone 
Trom all mankind, their hearts and their desires 
were one. 

64 



36. 
DiflTerent their love in kind and in degree 
From what their poor depraved forefathers knew, 
With whom degenerate instincts were left free 
To take their course, and blindly to pursue, 
Unheeding they the ills that must ensue, 
The bent of brute desire. No moral tie 
Bound the hard husband to his servile crew 
Of wives; and they the chance of change might 

try, 

All love destroy 'd by such preposterous liberty, 

37. 
Far other tie this solitary pair 
Indissolubly bound ; true helpmates they, 
In joy or grief, in weal or woe to share, 
In sickness or in health, through life's long day ; 
And reassuming in their hearts her sway 
Benignant Nature made the burden light. 
It was the Woman's pleasure to obey. 
The Man's to ease her toil in all he might ; 
So each in serving each obtain'd the best delight. 

38. 
And as connubial, so parental love 
Obey'd unerring Nature's order here. 
For now no force of impious custom strove 
Against her law ; — such as was wont to sear 
The unhappy heart with usages severe. 
Till harden'd mothers in the grave could lay 
Their living babes with no compunctious tear; 
So monstrous men become, when from the way 
Of primal light the}'^ turn through heathen paths 
astray. 

39. 
Deliver'd from this yoke, in them henceforth 
The springs of natural love may freely flow : 
New joys, new virtues with that happy birth 
Are born, and with the growing infant grow. 
Source of our purest happiness below 
Is that benignant law which hath entwined 
Dearest delight with strongest duty, so 
That in the healthy heart and righteous mind 
Ever they co-exist, inseparably combined. 

40. 
Oh ! bliss for them when in that infant face 
They now the unfolding faculties descry, 
And fondly gazing, trace — or think they trace — 
The first faint speculation in that eye, 
Which hitherto hath roll'd in vacancy ! 
Oh ! bliss in that soft countenance to seek 
Some mark of recognition, and espy 
The quiet smile which in the innocent cheek 
Of kindness and of kind its consciousness doth 
speak ! 

41. 

For him, if born among their native tribe, 
Some haughty name his parents had thought 



As weening that wherewith they should ascribe 
The strength of some fierce tenant of the wood. 



506 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



The water, or the atrial solitude, 
Jaguar or vulture, water- wolf or snake, 
The beast that prowls abroad in search of blood, 
Or reptile that within the treacherous brake 
Waits for the prey, upcoil'd, its hunger to aslake. 

42. 
Now soften'd as their spirits were by love. 
Abhorrent from such thoughts they turn'd away ; 
And with a happier feeling, from the dove, 
They named the child Yeruti. On a day. 
When, smiling at his mother's breast in play. 
They in his tones of murmuring pleasure heard 
A sweet resemblance of the stock-dove's lay. 
Fondly they named him from that gentle bird ; 
And soon such happy use endear'd the fitting word. 

43. 
Days past, and moons have wax'd and waned, 

and still 
This dovelet, nestled in their leafy bower. 
Obtains increase of sense, and strength, and will. 
As in due order many a latent power 
Expands, — humanity's exalted dower; 
And they, while thus the days serenely fled, 
Beheld him flourish like a vigorous flower, 
Which, lifting from a genial soil its head, 
By seasonable suns and kindly showers is fed. 

44. 
Erelong the cares of helpless babyhood 
To the next stage of infancy give place. 
That age with sense of conscious growth endued. 
When every gesture hath its proper grace : 
Then come the unsteady step, the tottering pace ; 
And watchful hopes and emulous thoughts 

appear ; 
The imitative lips essay to trace 
Their words, observant both with eye and ear, 
In mutilated sounds which parents love to hear. 

45. 
Serenely thus the seasons pass away ; 
And, oh ! how rapidly they seem to fly 
With those for whom to-morrow, like to-day, 
Glides on in peaceful uniformity ! 
Five years have since Yeruti's birth gone by, 
Five happy years; — and ere the Moon which 

then 
Hung like a Sylphid's light canoe on high 
Should fill its circle, Monnema, again, 
Laying her burden down, must bear a mother's 
pain, 

46. 
Alas, a keener pang, before that day, 
Must by the wretched Monnema be borne ! 
In quest of game Quiara went his way 
To roam the wilds, as he was wont, one morn ; 
She look'd in vain at eve for his return. 
By moonhght, through the midnight solitude, 
She sought him ; and she found his garment torn. 
His bow and useless arrows in the wood, 
Marks of a jaguar's feet, a broken spear, and blood. 



CANTO II. 



O THOU who, listening to th€? Poet's song, 
Dost yield thy willing spirit to his sway, 
Look not that I should painfully prolong 
The sad narration of that fatal day 
With tragic details ; all too true the lay ! 
Nor is my purpose e'er to entertain 
The heart with useless grief; but, as I may, 
Blend in my calm and meditative strain 
Consolatory thoughts, the balm for real pain. 



Youth or Maiden, whosoe'er thou art, 
Safe in my guidance may thy spirit be ; 

1 wound not wantonly the tender heart; 
And if sometimes a tear of sympathy 
Should rise, it will from bitterness be free — 
Yea, with a healing virtue be endued, 

As thou, in this true tale, shalt hear from me 
Of evils overcome, and grief subdued. 
And virtues springing up lik^ flowers in solitude. 



The unhappy Monnema, when thus bereft, 
Sunk not beneath the desolating blow. 
Widow'd she was; but still her child was left; 
For him must she sustain the weight of woe, 
Which else would in that hour have laid her low. 
Nor wish'd she now the work of death complete ; 
Then only doth the soul of woman know 
Its proper strength, when love and duty meet; 
Invincible the heart wherein they have their seat. 



The seamen who, upon some coral reef. 
Are cast amid the interminable main, 
Still cling to life, and, hoping for relief. 
Drag on their days of wretchedness and pain. 
In turtle-shells they hoard the scanty rain, 
And eat its flesh, sun-dried for lack of fire, 
Till the weak body can no more sustain 
Its wants, but sinks beneath its sufferings dire ; 
Most miserable man who sees the rest expire I 



He lingers there while months and years go by, 
And holds his hope though months and years 

have past; 
And still at morning round the farthest sky, 
And still at eve his eagle glance is cast, \ 

If there he may behold the far-off" mast 
Arise, for which he hath not ceased to pray. 
And if perchance a ship should come at last, 
And bear him from that dismal bank away, 
He blesses God that he hath lived to see that day. 

6. 

So strong a hold hath life upon the soul, 
Which sees no dawning of eternal light, 
But subject to this mortal frame's control. 
Forgetful of its origin and right, 



CANTO II. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



507 



Content in bondage dwells and utter night. 
By worthier ties was this poor mother bound 
To life ; even while her grief was at the height, 
Then in maternal love support she found, 
And in maternal cares a healing for her wound. 

7. 
For now her hour is come : a girl is born, 
Poor infant, all unconscious of its fate. 
How passing strange, how utterly forlorn ! 
The genial season served to mitigate, 
In all it might, their sorrowful estate. 
Supplying to the mother, at her door, 
From neighboring trees, which bent beneath their 

weight, 
A full supply of fruitage now mature ; 
So in that time of need their sustenance was sure. 



Nor then alone, but alway did the Eye 
Of Mercy look upon that lonely bower. 
Days past, and weeks; and months and years 

went by. 
And never evil thing the while had power 
To enter there. The boy, in sun and shower. 
Rejoicing in his strength to youthhed grew; 
And Mooma, that beloved girl, a dower 
Of gentleness from bounteous nature drew. 
With all that should the heart of womankind 

imbue. 



The tears which o'er her infancy were shed 
Profuse, resented not of grief alone : 
Maternal love their bitterness allay'd, 
And, with a strength and virtue all its owm, 
Sustain'd the breaking heart. A look, a tone, 
A gesture of that innocent babe, in eyes 
With saddest recollections overflown. 
Would sometimes make a tender smile arise. 
Like sunshine opening through a shower in vernal 
skies. 

10. 
No looks but those of tenderness were found 
To turn upon that helpless infant dear ; 
And as her sense unfolded, never sound 
Of wrath or discord brake upon her ear. 

i Her soul its native purity sincere 
Possess'd, by no example here defiled; 
From envious passions free, exempt from fear. 
Unknowing of all ill, amid the wild 

Beloving and beloved she grew, a happy child. 

11. 

Yea, where that solitary bower was placed, 
Though all unlike to Paradise the scene, 
(A wide circumference of woodlands waste,) 
Something of what in Eden might have been 
Was shadow'd there imperfectly, I ween, 
In this fair creature : safe from all offence, 
Expanding like a shelter'd plant serene, 
Evils that fret and stain being far from thence, 
ler heart in peace and joy retain' d its inno- 
cence. 



12. 

At first the infant to Yeruti proved 
A cause of wonder and disturbing joy. 
A stronger tie than that of kindred moved 
His inmost being, as the happy boy 
Felt in his heart of hearts, without alloy, 
The sense of kind : a fellow creature she, 
In whom, when now she ceased to be a toy 
For tender sport, his soul rejoiced to see 
Connatural powers expand, and growing sympathy 

13. 

For her he cuU'd the fairest flowers, and sought 
Throughout the woods the earliest fruits for her. 
The cayman's eggs, the honeycomb he brought 
To this beloved sister, — whatsoe'er. 
To his poor thought, of delicate or rare 
The wilds might yield, solicitous to find. 
They vv'iio affirm all natural acts declare 
Self-love to be the ruler of the mind. 
Judge from their own mean hearts, and foully 
wrong mankind. 

H. 

Three souls in whom no selfishness had place 
Were here ; three happy souls, w^liich undefiled, 
Albeit in darkness, still retain'd a trace 
Of their celestial origin. The wild 
Was as a saruetuary where Nature smiled 
Upon these simple children of her own. 
And, cherishing whatever was meek and mild, 
Caird forth the gentle virtues, such alone, 
The evils which evoke the stronger being un- 
known. 

15. 

What though at birth we bring with us the seed 
Of sin, a mortal taint, — in heart and will 
Too surely felt, too plainly shown in deed, — 
Our fatal heritage ; yet are we still 
The children of the All-Merciful; and ill 
They teach, who tell us that from hence must 

flow 
God's wrath, and then, his justice to fulfil. 
Death everlasting, never-ending woe: 
O miserable lot of man if it were so ! 

16, 

Falsely and impiously teach they who thus 
Our heavenly Father's holy will misread ! 
In bounty hath the Lord created us. 
In love redeem'd. From this authentic creed 
Lef no bewildering sophistry impede 
The heart's entire assent, for God is good. 
Hold firm this faith, and, in whatever need. 
Doubt not but thou wilt find thy soul endued 
With all-sufficing strength of heavenly fortitude ! 

17. 

By nature peccable and frail are we. 
Easily beguiled ; to vice, to error prone ; 
But apt for virtue too. Humanity 
Is not a field w^here tares and thorns alone 
Are left to spring ; good seed hath there been 
sown 



508 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



CANTO II. 



With no unsparing hand. Sometimes the shoot 
" Is choked with weeds, or withers on a stone ; 

But in a kindly soil it strikes its root, 
And flourisheth, and bringeth forth abundant fruit. 

18. 
Love, duty, generous feeling, tenderness, 
Spring in the uncontaminated mind ; 
And these were Mooma's natural dower. Nor 

less 
Had liberal Nature to the boy assign'd, 
Happier herein than if among mankind 
Their lot had fallen, — oh, certes happier here ! 
That all things tended still more close to bind 
Their earliest ties, and they from year to year 
Retain'd a childish heart, fond, simple, and sincere. 

19. 
They had no sad reflection to alloy 
The calm contentment of the passing day. 
Nor foresight to disturb the present joy. 
Not so with Monnema ; albeit the sway 
Of time had reach'd her heart, and worn away. 
At length, the grief so deeply seated there. 
The future often, like a burden, lay 
Upon that heart, a cause of secret care 
And melancholy thought; yet did she not despair. 

20. 
Chance from the fellowship of human kind 
Had cut them off, and chance might reunite. 
On this poor possibility her mind 
Reposed ; she did not for herself invite 
The unlikely thought, and cherish with delight 
The dream of what such change might haply 

bring ; 
Gladness with hope long since had taken flight 
From her; she felt that life was on the wing. 
And happiness, like youth, has here no second 
spring. 

21. 

So were her feelings to her lot composed, 
That to herself all change had now been pain. 
For Time upon her own desires had closed ; 
But in her children as she lived again, 
For their dear sake she learnt to entertain 
A wish for human intercourse renew'd ; 
And oftentimes, while they devour'd the strain, 
Would she beguile their evening solitude 
With stories strangely told and strangely under- 
stood. 

22. 

Little she knew, for little had she seen, 

And little of traditionary lore 

Had reach'd her ear; and yet to them, I ween, 

Their mother's knowledge seem'd a boundless 

store. 
A world it opened to their thoughts, yea, more, — 
Another world beyond this mortal state. 
Bereft of her, they had indeed been poor ; 
Being left to animal sense, degenerate ; 
Mere creatures, they had sunk below the beasts' 

estate. 



23. 

The human race, from her they understood, 
Was not within that lonely hut confined, 
But distant far beyond their world of wood 
Were tribes and powerful nations of their kind ; 
And of the old observances which bind 
People and chiefs, the ties of man and wife, 
The laws of kin religiously assign'd. 
Rites, customs, scenes of riotry and strife, 
An-d airthe strange vicissitudes of savage life. 

24. 

Wondering they listen to the wondrous tale ; 
But no repining thought such tales excite : 
Only a wish, if wishes might avail. 
Was haply felt, with juvenile delight, 
To mingle in the social dance at night. 
Where the broad moonshine, level as a flood, 
O'erspread the plain, and in the silver light, 
Well pleased, the placid elders sat and view'd 
The sport, and seem'd therein to feel their youth 
renew'd. 

25. I 

But when the darker scenes their mother drew, 
What crimes were wrought when drunken fury 



What miseries from their fatal discord grew, 
When horde with horde in deadly strife engaged ; 
The rancorous hate with which their wars they 

waged ; 
The more unnatural horrors which ensued, 
When, with inveterate vengeance unassuaged, 
The victors round their slaughter'd captives 

stood, [blood ; — 

And babes were brought to dip their little hands in 

26. 
Horrent they heard ; and with her hands the Maid 
Press'd her eyes close, as if she strove to blot 
The hateful image which her mind portray'd 
The Boy sat silently, intent in thought ; 
Then, with a deep-drawn sigh, as if he soughl 
To heave the oppressive feeling from his breas 
Complacently compared their harmless lot 
With such wild life, outrageous and unblestj 
Securely thus to live, he said, was surely best. 

27. 

On tales of blood they could not bear to dwell ; 
From such their hearts abhorrent shrunk in fear. 
Better they liked that Monnema should tell 
Of things unseen; what Power had placed them 

here, 
And whence the living spirit came, and where 
It past, when parted from this mortal mould ; 
Of such mysterious themes with willing ear 
They heard, devoutly listening while she told 
Strangely-disfigured truths, and fables feign'd of 
old. I 

28. ] 

By the Great Spirit man was made, she said ; 
His voice it was which peal'd along the sky, 
And shook the heavens, and fill'd the earth with 
Alone and inaccessible, on high [dread. 



^ 



CANTO 11. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



509 



He had his dwelling-place eternally, 
And Father was his name. This all knew well ; 
But none had seen his face ] and if his eye 
Regarded what upon the earth befell, 
Or if he cared for man, she knew not : — who could 
tell? 

29. 
But this, she said, was sure — that after death 
There was reward, and there was punishment : 
And that the evil-doers, when the breath 
Of their injurious lives at length was spent, 
Into all noxious forms abhorr'd were sent, 
Of beasts and reptiles ; so retaining still 
Their old propensities, on evil bent. 
They work'd where'er they might their wicked 
will. 
The natural foes of man, whom we pursue and kill. 

30. 
Of better spirits, some there were who said 
That in the grave they had their place of rest. 
Lightly they laid the earth upon the dead, 
Lest in its narrow tenement the guest 
Should suffer underneath such load oppressed. 
But that death surely set the spirit free, 
Sad proof to them poor Monnema address'd. 
Drawn from their father's fate ; no grave had he 
Wherein his soul might dwell. This therefore 
could not be. 

31. 

Likelier they taught who said that to the Land 
Of Souls the happy spirit took its flight, 
A region underneath the sole command 
Of the Good Power ; by him for the upright 
Appointed and replenish'd with delight; 
A land where nothing evil ever came. 
Sorrow, nor pain, nor peril, nor affright. 
Nor change, nor death ; but there the human 
frame, 
Untouch'd by age or ill, continued still the same. 

32. 
Winds would not pierce it there, nor heat and cold 
Grieve, nor thirst parch, and hunger pine ; but 

there 
The sun by day its even influence hold 
With genial warmth, and thro' the unclouded air 
The moon upon her nightly journey fare : 
The lakes and fish-full streams are never dry ; 
Trees ever green perpetual fruitage bear ; 
And, wheresoe'er the hunter turns his eye, 
[Water, and earth, and heaven, to him their stores 
supply. 

33. 

And once there was a way to that good land, 
For in mid-earth a wondrous Tree there grew. 
By which the adventurer might, with foot and 

hand. 
From branch to branch his upward course 

pursue ; 
An easy path, if what were said be true. 



Albeit the ascent was long ; and when the height 
Was gain'd, that blissful region was in view, 
Wherein the traveller safely might alight, 
And roam abroad at will, and take his free delight. 

34. 

O happy time, when ingress thus was given 
To the upper world, and at their pleasure they 
Whose hearts were strong might pass from Earth 

to Heaven 
By their own act and choice ! In evil day 
Mishap had fatally cut off that way. 
And none may now the Land of Spirits gain, 
Till from its dear-loved tenement of clay, 
Violence or age, infirmity and pain. 
Divorce the soul which there full gladly would 

remain. 

35. 
Such grievous loss had by their own misdeed 
Upon the unworthy race of men been brought. 
An aged woman once, who could not speed 
In fishing, earnestly one day besought 
Her countrymen, that they of what they caught 
A portion would upon her wants bestow. 
They set her hunger and her age at nought, 
And still to her entreaties answered no ! 
And mock'd her, till they made her heart with rage 
o'erflow. 

36. 

But that Old Woman, by such wanton wrong 
Inflamed, went hurrying down; and in the pride 
Of magic power, wherein the crone was strong. 
Her human form infirm she laid aside. 
Better the Capiguara's limbs supplied 
A strength accordant to her fierce intent ; 
These she assumed, and, burrowing deep and 

wide 
Beneath the Tree, with vicious will, she went. 
To inflict upon mankind a lasting punishment. 

37. 
Downward she wrought her way, and all around 
Laboring, the solid earth she undermined. 
And loosen'd all the roots; then from the ground 
Emerging, in her hatred of her kind. 
Resumed her proper form, and breathed a wind 
Which gather'd like a tempest round its head : 
Eftsoon the lofty Tree its top inclined, 
Uptorn with horrible convulsion dread. 
And over half the world its mighty wreck lay 
spread. 

38. 

But never scion sprouted from that Tree, 
Nor seed sprang up ; and thus the easy way. 
Which had till then for young and old been free, 
Was closed upon the sons of men for aye. 
The mighty ruin moulder'd where it lay. 
Till not a trace was left ; and now in sooth 
Almost had all remembrance past away. 
This from the elders she had heard in youth; 
Some said it was a tale, and some a very truth. 



510 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



CANTO II. 



39. 
Nathless departed spirits at their will 
Could from the Land of Souls pass to and fro ; 
They come to us in sleep when all is still, 
Sometimes to warn against the impending blow, 
Alas ! more oft to visit us in woe : 
Though in their presence there was poor relief! 
And this had sad experience made her know ; 
For when Quiara came, his stay was brief, 
And, waking then, she felt a freshen'd sense of 
grief. 

40. 
Yet to behold his face again, and hear 
His voice, though painful, was a deep delight; 
It was a joy to think that he was near. 
To see him in the visions of the night, — 
To know that the departed still requite 
The love which to their memory still will cling : 
And though he might not bless her waking sight 
With his dear presence, 'twas a blessed thing 
That sleep would thus sometimes his actual image 
bring. 

4L 

Why comes he not to me .? Yeruti cries ; 
And Mooma, echoing with a sigh the thought, 
Ask'd why it was that to her longing eyes 
No dream the image of her father brought ; 
Nor Monnema to solve that question sought 
In vain, content in ignorance to dwell ; 
Perhaps it was because they knew him not; 
Perhaps — but sooth she could not answer well ; 
What the departed did, themselves alone could tell. 

42. 

What one tribe held another disbelieved, 
For all concerning this was dark, she said; 
Uncertain all, and hard to be received. 
The dreadful race, from whom their fathers fled, 
Boasted that even the Country of the Dead 
Was theirs, and where their Spirits chose to go. 
The ghosts of other men retired in dread 
Before the face of that victorious foe ; 
No better, then, the world above, than this below ! 

43. 

What then, alas ! if this were true, was death ? 
Only a mournful change from ill to ill ! 
And some there were who said the living breath 
Would ne'er be taken from us by the will 
Of the Good Father, but continue still 
To feed with life the mortal frame he gave,- 
Did not mischance or wicked witchcraft kill ; — 
Evils from which no care avail'd to save. 
And whereby all were sent to fill the greedy grave. 

44. 
In vain to counterwork the baleful charm 
By spells of rival witchcraft was it sought; 
Less potent was that art to help than harm. 
No means of safety old experience brought: 
Nor better fortune did they find who thought 
From Death, as from some living foe, to fly ; 
For speed or subterfuge avail'd them nought; 



But wheresoe'er they fled they found him nigh : 
None ever could elude that unseen enemy. 

45. 

Bootless the boast, and vain the proud intent 
Of those who hoped, with arrogant display 
Of arms and force, to scare him from their tent, 
As if their threatful shouts and fierce array 
Of war could drive the Invisible away ! 
Sometimes, regardless of the sufferer's groan, 
They dragg'd the dying out, and as a prey 
Exposed him, that, content with him alone, 

Death might depart, and thus his fate avert their 
own. 

46. 
Depart he might, — but only to return 
In quest of other victims, soon or late ; 
When they who held this fond belief, would learn, 
Each by his own inevitable fate. 
That, in the course of man's uncertain state. 
Death is the one and only certain thing. 
Oh folly then to fly or deprecate 
That which, at last, Time, ever on the wing, 

Certain as day and night, to weary age must bring ! 

47. 

While thus the Matron spake, the youthful twain 
Listen'd in deep attention, wistfully ; 
Whether with more of wonder or of pain 
Uneath it were to tell. With steady eye 
Intent they heard ; and when she paused, a sigh 
Their sorrowful foreboding seem'd to speak : 
Questions to which she could not give reply 
Yeruti ask'd ; and for that Maiden meek. 
Involuntary tears ran down her quiet cheek. 

48. ■ 
A different sentiment within them stirr'd, 
When Monnema recall'd to mind, one day. 
Imperfectly, what she had sometimes heard 
In childhood, long ago, the Elders say, — 
Almost from memory had it pass'd away, — 
How there appear'd amid the woodlands men 
Whom the Great Spirit sent there to convey 
His gracious will ; but little heed she then 
Had given, and like a dream it now recurr'd again. 

49. 
But these young questioners, from time to time, 
Call'd up the long-forgotteii theme anqw. 
Strange men they were, from some remotest clime. 
She said, of different speech, uncouth to view, 
Having hair upon their face, and white in hue : 
Across the World of waters wide they came 
Devotedly the Father's work to do. 
And seek the Red Men out, and in his name 
His merciful laws, and love, and promises proclaim. 

50. 
They served a Maid more beautiful than tongue 
Could tell, or heart conceive. Of human race, 
All heavenly as that Virgin was, she sprung ; 
But for her beauty and celestial grace, 
Being one in whose pure elements no trace 
Had e'er inhered of sin or mortal stain. 



CANTO III. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



511 



The highest Heaven was now her dweHing-place ; 
There as a Queen divine she held her reign, 
And there in endless joy forever would remain. 

51. 

Her feet upon the crescent Moon were set, 
And, moving in their order round her head, 
The Stars compose her sparkling coronet. 
There at her breast the Virgin Mother fed 
A Babe divine, who was to judge the dead ; 
Such power the Spirit gave this awful Child : 
Severe he was, and in his anger dread. 
Yet alway at his Mother's will grew mild. 
So well did he obey that Maiden undefiled. 

52. 

Sometimes she had descended from above 
To visit her true votaries, and requite 
Such as had served her well. And for her love, 
These bearded men, forsaking all delight. 
With labor long and dangers infinite, 
Across the great blue waters came, and sought 
The Red Men here, to win them, if they might, 
From bloody ways, rejoiced to profit aught. 
Even when with their own lives the benefit was 
bought. 

53. 

For trusting in this heavenly Maiden's grace, 
It was for them a joyful thing to die. 
As men who went to have their happy place 
With her, and with that Holy Child, on high. 
In fields of bliss above the starry sky^ 
In glory, at the Virgin Mother's feet ; 
And all who kept their lessons faithfully 
An everlasting guerdon there would meet, 
When Death had led their souls to that celestial seat. 

54. 
On earth they ofFer'd, too, an easy life 
To those who their mild lessons would obey. 
Exempt from want, from danger, and from strife ; 
And from the forest leading them away. 
They placed them underneath this Virgin's sway, 
A numerous fellowship, in peace to dwell ; 
Their high and happy office there to pay 
Devotions due, which she requited well, 
Their heavenly Guardian she in whatsoe'er befell. 



Thus Monnema remember'd, it was told 

By one who, in his hot and headstrong youth. 

Had left her happy service ; but when old. 

Lamented oft, with unavailing ruth. 

And thoughts which, sharper than a serpent's 

tooth. 
Pierced him, that he had changed that peaceful 

place 
For the fierce freedom and the ways uncouth 
Of their wild life, and lost that Lady's grace. 
Wherefore he had no hope to see in Heaven her face. 

56. 
And she remember'd, too, when first they fled 
For safety to the farthest solitude 



Before their cruel foes, and lived in dread 
That thither, too, their steps might be pursued 
By those old enemies athirst for blood. 
How some among them hoped to see the day 
When these beloved messengers of good 
To that lone hiding-place might find the way, 
And them to their abode of blessedness convey. 

57. 
Such tales excited in Yeruti's heart 
A stirring hope that haply he might meet 
Some minister of Heaven ; and many a part, 
Untrod before, of that wild wood retreat, 
Did he, with indefatigable feet. 
Explore ; yet ever from the fruitless quest 
Return'd at evening to his native seat 
By daily disappointment undepress'd, — 
So buoyant was the hope that fill'd his youthful 
breast 

58. 
At length the hour approach'd that should fulfil 
His harmless heart's desire, when they shall see 
Their fellow-kind, and take for good or ill 
The fearful chance, — for such it needs must be, — 
Of change from that entire simplicity. 
Yet wherefore should the thought of change 

appall ? 
Grief it perhaps might bring, and injury. 
And death ; — but evil never can befall 
The virtuous, for the Eye of Heaven is over all. 



CANTO IIL 



1. 

Amid those marshy woodlands far and wide. 
Which spread beyond the soaring vulture's eye, 
There grew, on Empalado's southern side. 
Groves of that tree whose leaves adust supply 
The Spaniards with their daily luxury ; 
A beverage whose salubrious use obtains 
Through many a land of mines and slavery, 
Even over all La Plata's sea-like plains. 
And Chili's mountain realm, and proud Peru's 
domains. 



But better for the injured Indian race 
Had woods of manchineel the land o'erspread : 
Yea, in that tree so bless'd by Nature's grace 
A direr curse had they inherited, 
Than if the Upas there had rear'd its head, 
And sent its baleful scions all around. 
Blasting where'er its effluent force was shed, 
In air and water, and the infected ground. 
All things wherein the breath or sap of life is found. 

3. 

The poor Guaranies dreamt of no such ill. 
When, for themselves in miserable hour. 
The virtues of that leaf, with pure good will, 
They taught their unsuspected visitor, 
New in the land as yet. They learnt his power 



512 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



CANTO III. 



Too soon, which law nor conscience could 

restrain ; 
A fearless, but inhuman conqueror, 
Heart-harden'd by the accursed lust of gain : 
O fatal thirst of gold ! O foul reproach for Spain ! 



For gold and silver had the Spaniards sought, 
Exploring Paraguay with desperate pains ; 
Their way through forests, axe in hand, they 

wrought ; 
Drench'd from above by unremitting rains, 
They waded over inundated plains, 
Forward by hope of plunder still allured ; 
So they might one day count their golden gains. 
They cared not at what cost of sin procured ; 
All dangers they defied, all sufferings they en- 
dured. 



Barren alike of glory and of gold 

That region proved to them ; nor would the soil 

Unto their unindustrious hands unfold 

Harvests, the fruit of peace, and wine and oil, 

The treasures that repay contented toil 

With health and weal ; treasures that with them 

bring 
No guilt for priest and penance to assoil, 
Nor with their venom arm the awaken'd sting 
Of conscience at that hour when life is vanishing. 



But, keen of eye in their pursuit of gain. 
The conquerors look'd for lucre in this tree : 
An annual harvest there might they attain. 
Without the cost of annual industry. 
'Twas but to gather in what there grew free, 
And share Potosi's wealth. Nor thence alone, 
But gold in glad exchange they soon should see 
From all that once the Incas called their own, 
Or where the Zippa's power or Zaque's laws were 
known. 



For this, in fact though not in name a slave. 
The Indian from his family was torn ; 
And droves on droves were sent to find a grave 
In woods and swamps, by toil severe outworn. 
No friend at hand to succor or to mourn. 
In death unpitied, as in life unbless'd. 
O miserable race, to slavery born ! 
Yet when we look beyond this world's unrest. 
More miserable then the oppressors than the op- 
press'd. 

8. 
Often had Kings essay'd to check the ill 
By edicts not so well enforced as meant ; 
A present power was wanting to fulfil 
Remote authority's sincere intent. 
To Avarice, on its present purpose bent. 
The voice of distant Justice spake in vain ; 
False magistrates and priests their influence lent 
The accursed thing for lucre to maintain : 
O fatal thirst of gold ! O foul reproach for Spain ! 



O foul reproach ! but not for Spain alone, 
But for all lands that bear the Christian name ! 
Where'er commercial slavery is known; 
O shall not Justice, trumpet-tongued, proclaim 
The foul reproach, the black offence, the same ? 
Hear, guilty France I and thou, O England, hear ! 
Thou who hast half redeem'd thyself from shame, 
When slavery from thy realms shall disappear. 
Then from this guilt, and not till then, wilt thou 
be clear. 

10. 

Uncheck'd in Paraguay it ran its course, 
Till all the gentler children of the land 
Well nigh had been consumed without remorse. 
The bolder tribes meantime, whose skilful hand 
Had tamed the horse, in many a warlike band 
Kept the field well with bow and dreadful spear. 
And now the Spaniards dared no more withstand 
Their force, but in their towns grew pale with fear, 
If the Mocobio or the Abipon drew near. 

11. 

Bear witness, Chaco, thou, from thy domain 
With Spanish blood, as erst with Indian, fed ! 
And Corrientes, by whose church the slain 
Were piled in heaps, till for the gather'd dead 
One common grave was dug, one service said ! 
Thou too, Parana, thy sad witness bear 
From shores with many a mournful vestige 

spread. 
And monumental crosses here and there, 
And monumental names that tell where dwellings 



12. 

Nor would with all their power the Kings of 

Spain, 
Austrian or Bourbon, have at last avail'd 
This torrent of destruction to restrain. 
And save a people every where assail 'd 
By men before whose face their courage quail'd, 
But for the virtuous agency of those 
Who with the Cross alone, when arms had fail'd. 
Achieved a peaceful triumph o'er the foes, 
And gave that weary land the blessings of repose. 

13. 

For whensoe'er the Spaniards felt or fear'd 
An Indian enemy, they call'd for aid 
Upon Loyola's sons, now long endear'd 
To many a happy tribe, by them convey'd 
From the open wilderness or woodland shade, 
In towns of happiest polity to dwell. 
Freely these faithful ministers essay'd 
The arduous enterprise, contented well 
If with success they sped, or if as martyrs fell. 

14. 

And now it chanced some traders, who had fell'd 
The trees of precious foliage far and wide 
On Empalado's shore, when they beheld 
The inviting woodlands on its northern side, 
Cross'd thither in their quest, and there espied 



CANTO III. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



513 



Yeruti's footsteps : searching then the shade, 
At length a lonely dwelling they descried, 
And at the thought of hostile hordes dismay'd, 
To the nearest mission sped, and ask'd the Jesuit's 
aid. 

15. 
That was a call which ne'er was made in vain 
Upon Loyola's sons. In Paraguay 
Much of injustice had they to complain, 
Much of neglect ; but faithful laborers they 
In the Lord's vineyard, there was no delay 
When summon'd to his work. A little band 
Of converts made them ready for the way ; 
Their spiritual father took a Cross in hand 
To be his staff, and forth they went to search the 
land. 

16. 

He was a man of rarest qualities. 
Who to this barbarous region had confined 
A spirit with the learned and the wise 
Worthy to take its place, and from mankind 
Receive their homage, to the immortal mind 
Paid in its just inheritance of fame. 
But he to humbler thoughts his heart inclined ; 
From Gratz, amid the Styrian hills, he came, 
And DobrizhofFerwas the good man's honor'd name. 

17. 

I It was his evil fortune to behold 
The labors of his painful life destroy 'd ; 
His flock, which he had brought within the fold, 
Dispersed ; the work of ages render'd void. 
And all of good that Paraguay enjoy 'd 
By blind and suicidal Power o'erthrown. 

; So he the years of his old age employ'd, 
A faithful chronicler in handing down 

llSfames which he loved, and things well worthy to 
be known. 

18. 
And thus, when exiled from the dear-loved scene. 
In proud Vienna he beguiled the pain 
Of sad remembrance ; and the Empress Queen, 
That great Teresa, she did not disdain 
In gracious mood sometimes to entertain 
Discourse with him both pleasurable and sage ; 
And sure a willing ear she well might deign 
To one whose tales may equally engage 
iriie wondering mind of youth, the thoughtful 
heart of age. 

19. 

But of his native speech because well nigh 

Disuse in him forgetfulness had wrought, 

In Latin he composed his history — 

A garrulous, but a lively tale, and fraught 

With matter of delight and food for thought. 

And if he could in Merlin's glass have seen 

By whom his tomes to speak our tongue were 

taught, 
The old man would have felt as pleased, I ween, 
^s when he won the ear of that great Empress 
Queen. 

65 



20. 
Little he deem'd when with his Indian band 
He through the wilds set forth upon his way, 
A Poet then unborn, and in a land 
Which had proscribed his order, should one day 
Take up from thence his moralizing lay, 
And shape a song that, with no fiction dress'd, 
Should to his worth its grateful tribute pay, 
And sinking deep in many an English breast, 
Foster that faith divine that keeps the heart at rest. 

21. 

Behold him on his way ! the breviary 
Which from his girdle hangs, his only shield ; 
That well-known habit is his panoply, 
That Cross, the only weapon he will wield : 
By day, he bears it for his staff* afield. 
By night, it is the pillow of his bed : 
No other lodging these wild woods can yield 
Than earth's hard lap, and rustling overhead 
A canopy of deep and tangled boughs far spread. 

22. 

Yet may they not without some cautious care 
Take up their inn content upon the ground. 
First it behoves to clear a circle there. 
And trample down the grass and plantage round, 
Where many a deadly reptile might be found, 
Whom with its bright and comfortable heat 
The flame would else allure : such plagues abound 
In these thick woods, and therefore must they 
beat [feet. 

The earth, and trample well the herbs beneath their 

23. 
And now they heap dry reeds and broken wood : 
The spark is struck, the crackling fagots blaze, 
And cheer that unaccustom'd solitude. 
Soon have they made their frugal meal of maize; 
In grateful adoration then they raise 
The evening hymn. How solemn in the wild 
That sweet accordant strain wherewith they 

praise 
The Queen of Angels, merciful and mild ! 
Hail, holiest Mary ! Maid, and Mother undefiled. 

24. 

Blame as thou mayst the Papist's erring creed, 
But not their salutary rite of even ! 
The prayers that from a pious soul proceed. 
Though misdirected, reach the ear of Heaven. 
Us, unto whom a purer faith is given. 
As our best birthright it behoves to hold 
The precious charge ; but, oh, beware the leaven 
Which makes the heart of charity grow cold ! 
We own one Shepherd, we shall be at last one fold. 

25. 

Thinkest thou the little company who here 
Pour forth their hymn devout at close of day, 
Feel it no aid that those who hold them dear, 
At the same hour the self-same homage pay, 
Commending them to Heaven when far away ? 
That the sweet bells are heard in solemn chime 
Through all the happy towns of Paraguay, 



514 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



CANTO III. 



Where now their brethren in one point of time 
Join in the general prayer, with sympathy sublime ? 

26. 

That to the glorious Mother of their Lord 
Whole Christendom that hour its homage pays ? 
From court and cottage that with one accord 
Ascends the universal strain of praise ? 
Amid the crowded city's restless ways, 
One reverential thought pervades the throng ; 
The traveller on his lonely road obeys 
The sacred hour, and as he fares along, 
In spirit hears and joins his household's even-song. 

27. 
What if they think that every prayer enroll'd 
Shall one day in their good account appear ; 
That guardian Angels hover round and fold 
Their wings in adoration while they hear ; 
Ministrant Spirits through the ethereal sphere 
Waft it with joy, and to the grateful theme. 
Well pleased, the Mighty Mother bends her ear ? 
A vain delusion this we rightly deem : 
Yet what they feel is not a mere illusive dream. 

28. 
That prayer perform'd, around the fire reclined 
Beneath the leafy canopy they lay 
Their limbs : the Indians soon to sleep resign'd ; 
And the good Father with that toilsome day 
Fatigued, full fain to sleep, — if sleep he may, — 
Whom all tormenting insects there assail ; 
More to be dreaded these than beasts of prey 
Against whom strength may cope, or skill pre- 
vail ; 
But art of man against these enemies must fail. 



Patience itself, that should the sovereign cure 
For ills that touch ourselves alone, supply, 
Lends little aid to one who must endure 
This plague : the small tormentors fill the sky, 
And swarm about their prey ; there he must lie 
And suffer while the hours of darkness wear; 
At times he utters with a deep-drawn sigh 
Some name adored, in accents of despair 
Breathed sorrowfully forth, half murmur and half 
prayer. 

30. 
Welcome to him the earliest gleam of light ; 
Welcome to him the earliest sound of day ; 
That, from the sufferings of that weary night 
Released, he may resume his willing way, 
Well pleased again the perils to essay 
Of that drear wilderness, with hope renew'd : 
Success will all his labors overpay ; 
A quest like his is cheerfully pursued ; 
The heart is happy still that is intent on good. 

31. 

And now where Empalado's waters creep 
Through low and level shores of woodland wide. 
They come ; prepared to cross the sluggish deep. 
An ill-shaped coracle of hardest hide. 



Ruder than ever Cambrian fisher plied 
Where Towey and the salt-sea waters meet, 
The Indians launch; they steady it and guide, 
Winning their way with arms and practised feet, 
While in the tottering boat the Father keeps his seat. 

32. 

For three long summer days on every side 
They search in vain the sylvan solitude ; 
The fourth a human footstep is espied. 
And through the mazes of the pathless wood 
With hound-like skill and hawk-like eye pur- 
sued; 
For keen upon their pious quest are they 
As e'er were hunters on the track of blood. 
Where softer ground or trodden herbs betray 
The slightest mark of man, they there explore the 
way. 

33. 

More cautious when more certain of the trace, 
In silence they proceed ; not like a crew 
Of jovial hunters, who the joyous chase 
With hound and horn in open field pursue, 
Cheering their way with jubilant halloo, 
And hurrying forward to their spoil desired. 
The panting game before them, full in view : 
Humaner thoughts this little band inspired, 
Yet with a hope as high their gentle hearts were 
fired. 

34. 

Nor is their virtuous hope devoid of fear ; 

The perils of that enterprise they know ; 

Some savage horde may have its fastness here, 

A race to whom a stranger is a foe. 

Who not for friendly words, nor proffer'd show 

Of gifts, will peace or parley entertain. 

If by such hands their blameless blood should 

flow 
To serve the Lamb who for their sins was slain, 
Blessed indeed their lot, for so to die is gain ! 

35. 
Them, thus pursuing where the track may lead, 
A human voice arrests upon their way ; 
They stop, and thither, whence the sounds pro- 
ceed. 
All eyes are turn'd in wonder, — not dismay, 
For sure such sounds might charm all fear away ; 
No nightingale whose brooding mate is nigh, 
From some sequester'd bower at close of day. 
No lark rejoicing in the orient sky. 
Ever pour'd forth so wild a strain of melody. 

36. 
The voice which through the ringing forest floats 
Is one which having ne'er been taught the skill 
Of marshalling sweet words to sweeter notes, 
Utters all unpremeditate, at will, 
A modulated sequence, loud and shrill. 
Of inarticulate and long-breathed sound, 
Varying its tones with rise, and fall, and trill, 
Till all the solitary woods around 
With that far-piercing power of melody resound. 



CANtO III. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



515 



37. 
In mute astonishment attent to hear, 
As if by some enchantment held, they stood, 
With bending head, fix'd eye, and eager ear. 
And hand upraised in warning attitude 
To check all speech or step that might intrude 
On that sweet strain. Them leaving, thus spell- 
bound, 
A little way alone into the wood 
The Father gently moved toward the sound, 
Treading with quiet feet upon the grassy ground. 

38. 
Anon advancing thus the trees between. 
He saw beside her bower the songstress wild. 
Not distant far, himself the while unseen. 
Mooma it was, that happy maiden mild. 
Who, in the sunshine, like a careless child 
Of nature, in her joy was caroling. 
A heavier heart than his it had beguiled 
So to have heard so fair a creature sing 
The strains which she had learnt from all sweet 
birds of sprmg. 

39. 

For these had been her teachers, these alone ; 
And she, in many an emulous essay. 
At length into a descant of her own 
Had blended all their notes, a wild display 
Of sounds in rich, irregular array \ 
And now as blithe as bird in vernal bower, 
Pour'd in full flow the unexpressive lay. 
Rejoicing in her consciousness of power. 
But in the inborn sense of harmony yet more. 

40. 
In joy had she begun the ambitious song, 
With rapid interchange of sink and swell ; 
And sometimes high the note was rais'd, and long- 
Produced, with shake and effort sensible. 
As if the voice exulted there to dwell ; 
But when she could no more that pitch sustain. 
So thrillingly attuned the cadence fell. 
That with the music of its dying strain 
She moved herself to tears of pleasurable pain. 

41. 
It might be deem'd some dim presage possess'd 
The virgin's soul ; that some mysterious sense 
Of change to come, upon her mind impress'd. 
Had then call'd forth, e'er she departed thence, 
A requiem to their days of innocence. 
For what thou losest in thy native shade 
There is one change alone that may compense, 
O Mooma, innocent and simple maid. 
Only one change, and it will not be long delay'd ! 

42. 
When now the Father issued from the wood 
Into that little glade in open sight. 
Like one entranced, beholding him, she stood ; 
Yet had she more of wonder than affright, 
Yet less of wonder than of dread delight, 
When thus the actual vision came in view ; 
For instantly the maiden read aright 



Wherefore he came ; his garb and beard she 
knew; 
All that her mother heard had then indeed been true. 

43. 

Nor was the Father fill'd with less surprise ; 
He too strange fancies well might entertain, 
When this so fair a creature met his eyes. 
He might have thought her not of mortal strain ; 
Rather, as bards of yore were wont to feign, 
A nymph divine of Mondai's secret stream; 
Or haply of Diana's woodland train ; 
For in her beauty Mooma such might seem. 
Being less a child of earth than like a poet's dream. 

44. 

No art of barbarous ornament had scarr'd 
And stain'd her virgin limbs, or 'filed her face ; 
Nor ever yet had evil passion marr'd 
In her sweet countenance the natural grace 
Of innocence and youth ; nor was there trace 
Of sorrow, or of hardening want and care. 
Sti-ange was it in this wild and savage place. 
Which seem'd to be for beasts a fitting lair, 
Thus to behold a maid so gentle and so fair. 

45. 

Across her shoulders was a hammock flung ; 
By night it was the maiden's bed, by day 
Her only garment. Round her as it hung, 
In short, unequal folds of loose array, 
The open meshes, when she moves, display 
Her form. She stood with fix'd and wondering 

eyes ; 
And trembling like a leaf upon the spray. 
Even for excess of joy, with eager cries 
She call'd her mother forth to share that glad sur- 

prise. 

46. 
At that unwonted call, with quicken'd pace, 
The matron hurried thither, half in fear. 
How strange to Monnema a stranger's face ! 
How strange it was a stranger's voice to hear ! 
How strangely to her disaccustom'd ear 
Came even the accents of her native tongue ! 
But when she saw her countrymen appear, 
Tears for that unexpected blessing sprung. 
And once again she felt as if her heart were young. 



Soon was her melancholy story told 
And glad consent unto that Father good 
Was given, that they to join his happy fold 
Would leave with him their forest solitude. 
Why comes not now Yeruti from the wood .'' 
Why tarrieth he so late this blessed day .? 
They long to see their joy in his renew'd, 
And look impatiently toward his way. 
And think they hear his step, and chide his long 
delay . 

48. 
He comes at length, a happy man, to find 
His only dream of hope fulfill'd at last. 



516 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



CANTO IV. 



The sunshine of his all-believing mind 
There is no doubt or fear to overcast ; 
No chilling forethought checks his bliss ; the past 
Leaves no regret for him, and all to come 
Is change, and wonder, and delight. How fast 
Hath busy fancy conjured up a sum 
Of joys unknown, whereof the expectance makes 
him dumb ! 

49. 
O happy day, the Messenger of Heaven 
Hath found them in their lonely dwelling-place ! 
O happy day, to them it would be given 
To share in that Eternal Mother's grace, 
And one day see in Heaven her glorious face, 
Where Angels round her mercy-throne adore ! 
Now shall they mingle with the human race, 
Sequester'd from their fellow-kind no more ; 
O joy of joys supreme ! O bliss for them in store ! 

50. 
Full of such hopes this night they lay them down. 
But, not as they were wont, this night to rest. 
Their old tranquillity of heart is gone ; 
The peace wherewith till now they have been 

blest 
Hath taken its departure. In the breast 
Fast-follov/ing thoughts and busy fancies throng ; 
Their sleep itself is feverish, and possess'd 
With dreams that to the wakeful mind belong ; 
To Mooma and the youth then first the night 

seem'd long. 

51. 

Day comes, and now a first and last farewell 
To that fair bower within their native wood. 
Their quiet nest till now. The bird may dwell 
Henceforth in safety there, and rear her brood. 
And beasts and reptiles undisturb'd intrude j 
Reckless of this, the simple tenants go. 
Emerging from their peaceful solitude. 
To mingle with the world, — but not to know 
Its crimes, nor to partake its cares, nor feel its woe. 



CANTO IV. 



1. 

The bells rung blithely from St. Mary's tower 
When in St. Joachin's the news was told 
That Dobrizhoffer from his quest that hour 
Drew nigh : the glad Guaranies, young and old, 
Throng through the gate, rejoicing to behold 
His face again ; and all with heartfelt glee 
Welcome the Pastor to his peaceful fold. 
Where so beloved amid his flock was he. 
That this return was like a day of jubilee. 



How more than strange, how marvellous a sight 
To the new-comers was this multitude ! 
Something like fear was mingled with affright. 
When they the busy scene of turmoil view'd ; 
Wonder itself the sense of joy subdued, 



And with its all-unwonted weight oppress'd 
These children of the quiet solitude ; 
And now and then a sigh that heaved the breast 
Unconsciously bewray'd their feeling of unrest. 

3. 

Not more prodigious than that little town 
Seem'd to these comers, were the pomp and 

power 
To us of ancient Rome in her renown ; 
Nor the elder Babylon, or ere that hour 
When her high gardens, and her cloud-capt 

tower, 
And her broad walls before the Persian fell ; 
Nor those dread fanes on Nile's forsaken shore, 
Whose ruins yet their pristine grandeur tell. 
Wherein the demon Gods themselves might deign 

to dwell. 



But if, all humble as it was, that scene 
Possess'd a poor and uninstructed mind 
With awe, the thoughtful spirit, well 1 ween, 
Something to move its wonder there might find. 
Something of consolation for its kind, 
Some hope and earnest of a happier age. 
When vain pursuits no more the heart shall blind. 
But Faith the evils of this earth assuage. 
And to all souls assure their heavenly heritage. 



Yes ; for in history's mournful map, the eye 
On Paraguay, as on a sunny spot. 
May rest complacent : to humanity. 
There, and there only, hath a peaceful lot 
Been granted, by Ambition troubled not. 
By Avarice undebased, exempt from care, 
By perilous passions undisturb'd. And what 
If Glory never rear'd her standard there. 
Nor with her clarion's blast awoke the slumbering 
air 'i 



Content and cheerful Piety were found 
Within those humble walls. From youth to age 
The simple dwellers paced their even round 
Of duty, not desiring to engage 
Upon the busy world's contentious stage. 
Whose ways they wisely had been train'd to 

dread : 
Their inoffensive lives in pupilage 
Perpetually, but peacefully they led. 
From all temptation saved, and sure of daily bread. 



They on the Jesuit, who was nothing loath, 
Reposed alike their conscience and their cares ; 
And he, with equal faith, the trust of both 
Accepted and discharged. The bliss is theirs 
Of that entire dependence that prepares 
Entire submission, let what may befall; 
And his whole careful course of life declares 
That for their good he holds them thus in thrall. 
Their Father and their Friend, Priest, Ruler, all 
in all. 



CANTO IV. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



517 



Food, raiment, shelter, safety, he provides ; 
No forecast, no anxieties have they ; 
The Jesuit governs, and instructs, and guides ; 
Their part it is to honor and obey, 
Like children under wise parental sway. 
All thoughts and wishes are to him confess'd ; 
And when, at length, in life's last, weary day, 
In sure and certain hope they sink to rest. 
By him their eyes are closed, by him their burial 
blest. 



Deem not their lives of happiness devoid. 
Though thus the years their course obscurely fill ; 
In rural and in household arts employ'd. 
And many a pleasing task of pliant skill, 
For emulation here unmix'd with ill. 
Sufficient scope was given. Each had assign'd 
His proper part, which yet left free the will ; 
So well they knew to mould the ductile mind 
By whom the scheme of that wise order was com- 
bined. 

10. 
It was a land of priestcraft, but the Priest 
Believed himself the fables that he taught : 
Corrupt their forms, and yet those forms at least 
Preserv'd a salutary faith that wrought, 
Maugre the alloy, the saving end it sought. 
Benevolence had gain'd such empire there. 
That even superstition had been brought 
An aspect of humanity to wear, 
And make the weal of man its first and only care. 

11. 

Nor lack'd they store of innocent delight, 
Music and song, and dance and proud array, 
Whate'er might win the ear, or charm the sight; 
Banners and pageantry in rich display 
Brought forth upon some Saint's high holyday. 
The altar dress' d, the church with garlands hung. 
Arches and floral bowers beside the way. 
And festal tables spread for old and young. 
Gladness in every heart, and mirth on every tongue. 

I 12. 

Thou who despisest so debased a fate, 
As in the pride of wisdom thou mayst call 
These meek, submissive Indians' low estate, 
Look round the world, and see where over all 
Injurious passions hold mankind in thrall. 
How barbarous Force asserts a ruthless reign, 
Or Mammon, o'er his portion of the ball. 
Hath learn' d a baser empire to maintain — 
Mammon, the god of all who give their souls to gain. 

13. 

Behold the fraudful arts, the covert strife. 
The jarring interests that engross mankind ; 
The low pursuits, the selfish aims of life ; 
Studies that weary and contract the mind. 
That bring no joy, and leave no peace behind ; 
And Death approaching to dissolve the spell ! 
The immortal soul, which hath so long been blind. 



Recovers then clear sight, and sees too well 
The error of its ways, when irretrievable. 

14. 

Far happier the Guaranies' humble race, 
With whom, in dutiful contentment wise, 
The gentle virtues had their dwelling-place. 
With them the dear, domestic charities 
Sustain' d no blight from fortune; natural ties 
There suffer'd no divorcement, save alone 
That which in course of nature might arise ; 
No artificial wants and ills were known ; 
But there they dwelt as if the world were all their 
own. 

15. 

Obedience in its laws that takes delight 
Was theirs ; simplicity that knows no art ; 
Love, friendsliip, grateful duty in its height; 
Meekness and truth, that keep all strife apart. 
And faith and hope which elevate the heart 
Upon its heavenly heritage intent. 
Poor, erring, self-tormentor that thou art, 
O Man ! and on thine own undoing bent, 
Wherewith canst thou be blest, if not with these 
content .'' 

16. 

Mild pupils in submission's perfect school, 
Two thousand souls were gather'd here, and here 
Beneath the Jesuit's all-embracing rule 
They dwelt, obeying him with love sincere, 
That never knew distrust, nor felt a fear. 
Nor anxious thought which wears the heart away. 
Sacred to them their laws, their Ruler dear ; 
Humbler or happier none could be than they. 
Who knew it for their good in all things to obey. 

17. 
The Patron Saint, from w^iom their town was 

named. 
Was that St. Joachin, who, legends say. 
Unto the Saints in Limbo first proclaim'd 
The Advent. Being permitted, on the day 
That Death enlarged him from this mortal clay, 
His daughter's high election to behold, 
Thither his soul, glad herald, wing'd its way, 
And to the Prophets and the Patriarchs old 
The tidings of great joy and near deliverance told. 

18. 
There on the altar was his image set, 
The lamp before it burning night and day, 
And there was incensed, when his votaries met 
Before the sacred shrine, their beads to say. 
And for his fancied intercession pray. 
Devoutly as in faith they bent the knee. 
Such adoration they were taiight to pay ; 
Good man, how little had he ween'd that he 
Should thus obtain a place in Rome's idolatry ! 

19. 

But chiefly there the Mother of our Lord, 
His blessed daughter, by the multitude 
Was for their special patroness adored. 



518 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



CANTO IV.- 



Amid the square on high her image stood, 
Clasping the Babe in her beatitude, 
The Babe Divine on whom she fix'd her sight; 
And in their hearts, albe the work was rude, 
It rais'd the thought of all-commanding might, 
Combin'd with boundless love and mercy infinite. 

20. 
To this great family the Jesuit brought 
His new-found children now ; for young and old 
He deem'd alike his children while he wrought 
For their salvation, — seeking to unfold 
The saving mysteries in the creed enroll'd, 
To their slow minds, that could but ill conceive 
The import of the mighty truths he told. 
But errors they have none to which they cleave, 
:lnd whatsoe'er he tells they willingly believe. 

21. 
Safe from that pride of ignorance were they 
That with small knowledge thinks itself full wise. 
How at believing aught should these delay, 
When every where new objects met their eyes 
To fill the soul with wonder and surprise .'' 
Not of itself, but by temptation bred, 
In man doth impious unbelief arise ; 
It is our instinct to believe and dread ; 
God bids us love, and then our faith is perfected. 

22. 

Quick to believe, and slow to comprehend, 
Like children, unto all the teacher taught 
Submissively an easy ear they lend : 
And to the font at once he might have brought 
These converts, if the Father had not thought 
Theirs was a case for wise and safe delay, 
Lest lightly learn'd might lightly be forgot ; 
And meanwhile due instruction day by day 
Would to their opening minds the sense of truth 
convey. 

23. 

Of this they reck'd not whether soon or late ; 
For overpowering wonderment possess'd 
Their faculties ; and in this new estate 
Strange sights, and sounds, and thoughts, well 

nigh oppress'd 
Their sense, and raised a turmoil in the breast 
Resenting less of pleasure than of pain ; 
And sleep afforded them no natural rest. 
But in their dreams, a mixed, disorder 'd train, 
The busy scenes of day disturb'd their hearts 
again. 

24. 

Even when the spirit to that secret wood 
Return'd, slow Mondai's silent stream beside, 
No longer there it found the solitude 
Which late it left : strange faces were descried. 
Voices, and sounds of music far and wide, 
And buildings seem'd to tower amid the trees. 
And forms of men and beasts on every side. 
As ever-wakeful fancy hears and sees 
All things that it had heard, and seen, and more 
than these. 



25. 

For in their sleep strange forms deform'd they 

saw 
Of frightful fiends, their ghostly enemies, 
And souls who must abide the rigorous law 
Weltering in fire, and there with dolorous cries 
Blaspheming roll around their hopeless eyes ; 
And those who doom'd a shorter term to bear 
In penal flames, look upward to the skies, 
Seeking and finding consolation there. 
And feel, like dew from heaven, the precious aid 

of prayer. 

26. 
And Angels who around their glorious Queen 
In adoration bent their heads abased ; 
And infant faces in their dreams were seen 
Hovering on cherub-wings ; and Spirits placed 
To be their guards invisible, who chased 
With fiery arms their fiendish foes away ; 
Such visions overheated fancy traced. 
Peopling the night with a confused array 
That made its hours of rest more restless than the 
day. 

27. 
To all who from an old erratic course 
Of life, within the Jesuit's fold were led. 
The change was perilous. They felt the force 
Of habit, when, till then in forests bred, 
A thick, perpetual umbrage overhead. 
They came to dwell in open light and air. 
This ill the Fathers long had learnt to dread, 
And still devised such means as might prepare 
The ne w-reclaim'd unhvirt this total change to bear. 

28. 
All thoughts and occupations to commute, 
To change their air, their water, and their food, 
And those old habits suddenly uproot, 
Conform'd to which the vital powers pursued 
Their functions, — such mutation is too rude 
For man's fine frame unshaken to sustain. 
And these poor children of the solitude 
Began erelong to pay the bitter pain ; 

That their new way of life brought with it in its 
train. 

29. 

On Monnema the apprehended ill 
Came first; the matron sunk beneath the weight 
Of a strong malady, whose force no skill 
In healing might avert or mitigate. 
Yet, happy in her children's safe estate, 
Her thankfulness for them she still express'd ; 
And yielding then complacently to fate, Ij 

With Christian rites her passing hour was bless'd, j I 
And with a Chistian's hope she was consign'd to 
rest. 

30. 
They laid her in the Garden of the Dead ; 
Such as a Christian burial-place should be 
Was that fair spot, where every grave was spread 
With flowers, and not a weed to spring was free ; 



CANTO IV. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



519 



But the pure blossoms of the orange-tree 
Dropp'd like a shower of fragrance on the bier ; 
And palms, the type of immortality, 
Planted in stately colonnades appear. 
That all was verdant there throughout tlie unvary- 
ing year. 

31. 

Nor ever did irreverent feet intrude 
Within that sacred spot ; nor sound of mirth. 
Unseemly there, profane the solitude. 
Where solemnly committed earth to earth. 
Waiting the summons for their second birth, 
Whole generations in Death's peaceful fold 
Collected lay ; green innocence, ripe worth. 
Youth full of hope, and age whose days were 
told, 
Compress'd alike into that mass of mortal mould. 

32. 

Mortal, and yet at the Archangel's voice 

To put on immortality. That call 

Shall one day make the sentient dust rejoice ; 

These bodies then shall rise, and cast off all 

Corruption, with whate'er of earthly thrall 

Had clogg'd the heavenly image, then set free. 

How then should Death a Christian's heart 

appall ? 
Lo, Heaven for you is open ; — enter, ye 
Children of God, and heirs of his eternity ! 

33. 
This hope supported Mooma, hand in hand 
When with Yeruti at the grave she stood. 
Less even now of death they understand 
Than of the joys eternal that ensued; 
The bliss of infinite beatitude 
To them had been their teacher's favorite theme. 
Wherewith their hearts so fully were imbued. 
That it the sole reality might seem. 
Life, death, and all things else, a shadow or a 
dream. 

34. 
Yea, so possess'd with that best hope were they, 
That if the heavens had opened overhead. 
And the Archangel with his trump that day 
To judgment had convoked the quick and dead. 
They would have heard the summons not with 

dread. 
But in the joy of faith that knows no fear ; 
Come, Lord ! come quickly ! would this pair have 

said, 
And thou, O Queen of men and Angels dear. 
Lift us, whom thou hast loved, into thy happy 

sphere ! 

35. 

They wept not at the grave, though overwrought 
With feelings there as if the heart would break. 
Some haply might have deem'd they suffered 

not; 
Yet they who look'd upon that Maiden meek 
Might see what deep emotion blanched her 

cheek. 



An inward light there was which fill'd her eyes, 
And told, more forcibly than words could 

speak, 
That this disruption of her earliest ties 
Had shaken mind and frame in all their faculties. 

36. 

It was not passion only that disturb'd 
Her gentle nature thus ; it was not grief; 
Nor human feeling by the effort curb'd 
Of some misdeeming duty, when relief 
Were surely to be found, albeit brief, 
If sorrow at its springs might freely flow ; 
Nor yet repining, stronger than belief 
In its first force, that shook the Maiden so. 
Though these alone might that frail fabric over- 
throw. 



The seeds of death were in her at that hour ; 
Soon was their quickening and their growth dis- 
play 'd ; 
Thenceforth she droop'd and wither'd like a 

flower. 
Which, when it flourish'd in its native shade. 
Some child to his own garden hath convey'd, 
And planted in the sun, to pine away. 
Thus was the gentle Mooma seen to fade, 
Not under sharp disease, but day by day 
Losing the powers of life in visible decay. 

38. 
The sunny hue that tinged her check was gone ; 
A dcathy paleness settled in its stead ; 
The light of joy which in her eyes had shone, 
Now like a lamp that is no longer fed 
Grew dim; but when she raised her heavy head, 
Some proffer'd help of kindness to partake, 
Those feeble eyes a languid lustre shed. 
And her sad smile of thankfulness would wake 
Grief even in callous hearts for that sweet suf- 
ferer's sake. 

39. 
How had Yeruti borne to see her fade ? 
But he was spared the lamentable sight. 
Himself upon the bed of sickness laid. 
Joy of his heart, and of his eyes the light, 
Had Mooma been to him, his soul's delight, 
On whom his mind forever was intent. 
His darling thought by day, his dream by night, 
The playmate of his youth in mercy sent. 
With whom his life had passed in peacefulest 
content. 

40. 
Well was it for the youth, and well for her, 
As there in placid helplessness she lay, 
He was not present with his love to stir 
Emotions that might shake her feeble clay, 
And rouse up in her heart a strong array 
Of feelings, hurtful only when they bind 
To earth the soul that soon must pass away. 
But this was spared them ; and no pain of mind 
To trouble her had she, instinctively resign'd. 



520 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



CANTO IV. 



41. 

Nor was there wanting to the sufferers aught 
Of careful kindness to alleviate 
The alHiction ; for the universal thought 
In that poor town was of their sad estate, 
And what might best relieve or mitigate 
Their case, what help of nature or of art ; 
And many were the prayers compassionate 
That the good Saints their healing would im- 
part, 
Breathed in that maid's behalf from many a tender 
heart. 

42. 
And vows were made for her, if vows might 

save; 
She for herself the while preferr'd no prayer; 
For when she stood beside her Mother's 

grave, 
Her earthly hopes and thoughts had ended 

there. 
Her only longing now was, free as air 
From this obstructive flesh to take her flight 
For Paradise, and seek her Mother there. 
And then, regaining her beloved sight. 
Rest in the eternal sense of undisturb'd delight. 

43. 

Her heart was there, and there she felt and 

knew 
That soon full surely should her spirit be. 
And who can tell what foretastes might ensue 
To one, whose soul, from all earth's thraldom 

free, 
Was waiting thus for immortality ? 
Sometimes she spake with short and hurried 

breath, 
As if some happy sight she seem'd to see. 
While, in the fulness of a perfect faith. 
Even with a lover's hope, she lay and look'd for 

death. 

44. 

I said that for herself the patient maid 
Preferr'd no prayer ; but oft her feeble tongue 
And feebler breath a voice of praise essay'd ; 
And duly when the vesper bell was rung. 
Her evening hymn in faint accord she sung 
So piously, that they who gathered round. 
Awe-stricken on her heavenly accents hung. 
As though they thought it were no mortal sound, 
But that the place whereon they stood was holy 
ground. 

45. 
At such an hour, when Dobrizhoffer stood 
Beside her bed, oh ! how unlike, he thought, 
This voice to that which, ringing through the 

wood, 
Had led him to the secret bower he sought ! 
And was it then for this that he had brought 
That harmless household from their native 

shade .'' 
Death had already been the mother's lot ; 



And this fair Mooma, was she form'd to fade 
So soon, — so soon must she in earth's cold lap be 
laid.? 

46. 

Yet he had no misgiving at the sight ; 
And wherefore should he ? He had acted well, 
And deeming of the ways of God aright. 
Knew that to such as these, whate'er befell 
Must needs for them be best. But who could 

dwell 
Unmoved upon the fate of one so young. 
So blithesome late ? What marvel if tears fell 
From that good man as over her he hung. 
And that the prayers he said came faltering from 

his tongue ! 

47. 

She saw him weep, and she could understand 
The cause thus tremulously that made him 

speak. 
By his emotion moved, she took his hand ; 
A gleam of pleasure o'er her pallid cheek 
Past, while she look'd at him with meaning 

meek. 
And for a little while, as loath to part, 
Detaining him, her fingers, lank and weak, 
Play'd with their hold; then letting him depart, 
She gave him a slow smile that touch'd him to the 

heart. i 



Mourn not for her ! for what hath life to give 
That should detain her ready spirit here ? 
Thinkest thou that it were worth a wish to live, 
Could wishes hold her from her proper sphere ? 
That simple heart, that innocence sincere 
The world would stain. Fitter she ne'er could be | 
For the great change ; and now that change is 
near, , 

Oh, who would keep her soul from being free .'* j 
Maiden beloved of Heaven, to die is best for thee ! ! 

49. I 

She hath pass'd away, and on her lips a smile , 
Hath settled, fix'd in death. Judged they aright, ; 
Or suffered they their fancy to beguile l 

The reason, who believed that she had sight ; 
Of Heaven before her spirit took its flight ; | 

That Angels waited round her lowly bed ; I 

And that, in that last effort of delight. 
When lifting up her dying arms, she said, ' 

I come ! a ray from heaven upon her face was shed ? 



50. 
St. Joachin's had never seen a day 
Of such profuse and general grief before, 
As when, with tapers, dirge, and long array. 
The Maiden's body to the grave they bore. 
All eyes, all hearts, her early death deplore ; 
Yet, wondering at the fortune they lament, 
They the wise ways of Providence adore, 
By whom the Pastor surely had been sent, 
When to the Mondai woods upon his quest he went 



I 



CANTO IV. 



A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



521 



51. 
This was, indeed, a chosen family, 
For Heaven's especial favor mark'd, they said ; 
Shut out from all mankind they seem'd to be ; 
Yet mercifully there were visited, 
That so within the fold they might be led. 
Then call'd away to bliss. Already two 
In their baptismal innocence were dead ; 
The third was on the bed of death they knew. 
And in the appointed course must presently ensue. 

52. 

They marvell'd, therefore, when the youth once 

more 
Rose from his bed, and walk'd abroad again; 
Severe had been the malady, and sore 
The trial, while life struggled to maintain 
Its seat against the sharp assaults of pain : 
But life in him was vigorous ; long he lay 
Ere it could its ascendency regain ; 
Then, when the natural powers resumed their 

sway, 
All trace of late disease past rapidly away. 

53. 

The first inquiry, when his mind was free, 
Was for his Sister. She was gone, they said, 
Gone to her Mother, evermore to be 
With her in Heaven. At this no tears he shed, 
Nor was he seen to sorrow for the dead ; 
But took the fatal tidings in such part 
As if a dull, unfeeling nature bred 
His unconcern ; for hard would seem the heart 
To which a loss like his no suffering could impart. 

54. 

How little do they see what is, who frame 
Their hasty judgment upon that which seems ! 
Waters that babble on their way proclaim 
A shallowness ; but in their strength deep streams 
Flow silently. Of death Yeruti deems 
Not as an ill, but as the last great good. 
Compared wherewith all other he esteems 
Transient and void : how then should thought 
intrude 
Of sorrow in his heart for their beatitude .-' 

55. 
While dwelling in their sylvan solitude 
Less had Yeruti learn'd to entertain 
A sense of age than death. He understood 
Something of death from creatures he had slain ; 
But here the ills which follow in the train 
Of age had first to him been manifest, — 
The shrunken form, the limbs that move with 

pain. 
The failing sense, infirmity, unrest, — 
That in his heart he said to die betimes was best. 

56. 

Nor had he lost the dead : they were but gone 
Before him, whither he should shortly go. 
Their robes of glory they had first put on ; 
He, cumber'd with mortality, below 
66 



Must yet abide awhile, content to know 
He should not wait in long expectance here. 
What cause then for repining, or for woe ? 
Soon shall he join them in their heavenly sphere. 
And often, even now, he knew that they were near. 

57. 
'Twas but in open day to close his eyes. 
And shut out the unprofitable view 
Of all this weary world's realities. 
And forthwith, even as if they lived anew. 
The dead were with him ; features, form, and hue, 
And looks, and gestures, were restored again : 
Their actual presence in his heart he knew ; 
And when their converse was disturb'd, oh, then 
How flat and stale it was to mix with living men ! 

58. 
But not the less, whate'er was to be done, 
With living men he took his part content, 
At loom, in garden, or a-field, as one 
Whose spirit, wholly on obedience bent. 
To every task its prompt attention lent. 
Alert in labor he among the best ; 
And when to church tlie congregation went, 
None more exact than he to cross his breast, 
And kneel, or rise, and do in all things like the rest. 

59. 
Cheerful he was, almost like one elate 
With wine, before it hath disturb'd his power 
Of reason. Yet he seem'd to feel the weignt 
Of time ; for always, when from yonder tower 
He heard the clock tell out the passing hour. 
The sound appeared to give him some delight ; 
And when the evening shades began to lower. 
Then was he seen to watch the fading light 
As if his heart rejoiced at the return of night. 

60. 
The old man, to whom he had been given in care, 
To Dobrizhofier came one day, and said. 
The trouble which our youth was thought to bear 
With such indifference hath deranged his head. 
He says that he is nightly visited ; 
His Mother and his Sister come and say 
That he must give this message from the dead, 
Not to defer his baptism, and delay 
A soul upon the earth which should no longer stay. 

61. 

A dream the Jesuit deem'd it; a deceit 
Upon itself by feverish fancy wrought; 
A mere delusion, which it were not meet 
To censure, lest the youth's distemper'd thought 
Might thereby be to further error brought ; 
But he himself its vanity would find, — 
They argued thus, — if it were noticed not. 
His baptism was in fitting time design'd, 
The father said, and then dismiss'd it from his mind. 

62. 
But the old Indian came again ere long 
With the same tale, and freely then confess'd 



522 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



His doubt that he had done Yeruti wrong ; 
For something more than common seem'd im- 

press'd; 
And now he thought that certes it were best 
From the youth's hps his own account to hear ; 
Haply the father then to his request 
Might yield, regarding his desire sincere, 
Nor wait for further time if there were aught to fear. 

63. 

Considerately the Jesuit heard, and bade 
The youth be called. Yeruti told his tale. 
Nightly these blessed spirits came, he said, 
To warn liim he must come within the pale 
Of Christ without delay ; nor must he fail 
This warning to their pastor to repeat. 
Till the renewed entreaty should prevail. 
Life's business then for him would be complete, 
And 'twas to tell him this they left their starry seat. 

64. 
Came they to him in dreams .■" — he could not tell ; 
Sleeping or waking now small difference made ; 
For even, while he slept, he knew full well 
That his dear Mother and that darling Maid 
Both in the Garden of the Dead were laid ; 
And yet he saw them as in life, the same, 
Save only that in radiant robes array'd. 
And round about their presence when they came 
There shone an effluent light as of a harmless flame. 

65. 

And where he was he knew, the time, the 

place, — 
All circumstantial things to him were clear. 
His own heart undisturb'd. His Mother's face 
How could he choose but know ; or, knowing, fear 
Her presence and that Maid's, to him more dear 
Than all that had been left him now below .' 
Their love had drawn them from their happy 

sphere ; 
That dearest love unchanged they came to show ; 
And he must be baptized, and then he too might go. 

66. 

With searching ken the Jesuit, while he spake, 
Perused him, if in countenance or tone 
Aught might be found appearing to partake 
Of madness. Mark of passion there was none ; 
None of derangement : in his eye alone. 
As from a hidden fountain emanate, 
Something of an unusual brightness shone : 
But neither word nor look betrayed a state 
Of wandering, and his speech, though earnest, was 
sedate. 

67. 

Regular his pulse, from all disorder free, 

The vital powers perform'd their part assign'd ; 

And to whate'er was ask'd collectedly 

He answer'd. Nothing troubled him in mind ; 

Why should it ? Were not all around him kind ^ 

Did not all love him with a love sincere. 

And seem in serving him a joy to find ? 



He had no want, no pain, no grief, no fear; 
But he must be baptized ; he could not tarry here. 

68. 
Thy will be done; Father in heaven who art ! 
The pastor said, nor longer now denied ; 
But with a weight of awe upon his heart 
Enter'd the church, and there, the font beside, 
With holy water, chrism, and salt applied, 
Perform'd in all solemnity the rite. 
His feeling was that hour with fear allied ; 
Yeruti's was a sense of pure delight. 
And while he knelt his eyes seem'd larger and more 
bright. 

69. 
His wisii hath been obtain'd ; and this being done, 
His soul was to its full desire content. 
The day in its accustom'd course pass'd on ; 
The Indian mark'd him ere to rest he went, 
How o'er his beads, as he was wont, he bent, 
And then, like one who casts all care aside, 
Lay down. The old man fear'd no ill event. 
When, " Ye are come for me ! " Yeruti cried; 
" Yes, I am ready now ! " and instantly he died. 



NOTES. 

So he, forsooth^ a shapely boot must wear. — Proem, p. 50J. 

His leg had been set I)y the French after their conquest of 
Pamplona, and re-set after his removal to his father's house. 
Tlie latter operation is described as having been most severe, 
but borne by him, in his wonted manner, without any manifesta- 
tion of suffering. For some time his life was despaired of. 
" When the danger of death was past, and the bones were 
knit and becoming firm, two inconveniences remained : one 
occasioned by a portion of bone below the knee, which pro- 
jected so as to occasion some deformity ; the other was a 
contraction of the leg, which prevented him from walking 
erect or standing firmly on his feet. Now, as he was very so- 
licitous al)out his appearance, and intended at that time to 
follow the course of a military life, which he had begun, he 
inquired of his medical attendants, in the first place, whether 
the bone could be removed, which stood out in so unsightly a 
manner. They answered that it was possible to remove it, 
but the operation would be exceedingly painful, much more 
so than any which he had before undergone. He nevertheless ' 
directed them to cut it out, that he might have his will, and 
(as he himself related in my hearing, says Ribadeneira) that 
he might wear fashionable and well-fitting boots. Nor could 
he be dissuaded from this determination. He would not con- 
sent to be bound during the operation, and went through it 
with the same firmness of mind which lie had manifested in 
the former operations. By this means the deformity of the 
bone was removed. The contraction of the leg was in some 
degree relieved by other applications, and especially by certain 
machines, with which, during many days, and with great and 
continual pain, it was stretched j nevertheless it could not be so 
extended, but that it always remained something shorter than 
the other." — Ribadeneira, Vita S. Ignatii Loyolce, Jicta SS, 
Jul. t. 7, p. 659. 

A close-fitting boot seems to have been as fashionable at 
one time as close-fitting innominahles of buckskin were about 
the year 1790; and perhaps it was as severe an operation to ' 
get into them for the first time. " The greasy shoemaker," 
says Tom Nash, with his squirrel's skin, and a whole stall of 
ware upon his arm, enters, and wrencheth his legs for an hour 
together, and after shows his tally. By St. Loy that draws 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



523 



deep." — J^J'ash^s Lenten Stuff. Harl. Miscel. vol. ii. p.289,8vo 
editiun. 

The operation of fitting a Spanish dandy with short-laced 
quarter-boots is thus minutely described by Juan de Zavaleta, 

, wlio was liistoriographer at the commencement of Citrlos the 
' Second's reign. 

Entra el zayatero oliendo d cansado. Saca de las hormas los 
zapatos, con tanta dlficultad coino si desollara las hurmas. Sien- 
tase en una silla el galan ; hincase el zapatero de rodilla.'i, apo- 
dirase de una picrna con tantos tirones y dcsagrados, como si h 
embiaran a que Ic dicra tormento. Mete nn calzador en cl talon 
del zapato, encapillale otro en la punta del pic, y Inegu cniiiicza a 
guiar el zapato por encima del calzador. ^pcnas ha caminado 
puco mas que los dedus del pie, quando es menester arrastrarle 
con Unas tenazas, y aun urrastrado se resiste. Ponese en pie el 
pacicnte fatigado, 2)cro contcntu de que los zapatos le vengan an- 
gostos ; y de orden del zapatero da tres 6 gualro patadas en el 
sado, con tanta fuerza, que pues no se quicbra, deve de ser dc 
bronze. 

Acozeados dan de si el cordovan y la sncla ; pcllcjos en fin de 
aniiiiales, que obedcccn a golpcs. Buelvesc a saitar cl ted senoi; 
dobla dziafucra el cop etc del zapato, cogelc con la buca dc las 
tenazas, hinca cl oficial junto a el entrambas rodiUas, nfirmase en 
elsuelo^onla mano izqnierda, y puesto de bruzas sobrc clpie, 
heclio area los dos dedos de la viano dcrecha epic for man el jcme, 
va con ellos ayudando a llevar pvr el empeine arriba el cordovan, 
de quien tira con las tenazas su duerio. Euclve aponcrsc en una 
rodilla, como primero csruea ; empuna con la una mano la punta 
del pie, y con la polnia de la otra da sobre su mano tan grandes 
golpes como si los diera con una pala de jugar a lapelola ; que 
es la nece.ssidad tan discrcta, que se haze el pobre el inul a si mis- 
mo, por no hazersele a aquel de quien necasita. 

Jljustuda ya la punta del pie, acude al talon ; humedcce con la 
lengua les n mates dc las costuras,pcrque nofulscen las costuras 
de secas por los remutes. Tremenda vanidad, sufrir en sus pies 
un hombre la boca de otro hombre, solo por tencr alinados los pies 
Desdobla el zapatero el talon, dose una buelta con el calzador a la 
mano, y empieza a encaxarcn cl piela scgunda porcion del zapato. 
Manda que se baxe la punta, y liazise la que nianda. Llama 
azia a si el zapato con tal fuerza, que cr.trc su cuerpo, y el esj)al- 
dar de la silla abrevia torpe y dcsalinadamcnte al que calza. 
Dizele luego que haga talon, y el hombre obedece como un esclavo. 
Ordenale despues que de en cl suclo una patada, y el da la pata- 
da, como sc le ordena. Buelve a sentarse ; saca cl ciiul viinis- 
tro cl calzador del empeine, y por dondc salio cl calzador mete un 
palo, que Human casta, y contra el buelve y rcbuelve el sacaboca- 
dos, que saca los bocados del cordovan , para que entrcn las cintas ; 
y de.ra en el empeine del pie un dolor, y ^lnas seiiales, como si hu- 
viira sacado dc alii los bocados. Aguijerea las orejas, passu la 
ciiifa con una aguja, lleva las orejas a que cicrren el zapato, 
ajustalos, y da luego con tanta fuerza el nudo, que si pudieran 
ahogar a un hombre por la garganta del pie, le aliogara. Haze 
la rosa despues con mas cuydado que gracia. Buelve a deva- 

' vur.-r a la mano cl calzador, que estd colgando del talon ; tira del 
como quien retoca, dd con la otra mano palmadas en laplanta, 
como quien assienta, y saca el calzador, cchandosc todo dzia atrds. 
Pone el galan el pic en el suelo, y quedase mirandole. Lcvan- 
tase el zapatero, arrasa con el dedo el sudor de la f rente, y queda 

I respirando como si Miviera corrida. Todo csto sc ahon-ava con 
hazer el zapato un poco mayor que el pie. Padeccn luego en- 
traiiihos otro tanto con el pie scgundo. Llega cl ultimo yficro 
irniicc de darle el dinero. Recoge el oficial sus baratijas. Rc- 
cihr su cstipcndio, sale por la pucrta de la sola inii-andosi es bue- 

' na la plata que le han dado, dexando d su diicno de movimicntos 
tan torpes como si Ic huviera echado unos grillos. 

Si pcnsardn los que se calzan apretado que se achican el pie. 
Si h piensan se enganan. Los huessos no se pucden meter unos 
en otros .- con esto es fuerza que si le (jtiitan dc lo largo al zapato, 

• se doble el pie por las coyunturas, y crezca dzia arriba lo que le 
mcnguan de adelante. Si le cstrcchan lo ancho, es prcciso q^ie 
se alargue aquella came oprimida. Con la misma cantidad dc 
pie que se tenian, se qucdan los que calzan sisado. Lo que hazcn 
es atonnentarse, y dexar los pies de peor hechura. El animal d 

' quien 7nas largos pies did la naturaleza segun su cantidad, cs el 
hombre ; porque, como ha de andar todo el cuerpo sobre ellos, y 
no son mas de dos, quiso que anduviesse seguro. El que se los 
quiere abreviar, gana parece que tienc de caer, y de caer en los 
vicios, dondc se hard mayor mal, que en las piedras. La parte I 

1 que le puso Dios al hombre en lafabrica de su cuerpo mas cerca I 



de la tierra, son los pies .- quiso sin duda que fuera la parte mas 
hicmilde de su fabrica .- pero los galanes viciosos les quitan la 
humildad con los alinos, y los cnsobervecen con el cuydado. 
Enfada esto a Dios tanto, que avicndo de hazer al hombre animal 
que pisasse la tierra, hizo la tierra de tal calidad, que se pudiesse 
imprimir en ella la huella del hombre. Mierta dcxa su sepultura 
el pie que se levanta, y parece que se lexmnta de la sepnltura. 
Tremcndad erueldad es enloquccer con el adorno al que se quiere 
tr agar la tierra a cada passo. — El dia de Fiesta. Obras de 
D. Juan de Zavaleta, p. 179, 180. 

" fn comes the shoemaker in the odor of haste and fatigue. 
He takes the shoes off the last with as much difficulty as if he 
were skinning the lasts. The gallant seats himself upon a 
chair; the shoemaker kneels down, and takes possession of 
one foot, which he handles as if he were sent there to admin- 
ister the torture. He puts one shoeing-skin * in the heel of 
the shoe, fits t!ie other upon the point of the foot, and then 
begins to guide the shoe over the shoeing-skin. Scarcely has 
it got farther tlian the toes when it is found necessary to draw 
it on with pincers, and even then it is hard work. The pa- 
tient stands up, fatigued with the operation, but well pleased 
that the slices arc tigiit ; and by tJie shoemaker's directions 
he stamps three or four times on the floor, with such force that 
it must be of iron if it does not give way. 

" The cordovan and the soles l)cing thus beaten, submit ; 
they are the skins of animals who obey blows. Our gallant 
returns to his seat, he turns up the upper leather of the shoe, 
and lays hold on it with the pincers ; tin; tradesman kneels 
close by him on both knees, rests on the ground with his loft 
hand, and bending in this all-four's position over the foot, 
making an arch with those fingers of the right hand which 
form the span, assists in drawing on the upper part of the cor- 
dovan, the gallant pulling the while with Ihc pincers. He 
then i)uts himself on one knee, lays hold of the end of the foot 
with one hand, and with the palm of the other strikes his own 
hand as hard as if he were striking a ball with a racket. For 
necessity is so discreet that the poor man inflicts this pain 
upon himself that he may give none to the person of whose 
custom he stands in need. 

" The end of the foot being thus adjusted, he repairs to the 
heel, and with his tongue moistens the end of the seams, tiiat 
they may not give way for being dry. Tremendous vanity, 
that one man should allow the mouth of another to be applied 
to his feet that he may have them trimly set out ! The shoe- 
maker unfolds the Jicel, turns round with the shoeing-skin in 
his hand, and begins to fit the second part of the shoe upon the 
foot. He desires the gallant to put the end of the foot down, 
and the gallant does as he is desired. He draws the slioe 
towards him with such force tliat tlie person who is thus being 
shoed is compressed in an unseemly manner between the 
shoemaker's body and the back of the chair. Presently he 
tells him to put his heel down, and the man is as obedient as a 
slave. He orders him then to stamp upon the ground, and 
the man stamps as he is ordered. The gallant then seats Jiim- 
self again ; the cruel operator draws the shoeing-skin from 
the instep, and in its place drives in a stick which they call 
costa.1( He then turns upon it the punch, which makes the 
holes in the leather, through which the ribands are to pass ; 
he again twists round liis hand the strip of hare's-skm which 
hangs from the heel, and pulls it as if he were ringing a bell, 
and leaves upon the upper part of the top such pain and marks 
as if he had punched tlie holes in it. He bores the oars, passes 
the string through with a bodkin, brings the ears together that 
they may fasten the shoe, fits them to their intended place, 
and ties the knot with such force, that if it were possible to 
strangle a man by the neck of his foot, strangled the gallant 
would be. Then he makes the rose, with more care than 
grace. He goes then to take out the shoeing-skin, which is 
still hanging from the heel ; he lays hold of this, strikes the 
sole of the foot with his other hand as if settling it, and draws 
out the skin, bringing out all with it. The gallant puts his 
foot to the ground, and remains looking at it. The shoemaker 
rises, wipes the sweat from his forehead with his fingers, and 
draws his breath like one who has been running. All this 



* A piece of hare's-skm is used in Spain for this purpose, as it appears by 
tlie former extract from Tom Nash that squirrel 's-skin was in England. 

t Which is used to drive in upon the last, to raise a shoe liigher in the 
instep. 



524 



JMOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



trouble might have been saved by making the shoe a little 
larger than the foot. Presently both have to go through the 
same pains with the other foot. Now comes the last and 
terrible act of payment. The tradesman collects his tools, 
receives his money, and goes out at the door, looking at the 
silver to see if it is good, and leaving the gallant walking as 
much at his ease as if he had been put in fetters. 

" If they who wear tight shoes think that thereby they can 
lessen the size of their feet, they are mistaken. The bones 
cannot be squeezed one into another ; if therefore the shoe is 
made short, the foot must be crooked at the joints, and grow 
upward if is not allowed to grow forward. If it is pinched in 
the breadth, the flesh which is thus constrained must extend 
itself in length. They, who are shod thus miserably remain 
with just the same quantity of foot. 

" Of all animals, man is the one to which, in proportion to 
its size, nature has given the largest feet ; because as his whole 
body is to be supported upon them, and he has only two, she 
chose that he should walk in safety. He who wishes to 
abbreviate them acts as if he were inclined to fall, and to fall 
into vices which will do him more injury than if he fell upon 
stones. The feet are the part which in the fabric of the human 
body are placed nearest to the earth ; they are meant therefore 
to be the humblest part of his frame, but gallants take away all 
humility by adorning and setting them forth in bravery. This 
BO displeases the Creator, that having to make man an animal 
who should walk upon the earth, he made the earth of such 
properties, that the footsteps should sink into it. The foot 
which is lifted from the ground leaves its own grave open, and 
seems as if it rose from the grave. What a tremendous thing 
is it then to set off with adornments that which the earth 
wishes to devour at every step I " 



Whiling with books the tedious hours away. — Proem, p. 502. 

Vede quanto importa a ligao de bans livros I Se o livro fora 
de cavallerias, sahiria Ignacio hum grande cavalleyro ; fay hum 
livro de vidas de Santos, sahio hum grande Santo. Se lera 
cavallerias, sahiria Ignacio hum Cavalleyro da ardente espada ; 
lea vidas de Santos, sahio hum Santo da ardente tocha. — Vieyra, 
Sermam de S. Ignacio, t. i. 368. 

See, says Vieyra, the importance of reading good books. 
If it had been a book of knight-errantry, Ignacio would have 
become a great knight-errant ; it was the Lives of the Saints, 
and Ignatius became a great saint. If he had read about 
knights, he might have proved a Knight of the Burning Sword : 
he read about saints, and proved a Saint of the Burning Torch. 
Nothing could seem more probable than that Cervantes had 
this part of Loyola's history in his mind when he described the 
rise of Don Q,uixote's madness, if Cervantes had not shown 
himself in one of his dramas to be thoroughly imbued with the 
pestilent superstition of his country. El dichoso Rufian is one 
of those monstrous compositions which nothing but the anti- 
christian fables of the Romish church could have produced. 

Landor, however, supposes that Cervantes intended to sat- 
irize a favorite dogma of the Spaniards. The passage occurs 
in his thirteenth conversation. 

" The most dexterous attack ever made against the worship 
among catholics, which opens so many side-chapels to pilfering 
and imposture, is that of Cervantes. 

" Leopold. I do not remember in what part. 
" President. Throughout Don Q.uixote. Dulcinea was the 
peerless, the immaculate, and death was denounced against 
all who hesitated to admit the assertion of her pei ections. 
Surely your highness never could have imagined tu&t Cer- 
vantes was such a knight-errant as to attack knight-errantry, 
a folly that had ceased more than a century, if indeed it was 
any folly at all ; and the idea that he ridiculed the poems and 
romances founded on it is not less improbable, for they con- 
tained all the literature of the nation, excepting the garniture 
of chapter-houses, theology, and pervaded, as with a thread 
of gold, the beautiful histories of this illustrious people. He 
delighted the idlers of romance by the jokes he scattered 
amongst them on the false taste of his predecessors and of his 
rivals ; and he delighted his own heart by this solitary archery ; 
well knowing what amusement those who came another day 
would find in picking up his arrows and discovering the bull's- 
eye hits. 



" Charles V. was the knight of La Mancha, devoting his 
labors and vigils, his wars and treaties, to the chimerical idea 
of making all minds, like watches, turn their indexes by a 
simultaneous movement to one point. Sancho Panza was the 
symbol of the people, possessing sound sense in all other 
matters, but ready to follow the most extravagant visionary 
in this, and combining implicit belief in it with the grossest 
sensuality. For religion, when it is hot enough to produce 
enthusiasm, burns up and kills every seed intrusted to its 
bosom." — Imaginary Conversations, vol. i. 187. 

Benedetto di Virgilio, the Italian ploughman, thus describes 
the course of Loyola's reading, in his heroic poem upon that 
Saint's life. 

Mentre le vote indebolite vene 
Stass^ egU rinforzando d poco d poco 
Dentro i paterni tetti, e si trattiene 
Or stl la ricca zambra, orpresso alfoco, 
For^ del costume suo, pensier gli viene 
Di legger libripiu che d^altro gioco ; 
QTianV era dianzi innamorato, e d'armi 
Tanf or, mutando stile, inchina d i carmi. 

Quinci comanda, che i volumi omati 
D^alti concetti, e di leggiadra rima, 
Dentro la stanza sua vengan portati, 
Che passar con lor versi il tempo stima : 
Cercan ben tosto i paggi in tutti i lati 
Ove posar solean tai libri prima. 
Ma ne per questa parte, ne per quella 
Ponno istoria trovar vecchia, o novella. 

I volumi vergati in dolci canti 
S'ascondon si, die nulla il cercar giova ; 
Ma pur cercando i piU secreti canti 
Per granfortuna un tomo ecco si trovOf 
Tomo divin, che le vite de^Santi 
Conserva, e de la etade prisca e nova, 
Onde per far la brama sua contenta 
Tal opra unfido servo d lui presenta. 

II volume, che spiega in ogni parte 
De guerrieri del del Poprefamose, 
Fa di' Ignatio s^accenda d seguir Parte 
Che d soffrir tanto i sacri Eroi dispose, 
Egli gid sprezza di Bellona e Marte 
Oli studi, che d seguir primu si pose, 
E s' accinge d troncar maggior d''Alcide, 
UHxdra del vido, e le sue teste infide. 

Tutto giocondo d contemplar s'appiglia 

Si degni fogli, e daprincipio alfine ; 

Qui ritrova di Dio Vampiafamiglia, 

Spirti beati ed alme peregrine : 

Tra gli altri osserva con sua meraviglia 

n pio Ousman, che colse da le spine 

Rose celesti de la terra santa, 

Onde del buon Oieso nacque la pianta. 

Contempla dopo il Serafico Magna 
Fondator de le bigge immense squadre ; 
La divina virtu, Palto guadagno 
De Popre lor mirabili e leggiadre : 
Rimira il Padoan di lui compagno, 
Che liberd da indegna morte il padre, 
E per provar di quella causa il torto, 
Vivo fi de la tomba uscire il morto. 

Qidnci ritrova il Cclestin, die spande 
Trionfante bandiera alia campagna, 
De Pegregie virttl sue memorande 
Con Italia sHngemma e Francia e Spagna : 
Omati ifigli suoi d'opre ammirande 
Son per Pjlfrica sparti, e per Lamagna, 
E in parti infide al del per lor si vede 
J\rascer la Chiesa, e pullular la fede. 

Quivi s^avisa, come il buon J^orcino 
Inclito Capitan del Re supemo. 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



525 



Un giorno guereggiando sil 'i Casino 
OP Idoli fracassd , vinse V Inferno, 
E con aita del motor divino 
Ouastd tempio sacrato al cieco Avemo, 
Por di novo Peresse d Palta prole 
Divino essempio dc Veterno Sole. 

Legge come Brunone al divin Regge 
Accolse al Rd del del cignifelici, 
E dando ordinc lor, regola e legge 
OP impard calpestare asprependici; 
E quelle de le donne anco vi legge, 
Che qui di ricche diventar mcndiei 
Per trovar poi siJi le sedi supcrne 
Lor doti incorruttibili ed eterne. 

Chiara tra Paltre nota e Caterina, 
Che per csser di Diofedcle amante, 
Fii intrepida d i tormenti ■. e la Regina 
Di Siena, e seco le cowpagnc tante .- 
Oisola con la schiera peregrina, 
Monache sacre, vergineUe sante, 
Che sprezzanda del mondo il vano rito, 
Elessero Oiesvi lor gran maritu. 

E tra i Romiti mira llarione, 

E di Vienna quel si franco e forte 

Che dcbcllo la f uric, e H gran Campione 

Ch'' appo il JVatal di Christo hebbe la morte ; 

Risguarda quel del primo Confalone, 

Che del Cicl guarda le supcrne parte ; 

E gli undcci compagni, e come luce 

11 divo Agnello di lor capo e Duce. 

Mentre in questo pcnetra e meglio intende 
D^Eroi si gloriosi il nobil vanto. 
Aura immortal del Cicl soi^ra lui scende. 
Aura immortal di spirto divo e santo ; 
Gia gli sgombra gli errori e gid gli accende 
In guisa il cor, che distilla in pianto ; 
Lagrime versa, e le lagrime sparte 
Bagnan del libra le vcrgate carte. 

Qual duro ghiaccio sovra e monti alpini 
Da la virt'Hi del sole intenerito, 
Suol liqucfarsi, e di bei cristallini 
Rivi Phcrbc inaffiar del sniolfiorito ; 
Tal da laforza degli ardor divini 
Del Oiovanctto molle il corferito, 
Hor si discioglie in tcpidi liquori, 
E rigan del bel volto i vaghifiori. 

Com* altri nel cristallo, o nel diamante 
Specchiarsi sitol, tal ci si specchia, e mira 
J\rel specchio di sua mente, indi Perrante 
Vita disceme, ondc con dual sospira .- 
Quinci risolve intrepido e constante 
Depor gli orgogli giovnnili e Pira, 
Per imitar ne Popra e ne gli effctti 
I celesti guerrier del libro letti. 

Ignatio Loiola. Roma, 1647. Canto 2. 

The Jesuits, however, assure us, tliat Loyola is not the 
autlior of their society, and that it is not allowable either to 
think or say so. Socictas Jesu ut d S. Igvatin de Loiol& non 
ducit nomen, ita neque originem primnm, et aJiud sentire aut 
loqui, ncfas. (Imago primi Snsculi Soc. Jesu, p. 64.) Jesus 
primus ac prcecipuus auctor Societatis is the title of a chapter 
in this their secular volume, which is a curious and very 
beautiful book. Then follows Bcata Virgo nutrix, patrona, 
wnd altera velut auctor Societatis. Lastly, Post Christu/m et 
Mariam Societatis Auctor et Parens sanctus Ignatius. 

" On the 26th August, 1794, the French plundered the rich 
church of Loyola, at Azpeitia, and proceeding to Elgoibas, 
loaded five carts with the spoils of the church of that place. 
This party of marauders consisted of 200. The peasants col- 
lected, fell upon them, and after an obstinate conflict of three 
hours, recovered the whole booty, which they conveyed to 
Vittoria in triumph. Among other things, a relic of Loyola 



was recovered, which was carried in procession to the church, 
the victorious peasants accompanying it." — Marcillac, Hist, 
de la Guerre de P Espagne, p. 86. 



Vaccination. — Canto I. st, 1. 

It is odd that in Hindostan, where it might have been 
supposed superstition would have facilitated the introduction 
of this practice, a pious fraud was found necessary for remov- 
ing the prejudice against it. 

Mooperal Streenivaschary, a Brahmin, thus writes to Dr. 
Anderson, at Madras, on vaccine inoculation. 

" It might be useful to remove a prejudice in the minds 
of the people, arising from the term cow-pock, being taken 
literally in our Tamul tongue ; whereas there can be no doubt 
that it has been a drop of nectar from the exuberant udders 
of the cows in England, and no way similar to the humor dis- 
charged from the tongue and feet of diseased cattle in this 
country." — Forbes's Oriental Memoirs, vol. iii. p. 423. 



For tyrannous fear dissolved all natural bonds of man. 

Canto I. St. 3. 

Mackenzie gives adreadful picture of the effect of small-pox 
among the North American Indians. 

" Tiie small-pox spread its destructive and desolating power, 
as the fire consumes the dry grass of the field. The fatal 
infection spread around with a baneful rapidity, which no 
flight could escape, and with a fatal effect that nothing could 
resist. It destroyed with its pestilential breath whole families 
and tribes ; and the horrid scene presented to those who had 
the melancholy and afflicting opportunity of beholding it, a 
combination of the dead, the dying, and such as, to avoid the 
horrid fate of their friends around them, prepared to dis- 
appoint the plague of its prey, by terminating their own 
existence. 

" The habits and lives of these devoted people, which pro- 
vided not to-day for the wants of to-morrow, must have 
heightened the pains of such an affliction, by leaving them not 
only without remedy, but even without alleviation. Nought 
was left them but to submit in agony and despair. 

" To aggravate the picture, if aggravation were possible, 
may be added the putrid carcasses which the wolves, with a 
furious voracity, dragged forth from the huts, or which were 
mangled within them by the dogs, whose hunger was satisfied 
with the disfigured remains of their masters. Nor was it 
uncommon for the father of a family, whom the infection had 
not reached, to call them around him, to represent the cruel 
sufferings and horrid fate of their relations, from the influence 
of some evil sjtirit, who was preparing to extirpate their race j 
and to incite them to baffle death, with all its horrors, by 
their own poniards. At the same time, if their hearts failed 
them in this necessary act, he was himself ready to perform 
the deed of mercy with his own hand, as the last act of his 
affection, and instantly to follow them to the common place 
of rest and refuge from human evil." 



And from the silent door tlie jaguar turns away. 

Canto I. St. 11. 

I may be forgiven for not having strictly adhered to natural 
history in this instance. The liberty which I have taken is 
mentioned, tliat it may not be supposed to have arisen from 
ignorance of this animal's habits. 

The jaguar will not attack a living horse if a dead one be 
near, and when it kills its prey, it drags it to its den, but is 
said not to eat the body till it becomes putrid. They are 
caught in large fraps of the cage kind, baited with stinking 
meat, and then speared or shot through the bars. The Chal- 
caquines had a braver way of Idlling them : they provoked the 
animal, fronted it, received its attack upon a thick truncheon, 
which they held by the two ends, threw it down while its 
teeth were fixed in the wood, and ripped the creature up 
before it could recover. {Tccho, p. 29.) A great profit is 
made by their skins. The jaguar which has once tasted 
human flesh becomes a most formidable animal ; such a beast 



526 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



is called a tigre cevado, a fleshed tiger. There was one which 
infested the road between Santa Fe and Santiago, and had 
killed ten men ; after which a party of soldiers were sent to 
destroy it. The same thing is said of the lion and other beasts 
of prey, probably with truth 5 not, as is vulgarly supposed, 
because they have a particular appetite for this kind of food, 
but because, having once fed upon man, they from tliat time 
regard him, like any animal of inferior strengtli, as their natural 
prey. " It is a constant observation in Numidia," says Bruce, 
" that the lion avoids and flies from the f;ice of men, till by 
some accident they have been brought to engage, and the beast 
has prevailed against him ; then that feeling of superiority, 
imprinted by the Creator in the heart of all animals, for man's 
preservation, seems to forsake him. The lion, having once 
tasted human blood, relinquishes the pursuit after the flock. 
He repairs to some highway or frequented path, and has 
been known, in the kingdom of Tunis, to interrupt the road 
to a market for several weeks ; and in this he persists, till 
hunters or soldiers are sent out to destroy him." Dobrizhoffer 
saw the skin of a jaguar which was as long as the standard 
hide. He says, also, that he saw one attack two horses which 
were coupled with a thong, kill one, and drag the other away 
after it. 

A most unpleasant habit of this beast is, that in cold or wet 
weather he chooses to lodge within doors, and will steal into 
the house. A girl at Corrientes, who slept with her mother, 
saw one lying under the bed when she rose in the morning : 
she had presence of mind to bid her mother lie still, went for 
help, and soon rid the house of its perilous visiter. Cat-like, 
the jaguar is a good climber ; but Dobrizhoffer tells us how a 
traveller who takes to a tree for shelter may profit by the po- 
sition : III promptu consilium; urina pro armis est: hac si 
tigridis ad arboris pedem minitantis oculos consperseris, salva 
res est. Quoi dat& porta fuget illico. (i. 280.) He who first 
did this must have been a good marksman as well as a cool 
fellow, and it was well for him that he reserved his fire till the 
jaguar was within shot. 

DobrizhoflTer seems to credit an opinion (which is held in 
India of the tiger also) that tlie jaguar's claws are in a certain 
degree venomous ; the scar which they leave is said to be 
always liable to a very painful and burning sense of heat. 
But that author, in his usual amusing manner, repeats many 
credulous notions concerning the animal ; as that its burnt 
claws are a remedy for the tooth-ache ; and that it has a mode 
of decoying fish, by standing neck-deep in the water, and 
spitting out a white foam, which allures them within reach, 
Techo (30) says the same thing of a large snake. 

An opinion that wounds inflicted by the stroke of animals of 
this kind are envenomed is found in tlie East also. Captain 
Williamson says, " However trivial the scratches made by the 
claws of tigers may appear, yet, whether it be owing to any 
noxious quality in the claw itself, to the manner in which the 
tiger strikes, or any other matter, I have no hesitation in 
saying, that at least a majority of such as have been under my 
notice died; and I liave generally remarked, that those whose 
cases appeared the least alarming were most suddenly carried 
off". I have ever thought the perturbation arising from the 
nature of the attack to have a consideral)le share in the fatality 
alluded to, especially as I never knew any one wounded by a 
tiger to die without suffering for some days under that most 
dreadful symptom, a locked jaw ! Sucli as have been wounded 
to appearance severely, but accompanied with a moderate 
haemorrhage, I have commonly found to recover, excepting in 
the rainy season : at that period I should expect serious con- 
sequences from either a bite or a scratch." — Oriental Sports, 
vol. i. p. 52. 

Wild beasts were so numerous and fierce in one part of 
Mexico, among the Otomites, that Fr. Juan de Grijalva says 
in his time, in one year, more than 250 Indians were devoured 
by them. " There then prevailed an opinion," he proceeds, 
"and still it prevails among many, that those tigers and lions 
were certain Indian sorcerers, whom they call Nahuales, who 
by diabolical art transform themselves into boasts, and tear 
the Indians in pieces, either to revenge themselves for some 
offences which they have received, or to do them evil, which 
is the proper condition of the Devil, and an effect of his fierce- 
ness. Some traces of these diabolical acts have been seen in 
our time, for in the year 1579, the deaths of this kind being 
many, and the suspicion vehement, some Indians were put to 



the question, and they confessed the crime, and were executed 
for it. With all this experience and proof, there are many 
persons who doubt tliese transformations, and say that the 
land being mountainous produces wild beasts, and the beasts 
being once fleshed commit these great ravages. And it was 
through the weak understandings of the Indians that they were 
persuaded to believe their conjurors could thus metamorphose 
themselves ; and, if these poor wretches confessed themselves 
guilty of such a crime, it was owing to their weakness under 
the torture ; and so they suffered for an offence which they 
had never committed." 

Father Grijalva, however, holds with his Father S. Au- 
gustine, who has said, concerning such things, kcBc ad nos non 
qidbuscunque qualibus credere piitaremus indignuvi, sed eis refe- 
rcntibus perveiierunt, quos nobis non existimaremus fuisse men- 
titos. " In the days of my Father S. Augustine," he says, 
" wonderful things were related of certain inn-keepers in 
Italy, Avho transformed passengers into beasts of burden, to 
bring to their inns straw, barley, and whatever was wanted 
from the towns, and then metamorphosed them into their own 
persons, that they might purchase, as customers, the very 
commodities they had carried. And in our times the witches 
of Logrono make so many of these transformations, that now 
no one can doubt them. This matter of the Nahuales, or sor- 
cerers of Tututepec, has been confessed by so many, that that 
alone suffices to make it credible. The best proof which can 
be had is, that they were condemned to death by course of 
justice ; and it is temerity to condemn the judges, for it is to 
be believed that they made all due inquiry. Our brethren 
who have been ministers there, and are also judges of the in- 
terior court, (that is, of the conscience,) have all held these 
transformations to be certain ; so that there ought to be no 
doubt concerning it. On the contrary, it is useful to under- 
stand it, that if at any time in heathen lands the devil should 
work any of these metamorphoses, the Indians may see we 
are not surprised at them, and do not hold them as miraculous, 
but can explain to them the reason and cause of these effects, 
which astonish and terrify them so greatly." 

He proceeds to show that the devil can only exercise this 
power as far as he is permitted by God, in punishment for 
sin, and that the metamorphosis is not real, bufonly apparent ; 
the sorcerer not being actually transformed into a lion, but 
seeming as if he were so both to himself and others. In what 
manner he can tear a man really to pieces with imaginary 
claws, and devour him in earnest with an imaginary mouth, 
the good friar has not condescended to explain. — Historia 
de la Orden de S. Augustin en la Provincia de Jv". Espana, 
pp. 34, 35. 



Preserved with horrid art 
In ghastly image of humanity. — Canto I. st. 13. 

The more ghastly in proportion as more of the appearance 
of life is preserved in the revolting practice. Such, however, 
it was not to the feelings of tlie Egyptians, who had as much 
pride in a collection of their ancestors, as one of the strongest 
family feeling could have in a collection of family pictures. 
The body, Diodorus says, is delivered to the kindred with 
every member so whole and entire that no part of the body 
seems to be altered, even to the very hairs of the eyelids and 
the eyebrows, so that the beauty and shape of the face seems 
just as before. By which means many of the Egyptians, 
laying up the bodies of tlieir ancestors in stately monuments, 
perfectly see the true visage and countenance of those who 
were buried many ages before they themselves were born ; so 
that in regarding the i)ropoition of every one of these bodies, 
and tlie lineaments of their faces, they take exceeding great 
delight, even as if they were still living among them. (Booki.) 

They believe, says Herodotus, {Euterpe, $ 123,) that on the 
dissolution of the body the soul immediately enters into some 
other animal; and that after using as vehicles every species 
of terrestrial, aquatic, and winged creatures, it finally enters a 
second time into a human body. They affirm that it under- 
goes all these changes in the space of three thousand years. 
This opinion some among the Greeks have at different periods 
of time adopted as their own ; but I shall not, though I could, j 
specify their names. 

How little did the Egyptians apprehend that the bodies 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



527 



I which they preserved with such care, to be ready again for use 
wlien the cycle should be fulfilled, would one day be regarded 
as an article of trade, broken up, exported piecemeal, and 
administered ingrains and scruples, as a costly medicine, to rich 
patients ! A preference was even given to virgin mummy, 
j The bodies of the Incas, from the founder of the empire, 
were preserved in the Temple of the Sun : they were seated 
each on his litter, and in such excellent pres(;rvation that they 
seemed to be alive ; according to the testimony of P. Acosta 
and Garcilaso, v/ho saw them and touched them. It is not 
known in what manner they were prepared, so as to resist the 
injuries of time. Gomara (c. 195) says they were embalmed 
by the juice of certain fragrant trees, which was poured down 
their throats, and by unguents of gum. Acosta says that a 
certain bitumen was used, and that plates of gold were placed 
instead of eyes, so well fitted that the want of the real eye 
was not perceived. Garcilaso thought the chief preparation 
consisted in freezing them with snow. They were buried in 
one of the courts of the hospital of St. Andres. — Merc. Pc- 
t ruano. No. 221. 

Hideous exhibitions of this kind are sometimes made in 
monasteries, where they are in perfect accord with monastic 
superstition. I remember seeing two human bodies, dry and 
shrivelled, suspended in the Casa dos Ossos, at Evora, a 
chapel, the walls of which are lined with skulls and bones. 

" Among the remarkable objects in the vicinity of Palermo 
pointed out to strangers, they fail not to siiigularize a convent 
of Capuchins at a small distance from town, the beautiful 
gardens of which serve as a public walk. You are shown, 
under the fabric, a vault divided into four great galleries, into 
which the light is admitted by windows cut out at the top of 
each extremity. In this vault are preserved, not in flesh, but 
in skin and bone, all the Capuchins who have died in the 
convent since its foundation, as wcil as the bodies of several 
persons from the city. There are here private tombs be- 
longing to opulent families, who, even after annihilation, dis- 
dain to be confounded with the vulgar part of mankind. It is 
said, that in order to secure tiie preservation of these bodies, 
they are prepared by being gradually dried i>cfoio a slow tire, 
so as to consume the flesh without greatly injuring the skin; 
when perfectly dry, they are invested with tiie Capuchin 
habit, and placed upright, on tablets, disposed step above step 
along the sides of the vault ; the head, the arms, and the feet 
are left naked. A preservation like this is horrid. The skin 
discolored, dry, and as if it had been tanned, nay, torn in 
some places, glued close to the bones. It is easy to imagine, 
from the different grimaces of this numerous assemblage of 
fleshlcss figures, rendered still more frightful by a long beard 
on the chin, what a hideous spectacle this must exhibit ; and 
whoever has seen a Capuchin alive, may form an idea of this 
singular repository of dead friars." — Sonnini. 

h is not surprising that such practices arise from super- 
stition ; but it is strange, indeed, that they sliould afford any 
gratification to pride. That excellent man, Fletcher of Ma- 
deley, has a striking remark upon this suliject. " The mur- 
derer," says he, " is dissected in the surgeon's hall, gratis; 
and the rich sinner is embowelled in his own apartment at 
great expense. The robber, exposed to open air, wastes 
away in hoops of iron ; and the gentleman, confined to a damp 
vault, moulders away in sheets of lead ; and while the fowls 
of the air greedily prey upon the one, the vermin of the eai-th 
^eagerly devour the other." 

How different is the feeling of the Hindoos upon this sub- 
ject from that of the Egyptians ! "A mansion with bones for 
its rafters and beams ; with nerves and tendons for cords ; 
with muscles and blood for mortar ; with skin for its outward 
covering ; filled with no sweet perfume, but loaded with feces 
and urine ; a mansion infested by age and by sorrow ; the seat 
of malady, harassed with pains, haunted with the quality of 
darkness, and incapable of standing long. Such a mansion 
of the vital soul lets its occupier always cheerfully quit." — 
[nst. of Menu. 



When the laden bee 
Buzted by him in its flight, he could pursice 
Its course xoith certain ken. — Canto I. st. 20. 
It is difficult to account for the superior quickness of sight 
which savages appear to possess. The Brazilian tribes used 



to eradicate the eyelashes and eyebrows, as impeding it. 
" Some Indians," P. Andres Perez de Ribas says, " were so 
quick-sighted that they could ward off the coming arrow with 
their own bow." — L. ii. c. 3, p. 41. 



Covering with soft gums the obedient limb 

Mud body, then with feathers overlay^ 

In regular hues disposed. — Canto I. st. 25. 

Inconvenient as this may seem, it was the full dress of the 
Tupi and Guarani tribes. A fashion less gorgeous and elabo- 
rate, but more refined, is described by one of the best old 
travellers to the East, Fran^iois Pyrard. 

'' The inhabitants of the Maldives use on feast days this 
kind of gallantry. They bruise sanders (sandal-wood) and 
caniphirc, on very slicke and smooth stones, (which they bring 
from the firm land,) and sometimes other sorts of odoriferous 
woods. After they compound it with water distilled of 
flowers, and overspread their bodies with this paste, from the 
girdle upwards ; adding many forms with their finger, such as 
they imagine. It is somewhat like cut and pinked doublets, 
and of an excellent savor. They dress their wives or lemans 
in this sort, and make upon their backs works and shadows as 
they please." Skin-prints Purchas calls this. — Pyrard de 
Laval. Purchas, p. 1655. 

The aliominable practice of tarring and feathering was but 
too well known during the American war. It even found its 
way to England. I remember, when a child, to have seen a 
man in this condition in the streets of Bristol. 

The costume of the savages, who figured so frequently in 
the pageants of the sixteenth century, seems to have been 
designed to imitate the Brazilian tribes, best known to the 
French and English at that time. Indeed, this is stated 
by Vincent Carloix, when, in describing an entertainment given 
to Marechal de Vieilleville by the captains of the galleys at 
JMarseilles, he says, Ayant lie six galeres ensemble de front, et 
faict dresser Ics tables dessus, ct tupissces en fagon de grandes 
salles ; ayant accoustres les forceats en Bressiliens pour servir, 
ilsfirent une infinite de gambades et de tourbions d la fagon dcs 
saiLvages, que personne n^avoit encore veues ; dont tout le movde, 
avec une eztresme allaigresse, s^esbahissoit mervciUeusement. — 
Memoires, 1. x. ch. 18. 



Drinking feasts. — Canto I. st. 2G. 

The point of honor in drinking is not the same among the 
savages of Guiana, as among the English potators : they 
account him that is drunk first the bravest fellow. — HarcourVs 
Voyage, 

A custom strange, and yet far spread 
Through many a savage tribe, however it grew, 
And once in the old loorld known us widely as the new. 

Cinito I. St. 28. 

Je la tro7ive chcz les Ibcricns, on les premiers peuples d^Es- 
jmgne ; je la trouve chez les anciens habitans de I'Isle de Corse ; 
elle ctoit chez les Tibareniens en Asic ; ellc est aujourd'hui daiis 
quclquesuncs dc nos provinces voisincs d^Espagne, ou cela 
s^appelc faire couvadc ; elle est encore ve-rs le Japon, et dans 
PAinerique chez les Caraibes ct les Qalibis. — Lafitau, Mreurs 
des Sauvages, t. i. p. 50. 

Strabo says this strange custom existed in Cantabria, (1. iii. 
p. 174, ed. 1571,) so that its Gascon extraction has been di- 
rect. Diodorus Siculus is the authority for its existence in 
Corsica. (Book iii. ch. 1, English translation, 1814, vol. i. p. 
305.) Apollonius Rhodius describes it among the Tibareni, 
(1. ii. 1012:) coj laropu NviAcpoScopog tv riciv vojiois, says 
the scholiast. 

Voicy la bnitalite de nos sauvages dans Icurs rejouissancc pour 
Pacroissement de leur famille. C'est qu'au mime terns que la 
fcmme est delivree le mary se met an lit, pour shj plaindre et y 
falre Paccouchee ; couttvme, que bien que sauvage ct ridicule se 
trouve neantmoins d ce que Pon dit, parmy les paysans d'une 
ccrtuine province de France ; ct ils appellent cela faire la couvade. 
Mais ce qui est defacheuse pour le puuvre Caraibe qui s^est mis 
an lit au lieu de Paccouchee, c^est qu^on luy fait faire diete dix ou 
dome jours de suite, ne Ivy donnant rienparjmirquhm morceau 



528 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



de cassave, et un peu d'eau dans laquelle on a aussi fait boullir 
un peu de ce pain de racine. Apresil mange un peu plus -. mais 
il n'entame la cassave qu lay est presentee que par le miliezi durant 
quelques quarante jours, en laissant les bords entiers qu'ilpendd 
sa case, pour servir a unfestin qu^ilfait ordinairement en suite a 
tons ses amis. Et nieme il s^abstient ap7-es cela, quelquefois dix 
tnois ou un an entier de plusicurs viandes, coinme de lamantin, de 
tortuH, de pourceau, de poules, de poisson, et de chases dcUcates, 
craignant par une pituijable folie que cela ne nuise d Venfant. 
Mais Us nefont ce grand jusne qii^d la naissance de leur premier 
enfant. — Rochefort. Hist. Morale des lies Antilles, c. 23, p. 
495. 

Marco Polo, (1. ii. c. 41,) the other authority to Avhich 
Lafitau refers, speaks of tlie custom as existing in the great 
Khan's province of Cardandan. Hanno un'' usania che subito 
cW una donna ha partorito, si leva del letto, e lavato ilfanciullo e 
ravolto ne' panni, il marito si mette a giacere in letto insuavece, 
e tiene ilfigliuolo appresso di se, havenuo la cura di quello per 
quaranta giorni, che non si parte mai. Et gli amid e parenti 
vamio a visitarlo per rallegrarlo e consolarlo ; e le donne che sono 
da parto fanno quel che bisogna per casa, portando da mangiare 
e bere al Jiiarito, ch^ e ncl letto, e dando il latte al fanciullo, che 
gli e appresso. — E,amusio, t. ii. p. 36, ed. 1583. 

Yet this custom, preposterous as it is, is not more strange 
than an opinion which was once so prevalent in this country 
that Primerose made it the subject of a chapter in his work, 
De Vulgi Erroribus in Medicina, and thought it necessary to 
prove, by physical reasons, maritum loco uxoris gravidce non 
cegrotare, for such is the title of one of his chapters. He says, 
Inter errores quamplunmos maxijnd ridendus hie esse videtur, 
quod vir a-edatar mgrotare. Usque affici symptomatis, quibus ipsa 
mulier prcBgnans solet, illudqiio experientia conjirmatum plurimi 
esse volant. Habcbam agrum fehre laborentem cum urind, valde 
accensd, et turbida,qui cegrotationis sumnullam causam agnoscebat 
quam -axoris sum graviditatem. JVuIUbi terrarum quam in Anglid, 
id observatum mcmini me audivisse, aut legisse unquam. — JVec si 
quis maritus cum uxor gravida est, mgrotat ab uxore infcctus fait, 
sed potest ex peculiars propril corporis vitio id pati. Sicut dum 
hcBC scribo, pluit ; non est tamenpluvia aut causa scriptionis, aut 
scnpturapluvicB. Res nova non est, viros et mulieres etiam simul 
cegrotare. At mirum est hactcnusque ignotum, graviditatem 
affectum esse contagiosum, et non alias mulieres sed viros, quos 
natura immunes ab hoc labore fecit, solos infici. Prceterea obser- 
vatum est non omnibus mulieribus ejusmodi symptomata, aut sal- 
tern non omnia singulis contingere ; at tamen accidit swpe ut cum 
mulier bene valet, mgrotet maritus, etiam ab sens per aliquot mil- 
liaria. Sed quoniam ex sold, relatione absurditas hujus erroris 
patet, plura non addam. Jupiter Bacchum infemore. Palladem 
in cerebro gestavit, Sed hoc illi esto proprium. — Lib. ii. c. 13. 

This notion, however, is probably not yet extinct, for I 
know that it existed in full force some thirty years ago, and 
that not in the lowest rank of life. 



Till hardened mothers in the grave could lay 
Their living babes with no compunctious tear. 

Canto I. St. 38. 

This dreadful practice is carried to such an extent in the 
heart of South America, that whole tribes have become ex- 
tinct in consequence of it, and of another practice, hardly less 
nefarious. 

Those bloody African savages, the Gi;igas, reared no chil- 
dren whatsoever ; " for as soon," says Battell, " as the woman 
is delivered of her child, it is presently buried quick ; so that 
there is not one child brought up in all this generation. But 
when they take any town, they keep the boys and girls of 
thirteen or fourteen years of age as their own children, but 
the men nnd women they kill and eat. These little boys they 
train up in the wars, and liang a collar about their necks for a 
disgrace, which is never taken off till he proveth himself a 
man, and brings his enemy's head to the general ; and then it 
is taken off, and he is a free man, and is called 'gonso,' or 
' soldier.' This maketh them all desperate and forward to be 
free, and counted men, and so they do increase. A generation 
without generation, says Purchas, p. 977. 

Among the causes for which the Knisteneaux women 
procure abortion, Mackenzie (p. 98) assigns that of hatred 



for the father. No other traveller has ever suspected the 
existence of this motive. They sometimes kill their female 
children to save them from the miseries which they themselves 
have suffered. 

The practice among the Panches of Bogota was, that if the 
first-born proved a girl, it was destroyed, and every girl in 
succession till the mother bore a boy, after which girls were 
allowed to live ; but if the first-born were a boy, all the chil- 
dren then were reared. — Piedrahita, p. 11. 

Perhaps the most flagitious motive for which this crime has 
ever become a practice, is that which the Guana women as- 
sign for it j they destroy the greater number of their female 
infants in order to keep up the value of the sex. {Azara, t. ii. 
85—100. See JTist o/£raz«7, vol. ii. 379.) A knowledge of 
the evils which polygamy brings upon some of their neighbors 
may have led to this mode of preventing it. 

Father Gumilla one day bitterly reproved a Betoya woman 
(whom he describes as having more capacity tban any other of 
the Indians in those parts,) for killing her new-born daughter. 
She listened to him without lifting her eyes from the ground, 
and when he had done, and thought that she was convinced of 
her guilt, and heartily repented of it, she said, " Father, if you 
will not be angry, I will tell you what is in my heart." He 
promised that he would not, and bade her speak freely. This 
she said to me, he says, as follows, literally translated from the 
Betoya tongue. " Would to God, Father, would to God, my 
mother when she brought me forth had loved me so well and 
pitied me so much as to have saved me from all those troubles 
which I have endured till this day, and am to endure till 
death ! If my mother had buried me as soon as I was born, 
I should have died, but should not have felt death, and should 
have been spared from that death which must come, and should 
have escaped so many things bitterer than death ; who knows 
how many more such I must endure before I die ! Consider 
well. Father, the hardships that a poor Indian woman endures 
among these Indians ! They go with us to the plantations, but 
they have a bow and arrow in their hands, nothing more ; we 
go with a basket full of things on the back, one child at the 
breast, another upon the basket. Their business is to shoot a 
bird or a fish, ours is to dig and work in the field ; at evening 
they go home without any burden j we, besides our children, 
have to carry roots for their food, and maize to make their 
drink. They, when they reach the house, go to converse with 
their friends ; we have to seek wood, fetch water, and prepare 
their supper. Having supped, they go to sleep ; but we almost 
all the night are pounding maize to make their chica. And 
what is the end of this our watching and labor.'' They drink 
the chica, they get drunk, and being out of their senses, beat 
us with sticks, take us by the hair, drag us about and trample 
on us. Would to God, Father, that my mother had buried 
me when she brought me forth ! You know that I complain 
with cause, for all that I have said you witness every day. But 
our greatest pain you do not know, because you never can 
suffer it. You do not know, Father, the death it is for the 
poor Indian woman, when having served her husband as a 
slave, sweating in the field, and in the house without sleep, at 
the end of twenty years she sees him take a girl for another 
wife. Her he loves, and though she ill uses our children, we 
cannot interfere, for he neither loves us nor cares for us now. 
A girl is to command over us, and treat us as her servants, and 
if we speak, tliey silence us with sticks. Can any Indian 
woman do better for the daughter which she brings forth than 
to save it from all these troubles, and deliver it from this 
slavery, worse than death ? I say again. Father, would to 
God my mother had made me feel her kindness by burying 
me as soon as I was born ! Then Avould not this heart have 
had now so much to feel, nor these eyes so much to weep for." 

Here, says Gumilla, tears put an end to her speech : and the 
worst is, tliat all which she said, and all she would have said, 
if grief had allowed her to proceed, is true. — Orinoco Illus- 
trado, t. ii. p. 65, ed. 1791. 



From the do' 
They named the child Yeruti. 



■ Canto I. St. 42. 



This is the Guarani name for the species described by 
Azara, t. iv. p. 130, No. cccxx. 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



529 



What power had jilaced them here. — Canto II. st. 27. 

Some of the Orinoco tribes believe that their first forefathers 
grew upon trees. — Gumilla, t. i. c. 6. 

The Othomacas, one of the rudest of the Orinoco tribes, 
I suppose themselves descended from a pile of stones upon the 
top of a rock called Baraguan, and that they all return to 
Btone as they came from it j so that this mass of rock is com- 
posed of their forefathers. Therefore, though they bury their 
dead, within the year tlicy take off their heads and carry them 
to tlie holes in the rock. — GumiUa, t. i. c. G. 

These are the odd people who always for a first marriage 
give a girl to an old man, and a youth to an old woman. 
Polygamy is not in use among them ; and they say, that if 
the young people came together, tliere could be no good 
household management. — Oumilla, t. i. c. 12. 

r. Labbe {Lett. Edif. t. viii. p. M), edit. 1781) speaks of a 
tuba on tlie north bank of tlie Plata who put their women to 
dcatii when they were thirty years old, thinking they had 
then lived long enougli. I have not seen this custom men- 
tioned by any other writer, nor do I believe that it can possibly 
have existed. 

jlnd Father was his name. — Canto IT. st. 28. 

Tupa. It is the Tupi and Guarani name for Father, for 
Thunder, and for the Supreme Being. 

The Patagones call the Supreme Being Soychu, a word 
which is said to express that whioli cannot be seen, which is 
worthy of all veneration, and which is out of the world. They 
may thus explain tlie word ; hut it cannot contain this 
meaning ; it is a definition of what they mean, and apparently 
not such as a savage would give. The dead they call Soy- 
chuhet; they who are with God, and out of tlie world. 

The Puelches, Picunches, and Mohiches have no name for 
God. Their prayers are made to the sun, whom they regard 
as the giver of all good. A Jesuit once admonished them to 
worship that God who created all things, and this orb among 
the rest J but they replied, they had never known any thing 
greater or better than the sun. — Dubriz/iojfcr, t. ii. p. 100. 

The most remarkable mode of superstition I remember to 
nave met with is one which is mentioned by the Bishop of 
Santa Marta, in his History of the Nuevo Rcyiio de Gra- 
nada. He tells us, that " the Pijaos of the Nuevo Reyno 
worshipped nothing visible or invisible, except the spirits of 
those whom they killed for the purpose of deifying them. 
For they thought that if an innocent person were put to death, 
he became a god, and in tliat capacity would be grateful to 
those who were the authors of his apotheosis. For this reason 
they used to catch strangers and kill them ; not thinking one 
of their own horde, or of their enemies, could be esteemed 
innocent, and therefore fitting. A woman or a child would 
do. But after a few months they held it necessary to make a 
new god, the old one either having lust his power, or changed 
his place, or perhaps by that time discharged himself of his 
debt of gratitude." — Picdrahita, p. 12. 



Mild once there was a way to that good land, 
For in mid-earth a wondrous Tree there grew. 

Canto II. St. 33. 

Los Morohis fingian un Arhol, que en su idloma llamaban 
JValUagdigua, de altura tan dcsmcdida que llegaba desde la tierra 
al cielo. Por el de rama en rama ganando siempre maior ele- 
vacio7i subian las almas a pezcar de un rio y lagunas viuy 
grandes, que abundaban depcscado regaladisimo. Pero un dla 
que el alma de una Virja no pudo pcscar cosa algima, y los 
Pescadores la negaron el socorro de una limosna para su man- 
tenimiento, se irrito tanto contra la nacion Mocohi que, trans- 
figuranda en Capiguara tomo el exercicio de roer el Arbol por 
donde subian al cielo, y no desistio hasta derribarlo en tierra con 
increible sentimiento y dano irreparable de toda la nacion. 

This legend is contained in a manuscript history of Para- 
guay, the Rio de la Plata, and Tucuman. For the use of 
the first volume (a transcript of which is in my possession) 
I am beholden, as for other civilities of the same kind, to 
Mr. Thomas Kinder. This portion of the work contains a 
good account of the native tribes ; tlie second volume contains 

67 



the historical part ; but when Mr. Kinder purchased the one 
at Buenos Ayres, the other was on its way to the United 
States, having been borrowed from the owner by an American, 
and not returned. Fortunately the subjects of the two volumes 
are so distinct that each may be considered as a complete 
work; and I have referred, in the history of Brazil, to that 
which I possess, by the title of JVoticias del Paraguay, &c. 



Tlie land of souls. — Canto II. st. 39. 

IVlany of the Indian speculations respecting the condition 
of souls in a future state are given in my History of Brazil. 
A description of a Keltic Island of the Blessed, as dressed up 
by Ossian Macpherson, may be found in the notes to Madoc. 
A Tonga one is thus described in the very curious and valu- 
able work of Mr. Mariner. 

" The Tonga people universally and positively believe in 
the existence of a large island lying at a considerable distance 
to the N. W. of their own islands, which they consider to be 
the place of residence of their gods, and of the souls of theii 
nobles and mataboohes. This island is supposed to be much 
larger than all their own islands put together ; to be well 
stocked with all kinds of useful and ornamental plants always 
in a state of high perfection, and always bearing the richest 
fruits and the most beautiful flowers, according to their re- 
spective natures ; that when these fruits or flowers are plucked, 
others immediately occupy their place, and that the whole 
atmosphere is filled with the most delightful fragrance that 
the imagination can conceive, proceeding from these immortal 
plants. The island is also well stocked with the most beau- 
tiful birds of all imaginable kinds, as well as with abundance 
of hogs, all of which are immortal, unless they are killed to 
provide food for the Hotooas, or gods ; but the moment a hog 
or bird is killed, another living hog or bird immediately 
comes into existence to supply its place, the same as with the 
fruits and flowers ; and this, as far as they know or suppose, 
is the only mode of propagation of plants and animals. The 
island of Bolotoo is supposed to be so far off as to render it 
dangerous for their canoes to attempt going there ; and it is 
supposed, moreover, that even if they were to succeed in reach- 
ing so far, unless it happened to be the particular will of the 
gods, they would be sure to miss it. They give, however, 
an account of a Tonga canoe, which, in her return from the 
Feejce Islands a long time ago, was driven by stress of weather 
to Bolotoo : ignorant of the i)lace where they were, and being 
much in want of provisions, and seeing the country abound in 
all sorts of fruit, the crew landed, and proceeded to pluck 
some bread fruit, but to their unspeakable astonishment they 
could no more lay hold of it than if it were a shadow. They 
walked through the trunks of the trees, and passed through 
the substance of the houses, (which were built like those of 
Tonga,) without feeling any resistance. They at length saw 
some of the Hotooas, who passed through the substance of 
their bodies as if there was nothing there. The Hotooas 
recommended them to go away immediately, as they had no 
proper food for them, and promised them a fair wind and a 
speedy passage. They accordingly put directly to sea, and in 
two days, sailing with the utmost velocity, they arrived at 
Hamoa, (the Navigators' Island,) at which place they wanted 
to touch before they got to Tonga. Having remained at 
Hamoa two or three days, they sailed for Tonga, where they 
arrived with great speed . but in the course of a few days 
they all died, not as a punishment for having been at Bolotoo, 
but as a natural consequence, the air of Bolotoo, as it were, 
infecting mortal bodies with speedy death." 

In Yucatan their notion of the happy after death was, that 
they rested in a delightful land, under the shade of a great tree, 
where there was plenty of food and drink. — Hcrrera, iv. 10, n. 

The Austral tribes believe that the dead live in some region 
under the earth, where they have their tents, and hunt the 
souls of ostriches. — Dobrizh. ii. 295. 

The Persians have a great reverence for large, old trees, 
thinking that the souls of the happy delight to dwell in them, 
and for this reason they call them pir, which signifies an old 
man, by which name they also designate the supposed in- 
habitant. Pietro Delia Valle describes a prodigious tree of 
this character, in the hollow of which tapers were always kept 
burning to the honor of the Pir. He pitched his tent under 



530 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



its boughs twice ; once with his wife when on his way to 
embark for Europe, and again wlien returning with her 
corpse. The passage wherein he speaks of tliis last night's 
lodging is very affecting. We soon forgive this excellent trav- 
eller for his coxcombry, take an interest in his domestic affairs, 
and part with him at last as with an old friend. 



Who thought 
From Death, as from some living foe, to fly. — Canto II. st. 44. 

An opinion of this kind has extended to people in a much 
higher grade of society than the American Indians. 

" After this Death appeared in Dwaraka in a human 
shape, the color of his skin being black and yellow, his head 
close shorn, and all his limbs distorted. He placed himself at 
men's doors, so tliat all those who saw him shuddered with 
apprehension, and became even as dead men from mere af- 
fright. Every person to whose door he came shot an arrow 
at him; and the moment the arrow quitted the bow-string, 
they saw the spectre no more, nor knew which way he was 
gone." — Life of Creeshna. 

This is a poetical invention ; but such an invention has 
formed a popular belief in Greece, if M. Pouqueville may be 
trusted. 

" The Evil Eye, the Cacodmmon, has l>3en seen wandering 
over the roofs of the houses. Who can dare to doul)t this ? 
It was in the form of a withered old woman, covered with 
funeral rags ; she was heard to call by their names those who 
are to be cut off from the number of the living. Nocturnal 
concerts, voices murmuring amid the silence of the darkest 
nights have been heard in the air ; phantoms have been seen 
wandering about in solitary places, in the streets, in the 
markets ; the dogs have howled with the most dismal and 
melancholy tone, and their cries have been repeated by the 
echoes along the desert streets. It is when such things 
happen, as I was told very seriously by an inhabitant of 
Nauplia di Romania, that great care must be taken not to 
answer if you should be called during the night : if you hear 
symphonies,bury yourself in the bed clothes, and do not listen 
to them; it is the Old Woman, it is the Plague itself that 
knocks at your door." — Pouqueville, 189. 

The Patagones and other Austral tribes attribute all dis- 
eases to an evil spirit. Their conjurers therefore beat drums 
by the patient, which have hideous figures painted upon them, 
thinking thus to frighten away the cause. If he dies, his 
relations endeavor to take vengeance upon those who pre- 
tended to cure him ; but if one of the chiefs dies, all the 
conjurers are slain, unless they can save themselves by 
R\g\\i. — Dolrizhoffcr, t. ii. 286. 



They dragged the dying out. — Canto II. st. 45. 

The Austral tribes sometimes bury the dying, thinking it 
an act of mercy thus to shorten their sufferings. {Dohnzh. 
t. ii. 286.) But in general this practice, which extends widely 
among savages, arises from the selfish feeling assigned in the 
text. Superstition, without this selfishness, produces a prac- 
tice of the same kind, though not absolutely as brutal, in the 
East. " The mom-da or chultries are small huts in which a 
Hindoo, when given over by his physicians, is deposited, and 
left alone to expire, and be carried off by the sacred flood," 
Cruso, in Forbes, iv. 99. 

" When there is no hope of recovery, the patient is gen- 
erally removed from the bed, and laid on a platform of fresh 
earth, either out of doors, or prepared purposely in some 
adjoining room or viranda, that he may there breathe his last. 
In a physical sense, this removal at so critical a period must 
be often attended with f ital consequences ; though perhaps 
not quite so decisive as that of exposing an aged parent or a 
dying friend on the banks of the Ganges. I now only men- 
tion the circumstances as forming part of the Hindoo religious 
system. After having expired upon the earth, the body is 
carried to the water-side, and washed with many ceremonies. 
It is then laid upon the funeral pile, that the fire may have a 
share of the victim : the ashes are finally scattered in the air, 
and fall upon the water. 

" During the funeral ceremony, which is solemn and af 



fecting, the Brahmins address the respective elements in words 
to the following purport ; although there may be a different 
mode of performing these religious rites in other parts of 
Hindostan. 

" O Earth ! to thee we commend our brother ; of thee he 
was formed ; by thee he was sustained ; and unto thee he now 
returns ! 

" O Fire ! thou hadst a claim in our brother ; during his 
life he subsisted by thy influence in nature ; to thee we 
commit his body ; thou emblem of purity, may his spirit be 
purified on entering a new state of existence. 

" O Air ! while the breath of life continued, our brother 
respired by thee ; his last breath is now departed ; to thee we 
yield him. 

" O Water ! thou didst contribute to the life of our brother ; 
thou wert one of his sustaining elements. His remains are 
now dispersed ; receive thy share of him, who has now taken 
an everlasting flight ! " — Forbes's Oriental Memoirs, iii. 12. 



.dud she, in many an emulous essay. 
At length into a descant of her oicn 
Had blended all their notes. — Canto III. st. 39, &c. 

An extract from a journal written in Switzerland will be 
the best comment upon the description in these stanzas, which 
indeed were probably suggested by my recollections of the 
Staubach. 

"While we were at the waterfall, some half score peasants, 
chiefly women and girls, assembled just out of reach of the 
spray, and set up — surely the wildest chQrus that ever was 
heard by human ears — a song, not of articulate sounds, but 
in which the voice was used as a mere instrument of music, 
more flexible than any which art could produce, — sweet, 
powerful, and thrilling beyond description." 

It will be seen by the subjoined sonnet of Mr. Words- 
worth's, who visited this spot three years after me, that he was 
not less impressed than I had been by this wild concert of 
voices. 

On approaching the Staub-bach, Laute/rbrunnen. 

Tracks let me follow far from human kind 

Which tiiose illusive greetings may not reach ; 

Where only Nature tunes her voice to teach 

Careless pursuits, and raptures unconflned. 

No Mermaid warbles (to allay the wind 

That drives some vessel towards a dangerous beacii) 

More thrilling melodies ! no cavern'd Witch, 

Chanting a love-spell, ever intertwined 

Notes shrill and wild with art more musical ! 

Alas ! that from the lips of abject Want 

And Idleness in tatters mendicant 

They should proceed — enjoyment to inthrall, 

And with regret and useless pity haunt 

This bold, this pure, this sky-born Waterfall ! 

" The vocal powers of these musical beggars (says Mr, 
Wordsworth) may seem to be exaggerated ; but this wild and 
savage air was utterly unlike any sounds I had ever heard ; 
the notes reached me from a distance, and on what occasion 
they were sung I could not guess, only they seemed to belong 
in some way or other to the waterfall ; and reminded me of 
religious services chanted to streams and fountains in Pagan 
times." 



Some dim presage. — Canto III. st. 41. 
Upon this subject an old Spanish romancer speaks thns: 
Aung lie hombre no sabe lo dc adeJante coma ha de venir, el es- 
piritu lo siente, y antes que venga se ducle dello .- y de aqui se 
levantaron los grandes sospiros que hombres dan a sobrevienta 
no pensando en ninguna cosa, como a muehos acaesce ; que aquel 
que el sospiro ecJia de si, el espiiitu es que siente el mal que ha de 
ser. — Chronica del Rey D. Rodrigo, p. ii. c. 171. 



Across her shoulders was a hammock flung. — Canto III. st. 45. 
Pinkerton, in his Geography, (vol. ii. p. 535, n. 3d edit.) 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY. 



531 



says, that nets are sometimes worn among the Guaranis in- 
stead of clothes, and refers to tiiis very story in proof of liis 
assertion. I believe he had no other ground for it. He adds, 
that " perhaps tlicy were worn only to ii(^cp od' the flies j" 
as if those blood-suckers were to be kept otF by open net- 
I work ! 

Wo owe something, however, to the person who introduces 
US to a good and valuable book, and I am indebted originally 
to Mr. I'inkerton for my knowledge of Dobrizholfer. He says 
of him, when referring to the Histuria de Jibipnnibus, "the 
lively singularity of the old man's Latin is itself an amuse- 
ment ; and though sometimes garrulouf , he is redundant in 
authentic and curious information. His work, thougli bear- 
ing a restricted title, is the best account yet published of the 
whole viceroy alty of La Plata." 



Her feet upon the crescent moon were set. — Canto IIT. st. 5L 

This is a common representation of the Virgin, from the 
Revelation. 

Virgem de Sol vesttda, e dos seiis raios 
Claros envolta toda, e das Estrellas 
CoroadAiy e debaixo as pes a Liia. 

Francisco de Sa de Miranda. 

These lines are highly esteemed by the Portuguese critics. 



Severe he was, and in his avger dread. 
Yet alway at his Mother^s will grcip mild. 
So xoell did he obey that Maiden undfjiled. — 

Canto IIL st. 51. 

" How hath the conceit of Christ's humiliation hero on 
earth, of his dependence on his mother during the time of his 
formation and birth, and of liis subjection to her in his infancy, 
brought forth pre])osterous and more than heathenish trans- 
formations of his glory in the superstitious daughters of the 
idolatrous church ! They cannot conceive Christ as King, 
unless they acknowledge her as Queen Dowager of heavi;n : 
her title of Lady is ajqiiiparant to his title of Lord ; her au- 
thority for some purposes held as great, her bowels of com- 
punction (towards the weaker sex especially) more tender. 
And as the Heathens frame Gods suitable to their own desire, 
soliciting them most, (though otherwise less potent,) wliom 
they conceive to be most favorable to their present suits, so 
hath the blessed Virgin, throughout the Romish Church, ob- 
tained (what she never sougiit) the entire monopoly of wi>- 
men's prayers in their travails; as if her presence at others' 
distressful labors (foi she herself, by their doctrine, brought 
forth her first-born and only son without pain) had wrought 
in her a truer feeling or tenderer touch, tlian the High Priest 
of their souls can have of their infirmities ; or as if she would 
use more faithful and effectual intercession with her Son, than 
he can or will do with his Father. Some, in our times, out of 
the weakness of their sex, matching with the impetuousncss 
of their adulterous and disloyal zeal, have in tliis kind been 
so impotently outrageous as to intercept others' supplications 
directed to Christ, and superscribe them in this form unto his 
mother ; Blessed Lady, command thy son to hear this woman's 
prayers, and send her deliverance ! These, and tiie like 
speeches, have moved some good women, in other points 
tainted rather with superstition thin preciseness, to dispense 
with the lawof secrecy, seldom violated in their parliaments ; 
and I know not whether I should attribute it to their courage 
or stupidity, not to lie more aff'righted at such blasphemies, 
tlian at some monstrous and i)rodigious birth. This and tlie 
like inbred inclinations unto sujierstition, in the rude and 
uninstructcd people, are more artificially set forward by the 
fabulous Roman Legendary and his Limner, than the like were 
in the heathen, by heathen poets and painters." — Dr. 
Tliomas Jackson^s Works, vol. i. 1007. 



Tyranny of the Spaniards. — Canto IV. st. 7, 8. 

The consumption of the Indians in the Paraguay tea-trade, 
and the means taken by the Jesuits for cultivating the Caa- 
tree, are described by Uobrizhoifer. 



The Encomendeios compelled the unhappy people whom 
they found living where they liked, to settle in sucli jjlaces as 
were most convenient for the work in which they were now 
to be conipulsorily employed. All their work was task-work, 
imposed with little moderation, and exacted without mercy. 
This tyranny extended to the women and children ; and as all 
the Spaniards, the officers of justice as well as the Encomen- 
deros, were implicated in it, the Indians had none to whom 
they could look for protection. Even the institutions of 
Christianity, by which the Sj)anish government lioped to bet- 
ter the temporal condition of its new subjects, were made the 
occasion of new grievances and more intolerable oppression. 
For, as the Indians were legally free, — free, therefore, to 
marry where they pleased, and the wife was to follow the 
husband, — every means was taken to prevent a marriage be- 
tween two Indians who belonged to different Rfpartimientis, 
and the interest of the master counteracted all the etlbrts of 
the priest. The Spanish women are said to have exceeded 
their husbands in cruelty on such occasions, and to have insti- 
gated Ihem to the most violent and iniquitous measures, that 
they might not lose their female attendants. The consequence 
was, that profligacy of manners among the Indians was rather 
encouraged than restrained, as it is now in the English sugar 
islands, where the planter is not a religions man. — Lozano, 
1. 1,^3,6,7. 



St. Joachin. — Canto IV. st. 17. 

The legend of his visit to Limbo is given here in a trans- 
lated extract from that very curious work, the Life of the 
Virgin Mary, as related by herself to Sister Maria de Jesus, 
Abbess of the Franciscan Convent de la Inmaculada Concep- 
cion at Agreda, and published with the sanction of all the 
ecclesiastical authorities in Spain. 

After some conversation between the Almighty and the Vir- 
gin, at that time three years and a half old, the Franciscan 
confessor, who was the accomplice of the abbess in this blas- 
phemous imposture, proceeds thus : — 

"The ]\lost High received this morning sacrifice from his 
tender spouse, Mary the most holy, and with a pleased coun- 
tenance said to her, ' Thou art beautiful in thy thoughts, 
O Prince's daughter, my dove, and my beloved ! I admit thy 
desires, which are agreealile to my eyes : and it is my will, in 
fulfilment of them, that tliou shouldest understand the time 
draws nigh, when by my divine aiipointment thy father 
Joachin must \rdss from this mortal life to the life immortal 
and eternal. His death shall bo short, and ho will soon rest 
in peace, and be placed with the Saints in Limbo, awaiting 
the redemption of the whole human race.' This information 
from the Lord neither disturbed nor troubled the regal breast 
of Mary, the Princess of Heaven ; yet as the love of children 
to their parents is a debt due by nature, and that love in all 
its perfection existed in this most holy child, a natural grief 
at losing her most holy fiither Jor.chin, whom as a daughter 
she devoutly loved, could not fail to be resented. The tender 
and sweet child Mary felt a movement of grief compatible 
with the serenity of her magnanimous heart: and acting with 
greatness in every thing, following both grace and nature, she 
made a fervent prayer for her father Joachin : she besought 
the Lord, that, as v,he mighty and true God, he would look 
upon him in the hour of his happy death, and defend him 
from the Devil, especially in that hour, and preserve him, and 
appoint him in the number of his elect, as one who in bis life 
had confessed and magnified his holy and adorable name. 
And the more to oblige his Majesty, the most faithful daugh- 
ter offered to endure for her father, the most holy Joachin, 
all that the Lord might ordain. 

" His Majesty accepted this petition, and consoled the divine 
child, assuring her that he would be with her father as a mer- 
ciful and compassionate rem.unerator of those who love and 
serve him, and that he would place him with the Patriarchs, 
Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob ; and lie prepared her again to 
receive and suffer other troubles. Eight days before the death 
of the holy Patriarch Joachin, Mary the most holy had other 
advices from the Lord, declaring the day and hour in which 
he was to die, as in foct it occurred, only six months after our 
Q,ueen went to reside in the temple. When her Highness 
had received this information from the Lord, she besought the 
twelve angels, (who, 1 have before said, were those whom 



532 



NOTES TO A TALE OF PARAGUAY 



St. John names in the Revelation,) that they would be with 
her father Joachin in his sickness, and comfort him, and con- 
sole him in it ; and thus they did. And for the last hour of 
his transit she sent all those of her guard, and besought the 
Lord that he would make them manifest to her father for his 
greater consolation. The Most High granted this, and in 
every thing fulfilled the desire of his elect, unique, and per- 
fect one : and the great Patriarch and happy Joachin saw the 
thousand holy angers who guarded his daughter Maria, at 
whose petition and desire the grace of the Almighty super- 
abounded, and by his command the angel said to Joachin 
these things : — 

" ' Man of God, the Most High and Mighty is thy eternal 
salvation, and he sends thee from his holy place the necessary 
and timely assistance for thy soul ! Mary, thy daughter, sends 
us to be with thee at this hour, in which thou hast to pay to 
thy Creator the debt of natural death. She is thy most 
faithful and powerful intercessor with the Most High, in 
whose name and peace depart thou from this world with con- 
solation and joy, that he hath made thee parent of so blessed 
a daughter. And although his incomprehensible Majesty, in 
his serene wisdom, hath not till now manifested to thee the 
sacrament and dignity in which he will constitute thy daugh- 
ter, it is his pleasure that thou shouldest know it now, to the 
intent that thou mayest magnify him and praise him, and that 
at such news the jubilee of thy spirit may be joined with the 
grief and natural sadness of death. Mary, thy daughter, and 
our Q,ueen, is the one chosen by the arm of the Omnipotent, 
that the Divine Word may in her clothe himself with flesh, 
and with the human form. She is to be the happy Mother of 
the Messiah, blessed among women, superior to all creatures, 
and inferior only to God himself. Thy most happy daughter 
is to be the repairer of what the human race lost by the first 
fall, and the higli mountain whereon the new law of grace is 
to be formed and established. Therefore, as tliou leavest now 
in the world its restauratrix and daughter, by whom God 
prepares for it the fitting remedy, depart thou in joy ; and the 
Lord will bless thee from Zion, and will give thee a place 
among the Saints, that thou mayest attain to the sight and 
possession of the happy Jerusalem.' 

" While the holy Angels spake these words to Joachin, 
St. Anna, his wife, was present, standing by the pillow of his 
bed ; and she heard, and, by divine permission, understood 
them. At the same time, the holy Patriarch Joachin lost his 
speech, and entering upon the common way of all flesh, began 
to die, with a marvellous struggle between the delight of such 
joyful tidings and the pain of death. During this conflict 
with his interior powers, many and fervent acts of divine 
Jove, of faith, and adoration, and praise, and thanksgiving, and 
humiliation, and other virtues, did he heroically perform : and 
thus absorbed in the new knowledge of so divine a mystery 
he came to the end of his natural life, dying the precious 
death of the Saints. His most holy spirit was carried by the 
Angels to the Limbo of the Holy Fathers and of the Just : 
and for a new consolation and light in the long night wherein 
they dwelt, the Most High ordered that the soul of the holy 
Patriarch Joachin should be the new Paranymph and Am- 
bassador of his Great Majesty, for announcing to all that 
■congregation of the Just, how the day of eternal light had 
now dawned, and the day-break was born, Mary, the most 
holy daughter of Joachin and of Anna, from whom should be 
born the Sun of Divinity, Christ, Restorer of the whole 
human race. The Holy Fathers and the Just in Limbo 
heard these tidings, and in their jubilee composed new hymns 
of thanksgiving to the Most High. 

" This happy death of the Patriarch St. Joachin occurred 
(as I have before said) half a year after his daughter, Mary 
the most holy, entered the Temple ; and when she was at the 
tender age of three and a half, she was thus left in the world 
without a natural father. The age of the Patriarch was sixty 
and nine years, distributed and divided thus : at the age of 
forty-six years, he took St. Anna to wife 5 twenty years after 



this marriage, Mary the most holy was born ; and the three 
years and a half of her Highness's age make sixty-nine and a 
half, a few days more or less. 

" The holy Patriarch and father of our Q,ueen being dead, 
the holy Angels of her guard returned incontinently to her 
presence, and gave her notice of all that had occurred in her 
father's transit. Forthwith the most prudent child solicited 
with prayers for the consolation of her mother St. Anna, 
entreating that the Lord would, as a father, direct and govern 
her in the solitude wherein, by the loss of her husband, 
Joachin, she was left. St. Anna herself sent also news of his 
death, which was first communicated to the Mistress of our 
divine Princess, that, in imparting it, she might console her. 
The Mistress did this, and the most wise child heard her, 
with all composure and dissimulation, but with the patience 
and the modesty of a Ctueen ; but she was not ignorant of 
the event which her Mistress related to her as news." — Mis- 
tica Ciudad de Dlos, par. 1, 1.2, c. 16, §664—669. Madiid, 
1744. 

It was in the middle of the seventeenth century that the 
work, from which this extract is translated, was palmed upon 
the Spaniards as a new revelation. Gross and blasphemous 
as the imposture is, the work was still current when I pro- 
cured my copy, about twenty years ago ; and it is not included 
in the Spanish Index Expurgatorius of 1790, the last (I be- 
lieve) which was published, and which is now before me. 



He could not tarry here. — Canto IV. st. 67. 

A case precisely of the same kind is mentioned by Mr. 
Mariner. " A young Chief at Tonga, a very handsome man, 
was inspired by the ghost of a woman in Bolotoo, who had 
fallen in love with him. On a sudden, he felt himself low- 
spirited, and, shortly afterwards, fainted away. When he 
came to himself, he was very ill, and was taken accordingly to 
the house of a priest. As yet, he did not know who it was 
that inspired him, but the priest informed him that it was a 
woman of Bolotoo, mentioning her name, who had died some 
years before, and who wished him now to die, that he might 
be near her. He accordingly died in two days. The Chief 
said he suspected this, from the dreams he had had at diflfer- 
ent times, when the figure of a woman came to him in the 
night. Mr. Mariner was with the sick Chief three or four 
times during his illness, and heard the priest foretell his death, 
and relate the occasion of it." — Mariner. 

The following similar case appeared in a newspaper: — 
" Died, on Sunday evening, the 14th instant, John Sackeouse, 
aged 22, a native of the west coast of Greenland. This Eski- 
maux has occupied a considerable share of the public attention, 
and his loss will be very generally felt. He had already ren- 
dered important service to the country in the late expedition of 
discovery, and great expectations were naturally formed of the 
utility which he would prove on the expedition about to sail 
for Baffin's Bay, The Admiralty, with great liberality and 
judgment, had directed the greatest pains to be taken in his 
further education ; and he had been several months in Edin- 
burgh with this view, when he was seized with a violent 
inflammation in the chest, which carried him off in a few 
days. He was extremely docile, and, though rather slow in 
the attainment of knowledge, he was industrious, zealous, 
and cheerful, and was always grateful for the kindness and 
attention shown to him. His amiable disposition and simple 
manners had interested those who had opportunities of know- 
ing him personally, in a way that will not soon be forgotten. 
'J'o the public, his loss, we fear, is irreparable — to his 
friends, it is doubly severe. Just before his death, the poor 
Eskimaux said he knew he was going to die ; that his father 
and mother had died in the same way ; and that his sister, 
who was the last of all his relations,had just appeared to him, 
and called him away." — Edinburgh Coxirant, Feb. 19. 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



533 



ALL FOR LOVE, 

OR 

A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



TO CAROLINE BOWLES. 

Could I look forward to a distant day 
With hope of building some elaborate lay, 
Then would I wait till worthier strains of mine 
Might bear inscribed thy name, O Caroline ! 
For I would, while my voice is heard on earth, 
Bear witness to thy genius and thy worth. 
But we have both been taught to feel with fear 
How frail the tenure of existence here, 
What unforeseen calamities prevent, 
Alas, how oft ! the best-resolved intent ; 
And therefore this poor volume I address 
To thee, dear friend, and sister Poetess. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 



Keswick, 21 Feb. 1829. 



Tho story of the following Poem is taken from a Life of 
St. Basil, ascribed to his contemporary St. Amphilochius, 
Bishop of Iconium ; a Latin version of whicli, made by 
Cardinal Ursus in the ninth century, is inserted by Ros- 
vveyde, among the Lives of the Fathers, in his compilation 
HistoricB Eremiticce. The original had not then been printed, 
but Rosweyde obtained a copy of it from the Royal Library 
at Paris. He intimates no suspicion concerning the au- 
thenticity of the life, or the truth of this particular legend ; 
observing only, that hate narratio apud solum invcnitar Am- 
philochium. It is, indeed, the flower of the work, and as 
such had been culled by some earlier translator than L^rsus. 

The very learned Dominican, P. Francois Combefis, pub- 
lished the original, with a version of his own, and endeav- 
ored to establish its authenticity in opposition to Baronius, 
who supposed the life to have been written by some other 
Amphilochius, not by the Bishop of Iconium. Had Com- 
befis possessed powers of mind equal to his erudition, he 
might even then have been in some degree prejudiced upon 
this subject, for, according to Baillet,i^ avoitun attachement 
particuUer pour S. Basile. His version is inserted in the 
Acta Sanctorum, (Jun. t. ii. pp. 937—957.) But the Bol- 
landist Baert brands the life there as apocryphal ; and in 
his annotations treats Combefis more rudely, it may be sus- 
pected, than he would have done, had he not belonged to a 
rival and hostile order. 

Should the reader be desirous of comparing the Poem with 
the Legend, he may find the story, as transcribed from 
Rosweyde, among the Notes. 



I. 



A YOUTH hath enter'd the Sorcerer's door, 

But he dares not lift his eye, 

For his knees fail, and his flesh quakes, 

And his heart beats audibly. 

" Look up, young man ! " the Sorcerer said; 

" Lay open thy wishes to me ! 

Or art thou too modest to tell thy tale ? 

If so, I can tell it thee. 



" Thy name is Eleemon ; 

Proterius's freedman thou art; 

And oir Cyra, thy Master's daughter, 

Thou hast madly fix'd thy heart. 

" But fearing (as thou well mayest fear !) 

The high-born Maid to woo, 

Thou hast tried what secret prayers, and vows, 

And sacrifice might do. 

" Thou hast prayed unto all Saints in Heaven, 

And to Mary their vaunted Queen ; 

And little furtherance hast thou found 

From them, or from her, I ween ! 

" And thou, I know, the Ancient Gods, 

In hope forlorn, hast tried, 

If haply Venus might obtain 

The maiden for thy bride. 

" On Jove and Phoebus thou hast call'd, 

And on Astarte's name ; 

And on her, who still at Ephesus 

Retains a faded fame, 

" Thy voice to Baal hath been raised ; 

To Nile's old Deities; 

And to all Gods of elder time, 

Adored by men in every clime, 

When they ruled earth, seas, and skies. 

" Their Images are deaf! 

Their Oracles are dumb ! 

And therefore thou, in thy despair. 

To Abibas art come. 

" Ay, because neither Saints nor Gods 

Thy pleasure will fulfil. 

Thou comest to me, Eleemon, 

To ask if Satan will ! 

" I answer thee. Yes. But a faint heart 
Can never accomplish its ends ; 

Put thy trust boldly in him, and be sure 
He never forsakes his friends." 

While Eleemon listen'd 

He shudder'd inwardly. 

At the ugly voice of Abibas, 

And the look in his wicked eye. 

And he could then almost have given 

His fatal purpose o'er ; 

But his Good Angel had left him 

When he entered the Sorcerer's door. 

So, in the strength of evil shame. 

His mind the young man knit 

Into a desperate resolve, 

For his bad purpose fit. 

" Let thy Master give me what I seek, 

O Servant of Satan," he said, 

" As I ask firmly, and for his 

Renounce all other aid ! 



534 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



" Time presses. Cyra is content 

To bid the world farewell, 

And pass her days, a virgin vow'd, 

Among Emmelia's sisterhood. 

The tenant of a cell. 

"Thus hath her father will'd, that so 

A life of rigor here below 

May fit her for the skies, 

And Heaven acceptably receive 

His costliest sacrifice. 

" The admiring people say of this 

That Angels, or that Saints in bliss. 

The holy thought inspire ; 

And she is call'd a blessed Maid, 

And he a happy Sire. 

" Through Cappadocia far and wide 

The news hath found its way, 

And crowds to Cassarea flock 

To attend the solemn day. 

" The robes are ready, rich with gold. 

Even like a bridal dress. 

Which at the altar she will wear 

When self-devoted she stands there 

In all her loveliness. 

" And that coarse habit too, which she 

Must then put on, is made, 

Therein to be for life and death 

Unchangeably array 'd. 

"This night, this precious night is ours; 

Late, late, I come to you; 

But all that must be dared, or done. 

Prepared to dare and do." 

" Thou hast hesitated long ! " said Abibas, 

" And thou hast done amiss. 

In praying to Him whom I name not. 

That it never might come to this ! 

' But thou hast chosen thy part, and here thou art ; 

And thou slialt have thy desire ; 

And though at the eleventh hour 

Thou hast come to serve our Prince of Power, 

He will give thee in full thine hire. 

"These Tablets take; " (he wrote as he spake;) 

"My letters, which thou art to bear. 

Wherein I shall commend thee 

To the Prince of the Powers of the Air. 

" Go from the North Gate out, and take 

On a Pagan's tomb thy stand ; 

And, looking to the North, hold up 

The Tablets in thy hand ; — 

"And call the Spirits of the Air, 

That they my messenger may bear 

To the place whither he would pass, 

And there present him to their Prince 

In the name of Abibas. 



" The passage will be swift and safe ; 

No danger awaits thee beyond ; 

Thou wilt only have now to sign and seal, 

And hereafter to pay the Bond." 



11. 



Shunning human sight, like a thief in the night, 

Eleemon made no delay, 

But went unto a Pagan's tomb 

Beside the public way. 

Enclosed with barren elms it stood, 

There planted when the dead 

Within the last abode of man 

Had been deposited. 

And thrice ten years those barren trees, 

Enjoying light and air, 

Had grown and flourish' d, while the dead 

In darkness moulder'd there. 

Long had they overtopp'd the tomb ; 

And closed was now that upper room 

Where friends were wont to pour, 

Upon the honor' d dust below. 

Libations through the floor. 

There on that unblest monument 

The young man took his stand. 

And northward he the tablets held 

In his uplifted hand. 

A courage not his own he felt, 

A wicked fortitude. 

Wherewith bad influences unseen 

That hour his heart endued. 

The rising Moon grew pale in heaven 

At that unhappy sight ; 

And all the blessed Stars seem'd then 

To close their twinkling light ; 

And a shuddering in the elms was heard, 

Though winds were still that night. 

He call'd the Spirits of the Air, 
He call'd them in the name 
Of Abibas ; and at the call 
The attendant Spirits came. 

A strong hand, which he could not see. 

Took his uplifted hand ; 

He felt a strong arm circle him, 

And lift him from his stand ; — 

A whirr of unseen wings he heard 

About him every where. 

Which onward, with a mighty force, 

Impell'd him through the air. 

Fast through the middle sky and far 
It hurried hini along ; 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



535 



The Hurricane is not so swift, 
The Torrent not so strong; — 

The Lightning travels not so fast, 
The Sunbeams not so far ; 

And now behind him he hath left 
The Moon and every Star. 

And still, erect as on the tomb 

In impious act he stood. 

Is he rapt onward — onward — still 

In that fix'd attitude. 

But as he from the living world 

Approach' d where Spirits dwell, 

His bearers there in thinner air 

Were dimly visible ; — 

Shapeless, and scarce to be descried 

In darkness where they flew ; 

But still, as they advanced, the more 

And more distinct they grew. 

And when their way fast-speeding they 

Through their own region went, 

Then were they in their substance seen, 

The angelic form, the fiendish mien, 

Face, look, and lineament. 

Behold where dawns before them now. 

Far off, the boreal ray. 

Sole daylight of that frozen zone, 

The limit of their way. 

In that drear realm of outer night, 
Like the shadow, or the ghost of light. 

It moved in the restless skies, 

And went and came, like a feeble flame 

That flickers before it dies. 

There the fallen Seraph reign'd supreme 

Amid the utter waste ; 

There, on the everlasting ice, 

His dolorous throne was placed. 

Son of the Morning ! is it then 
For this that thou hast given 
Thy seat, preeminent among 
The hierarchies of Heaven ? — 

As if dominion here could joy 

To blasted pride impart ; 

Or this cold region slake the fire 

Of Hell within the heart ! 

Thither the Evil Angels bear 

The youth, and, rendering homage there 

Their service they evince, 

And in the name of Abibas 

Present him to their Prince : 

Just as they seized him when he made 

The Sorcerer's mandate known. 

In that same act and attitude 

They set him before the throne. 



The fallen Seraph cast on him 

A dark, disdainful look ; 

And from his raised hand scornfully 

The proffer 'd tablets took. 

" Ay, — love ! " he cried. " It serves me well. 

There was the Trojan boy, — 

His love brought forth a ten years' war. 

And fired the towers of Troy. 

" And when my own Mark Antony 

Against young Caesar strove, 

And Rome's vvliole world was set in arms, 

The cause was, — all for love ! 

" Some for ambition sell themselves ; 

By avarice some are driven ; 

Pride, envy, hatred, best will move 

Some souls ; and some for only love 

Renounce their hopes of Heaven. 

" Yes, of all human follies, love, 

Methinks, hath served me best; 

The Apple had done but little for me. 

If Eve had not done the rest. 

" Well tlien, young Amorist, whom love 

Hath brought unto this pass, 

I am willing to perform the word 

Of my servant Abibas. 

" Thy Master's daughter shall be thine. 

And with her sire's consent; 

And not more to thy heart's desire 

Than to her own content. 

" Yea, more ; — I give thee with the girl, 
Thine after-days to bless. 

Health, wealth, long life, and whatsoe'er 
The world calls happiness. 

" But, mark me ! — on conditions, youth ! 

No paltering here we know ! 

Dost thou here, solemnly, this hour. 

Thy hope of Heaven forego ? 

" Dost thou renounce thy baptism, 

And bind thyself to me. 

My woful portion to partake 

Through all eternity ? 

" No lurking purpose shall avail, 

When youth may fail and courage quail. 

To cheat me by contrition ! 

I will have thee written down among 

The children of Perdition. 

"Remember, I deceive thee not. 

Nor have I tempted thee ! 

Thou comest of thine own accord, 

And actest knowingly. 

" Dost thou, who now to choose art free, 
Forever pledge thyself to me ? 
As I shall help thee, say ! " -— 



536 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



" I do ; so help me, Satan ! 
Tlie wilful castaway. 



said 



"A resolute answer," quoth the Fiend; 

" And now then, Child of Dust, 

In further proof of that firm heart, 

Thou wilt sign a Bond before we part. 

For I take thee not on trust ! " 

Swift as thought, a scroll and a reed were brought, 

And to Eleemon's breast, 

Just where the heart-stroke plays, the point 

Of the reed was gently press'd. 

It pierced not in, nor touch'd the skin; 

But the sense that it caused was such. 
As when an electric pellet of light 
Comes forcibly out at a touch ; — 

A sense no sooner felt than gone, 

But, with that short feeling, then 

A drop of his heart's blood came forth 

And fill'd the fatal pen. 

And with that pen accurs'd he sign'd 

The execrable scroll, 

Whereby he to perdition bound 

His miserable soul. 

"Eleemon, Eleemon ! " then said the Demon, 

'* The girl shall be thine, 

By the tie she holds divine, 

Till time that tie shall sever ; 

And by this writing thou art mine. 

Forever, and ever, and ever ! " 



III. 

Look at yon silent dwelling now ! 

A heavenly sight is there. 

Where Cyra in her Chamber kneels 

Before the Cross in prayer. 

She is not loath to leave the world ; 

For she hath been taught with joy 

To think that prayer and praise thenceforth 

Will be her life's employ. 

And thus her mind hath she inclined, 
Her pleasure being still 
(An only child, and motherless) " 
To do her Father's will. 

The moonlight falls upon her face. 

Upraised in fervor meek. 

While peaceful tears of piety 

Are stealing down her cheek. 

That duty done, the harmless maid 

Disposed herself to rest ; 

No sin, no sorrow in her soul, 

No trouble in her breast. 



But when upon the pillow then, 

Composed, she laid her head. 

She little thought what unseen Powers 

Kept watch beside her bed. 

A double ward had she that night, 

When evil near her drew ; 

Her own Good Angel guarding her, 

And Eleemon's too. 

Their charge it was to keep her safe 

From all unholy things ; 

And o'er her, while she slept, they spread 

The shadow of their wings. 

So when an Evil Dream drew nigh, 

They barr'd him from access, 

Nor suffer'd him to reach her with 

A breath of sinfulness. 

But with his instigations they 

A hallowing influence blent. 

And made his fiendish ministry 

Subserve to their intent. 

Thus, while in troubled sleep she lay, 

Strange impulses were given. 

Emotions earthly and of earth, 

With heavenly ones of Heaven. 

And now the nightingale hath ceased 

Her strain, who all night long 

Hath in the garden rosier trill'd 

A rich and rapturous song. 

The storks on roof, and dome, and tower, 

Forbear their clattering din. 

As now the motions and the sounds 

Of daily life begin. 

Then, as from dreams that seem'd no dreams, 

The wondering Maid awoke, 

A low, sweet voice was in her ear. 

Such as we might expect to hear 

If some Good Angel spoke. 

According with her dreams, it said, 

" So, Cyra, must it be ; 

The duties of a wedded life 

Hath Heaven ordain'd for thee." 

This was no dream full well she knew ; - 

For open-eyed she lay. 
Conscious of thought and wakefulness. 

And in the light of day ; 

And twice it spake, if doubt had been, 

To do all doubt away. 

Alas ! but how shall she make known 

This late and sudden change ? 

Or how obtain belief for what 

Even to herself is strange ? 

How will her Father brook a turn 
That must to all seem shame ? 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



537 



How bear to think that vulgar tongues 
Are busy with her name ? — 

That she should for a voice — a dream — 
Expose herself to be the theme 

Of wonder and of scorn ; — 
Public as her intent had been, 
And this the appointed morn ! 

The Nuns even now are all alert ; 

The altar hath been dress'd. 

The scissors that should clip her hair 

Provided, and the black hood there, 

And there the sable vest. 

And there the Priests are robing now ; 

The Singers in their station ; 

Hark ! in the city she can hear 

The stir of expectation ! 

Through every gate the people pour, 
And guests on roof, and porch, and tower, 

Expectant take their place ; 

The streets are swarming, and the church 

Already fills apace. 

Speak, then, she must : her heart she felt 

Tliis night had changed its choice ; 

Nor dared the Maiden disobey, — 

Nor did she wish to (sooth to say,) — 

That sweet and welcome voice. 

]Ier Father comes : she studies not 

For gloss, or for pretence ; 

The plain, straight course will Cyra take 

("Which none without remorse forsake) 

Of truth and innocence. 

" O Father, hear me patiently ! " 
The blushing Maiden said; 

" I tremble, Father, while 1 speak, 
But surely not for dread ; — 

" If all my wishes have till now 

Found favor in thy sight, 

And ever to perform thy will 

Hath been my best delight, 

Why should I fear to tell thee now 

The visions of this night.'' 

" I stood in a dream at the altar, — 

But it was as an earthly Bride ; 

And Eleemon, thy freedman, 

Was the Bridegroom at my side. 

" Thou, Father, gavest me to him, 

With thy free and full consent ; 

And — why should I dissemble it? — 

Methought I was content. 

" Months then and years were crowded 

In the course of that busy night; 

I clasp'd a baby to my breast. 

And, oh ! with what delight ! 

68 



" Yea, I was fruitful as a vine ; 

Our Heavenly Parent me and mine 

In all things seem'd to bless; 

Our ways were ways of peace, our paths 

Were paths of pleasantness. 

" When I taught lisping lips to pray, 

The joy it was to me, 

O Father, thus to train these plants 

For immortality ! 

" I saw their little winning ways 
Their grandsire's love engage ; 
Methought they were the pride, the joy, 
The crown of his old age. 

" When from the Vision I awoke, 

A voice was in my ear, — 

A waking voice, — I heard it twice; 

No human tongue was near ; — 

" No human utterance so could reach 

The secret soul, no human speech 

So make the soul rejoice ; 

In hearing it I felt and knew 

It was an Angel's voice ! 

" And thus, in w^ords distinct, it said : — 

' So, Cyra, must it be ! 

The duties of a wedded life 

Hath Heaven ordain'd for thee.' " 

Her cheek was like the new-blown rose, 

While thus she told her tale ; 

Proterius listened earnestly. 

And as he heard grew pale ; — 

For he, too, in the dreams of night, 
At the altar had seem'd to stand, 
And to Eleemon, his freedman, 
Had given his daughter's hand. 

Their offspring, courting his caress, 
About his knees had throng'd ; 

A lovely progeny, in whom. 

When he was in the silent tomb, 

His line should be prolong'd. 

And he had heard a waking voice, 

Which said it so must be. 

Pronouncing upon Cyra's name 

A holiest eulogy : — 

" Her shall her husband praise, and her 
Her children bless'd shall call ; 

Many daughters have done virtuously, 
But thine excelleth them all ! " 

No marvel if his heart were moved ; 

The dream he saw was one ; 

He kiss'd his trembling child, and said, 

" The will of Heaven be done ! " 

Little did child or sire in this 
The work of sorcery fear ; 



538 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



As little did Eleemon think 
That the hand of Heaven was here. 



IV. 

From house to house, from street to street, 

The rapid rumor flies ; 

Incredulous ears it found, and hands 

Are lifted in surprise ; 

And tongues through all the astonish'd town 

Are busier now than eyes. 

" So sudden and so strange a change ! 

A Freedman, too, the choice ! 

The shame, — the scandal, — and for what ? 

A vision and a voice ! 

" Had she not chosen the strait gate, — 

The narrow way, — the holy state, — 

The Sanctuary's abode? 

Would Heaven call back its votary 

To the broad and beaten road ? 

" To carnal wishes would it turn 

The mortified intent? 

For this are miracles vouchsafed ? 

For this are Angels sent ? 

" A plain collusion ! a device 

Between the girl and youth ! 

Good easy man must the Father be, 

To take such tale for truth! " 

So judged the acrid and the austere, 

And they whose evil heart 

Inclines them, in whate'er betides. 

To take the evil part. 

But others, whom a kindlier frame 

To better thoughts inclined, 

Preserved, amid their wonderment. 

An equitable mind. 

They would not of Proterius thus 

Injuriously misdeem, — 

A grave, good man, and with the wise 

For wisdom in esteem. 

No easy ear, or vain belief. 

Would he to falsehood lend; 

Nor ever might light motive him 

From well-weigh'd purpose bend. 

And surely on his pious child. 
The gentle Cyra, meek and mild, 

Could no suspicion rest; 

For in this daughter he had been 

Above all fathers blest. 

As dutiful as beautiful. 

Her praise was widely known. 

Being one who, as she grew in years, 

Had still in goodness grown. 



And what though Eleemon were 

A man of lowly birth ? 

Enough it was if Nature had 

Ennobled him with worth. 

"This was no doubtful thing," they said, 

"For he had in the house been bred. 

Nor e'er from thence removed; 

But there from childhood had been known, 

And trusted, and approved. 

" Such as he was, his qualities 

Might to the world excuse 

The Maid and Father for their choice, 

Without the vision and the voice, 

Had they been free to choose. 

" But Heaven by miracle had made 

Its pleasure manifest; 

That manifested will must set 

All doubtful thoughts to rest. 

Mysterious though they be, the ways 

Of Providence are best." 

The wondering City thus discoursed; 

To Abibas alone 

The secret truth, and even to him 

But half the truth, was known. 

Meantime the Church hath been prepared 

For spousal celebration ; 

The Sisters to their cells retire, 

Amazed at such mutation. 

The habit and hood of camel's hair, 
Which with the sacred scissors there 

On the altar were display'd. 

Are taken thence, and in their stead 

The marriage rings are laid. 

Behold, in garments gay with gold. 

For other spousals wrought, 

The Maiden from her Fatlier's house 

With bridal pomp is brought. 

And now before the Holy Door 

In the Ante-nave they stand ; 

The Bride and Bridegroom side by side, 

The Paranymphs, in festal pride, 

Arranged on either hand. 

Then from the Sanctuary the Priests, 

With incense burning sweet. 

Advance, and at the Holy Door 

The Bride and Bridegroom meet. 

There to the Bride and Bridegroom they 

The marriage tapers gave ; 

And to the altar as they go. 

With cross- way movement to and fro, 

The thuribule they wave. 

For fruitfulness, and perfect love. 
And constant peace, they pray'd, 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED 



539 



On Ele^mon, the Lord's Servant, 
And Cyra, the Lord's Handmaid. 

They call'd upon the Lord to bless 

Their spousal celebration, 

And sanctify the marriage rite 

To both their souls' salvation. 

A pause at every prayer they made ; 

Whereat, with one accord. 

The Choristers took up their part. 

And sung, in tones that thrill'd the heart, 

Have mercy on us. Lord ! 

Then with the marriage rings the priest 

Betroth'd them each to each. 

And, as the sacred pledge was given. 

Resumed his awful speech ; — 

Pronouncing them, before higli Heaven 

This hour espoused to be. 

Now and forevermore, for time, 

And for eternity. 

This did he in the presence 

Of Angels and of men; 

And at every pause the Choristers 

Intoned their deep Amen ! 

Then to that gracious Lord, the Priest 

His supplication made, 

Who, as our sacred Scriptures tell. 

Did bringi Rebecca to the well 
When Abraham's servant pray'd. 

He call'd upon that gracious Lord 

To stablish witli his power 

The espousals made between them. 

In truth and love, this hour ; — 

And with his mercy and his word 
Their lot, now liak'd, to bless. 
And let his Angel guide them 
In the way of righteousness. 

With a Christian benediction, 

The Priest dismiss'd them then. 

And the Choristers, with louder voice, 

Intoned the last Amen ! 

The days of Espousals are over ; 

And on the Crowning-day, 

To the sacred fane the bridal train, 

A gay procession, take again 

Through thronging streets their way. 

Before them, by the Paranymphs, 

The coronals are borne. 

Composed of all sweet flowers of spring 

By virgin hands that morn. 

With lighted tapers in array 

They enter the Holy Door, 

And the Priest with the waving thuribule 

Perfumes the way before. 



He raised his voice, and call'd aloud 

On Him who from the side 

Of our first Father, while he slept, 

Form'd Eve to be his bride ; — 

Creating Woman thus for Man 

A helpmate meet to be, 

For youth and age, for good and ill. 

For weal and woe, united still 

In strict society, — 

Flesh of his flesh ; appointing them 

One flesh to be, one heart. 

Whom God liath joined together, 

Them let not man dispart ! 

And on our Lord he call'd, by whom 

The marriage feast was blest. 

When first by miracle he made 

His glory manifest. 

Then, in the ever-blessed Name, 

Almighty over all. 

From the man's Paranymph he took 

The marriage coronal ; — 

And crowning him therewith, in that 

Thrice holy Name, he said, 

" Eleemon, the Servant of God, is crown'd 

For Cyra, the Lord's Handmaid ! " 

Next, with like action and like words. 

Upon her brow he set 

Her coronal, intwined wherein 

The rose and lily met ; 

How beautifully they beseem'd 

Her locks of glossy jet ! 

Her he for Eleemon crown'd, 

The Servant of the Lord ; — 

Alas, how little did that name 

With his true state accord ! 

" Crown them with honor, Lord ! " he said, 

" With blessings crown the righteous head I 

To them let peace be given, 

A holy life, a hopeful end, 

A heavenly crown in Heaven ! " 

Still as he made each separate prayer 

For blessings that they in life might share, 

And for their eternal bliss. 

The echoing Choristers replied, 

" O Lord, so grant thou this ! " 

How differently, meantime, before 
The altar as they knelt, 

While they the sacred rites partake 
Which endless matrimony make, 
The Bride and Bridegroom felt ! 

She, who possess'd her soul in peace 

And thoughtful happiness, 

With her whole heart had inly join'd 

In each devout address. 



540 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SIMNER WELL SAVED. 



His lips the while had only moved 

In hollow repetition ; 

For he had steel'd himself, like one 

Bound over to perdition 

In present joy he wrapp'd his heart, 

And resolutely cast 

All other thoughts beside him, 

Of the future, or the past. 



V. 

Twelve years have held their quiet course 

Since Cyra's nuptial day ; 

How happily, how rapidly, 

Those years have past away ! 

Bless'd in her husband she hath been ; 

He loved her as sincerely, 

(Most sinful and unhappy man !) 

As he had bought her dearly. 

She hath been fruitful as a vine, 

And in her children bless'd ; 

Sorrow hath not come near her yet, 

Nor fears to shake, nor cares to fret. 

Nor grief to wound the breast. 

And bless'd alike would her husband be. 

Were all things as they seem ; 

Eleemon hath every earthly good, 

And with every man's esteem. 

But where the accursed reed had drawn 

The heart-blood from his breast, 

A small red spot remain'd 

Indelibly impress'd. 

Nor could he from his heart throw off 

The consciousness of his state ; 

It was there with a dull, uneasy sense, 

A coldness and a weight ; — 

It was there when he lay down at night. 

It was there when at morn he rose ; 

He feels it whatever he does. 

It is with him wherever he goes. 

No occupation from his mind 

That constant sense can keep ; 

It is present in his waking hours, 

It is present in his sleep ; — 

But still he felt it most, 

And with painfulest weight it press'd, 

O miserable man ! 

When he was happiest. 

O miserable man. 

Who hath all the world to friend. 

Yet dares not in prosperity 

Remember his latter end ! 



But happy man, whate'er 

His earthly lot may be. 

Who looks on Death as the Angel 

That shall set his spirit free. 

And bear it to its heritage 

Of immortality ! 

In such faith hath Proterius lived ; 

And strong is that faith, and fresh, 

As if obtaining then new power, 

When he hath reach'd the awful hour 

Appointed for all flesh. 

Eleemon and his daughter 

With his latest breath he bless'd. 

And saying to them, " We shall meet 

Again before the Mercy-seat! " 

Went peacefully to rest. 

This is the balm which God 

Hath given for every grief; 

And Cyra, in her anguish, 

Look'd heavenward for relief. 

But her miserable husband 
Heard a voice within him say, 

" Eleemon, Eleemon, 

Thou art sold to the Demon ! " 

And his heart seem'd dying away. 

Whole Caesarea is pour'd forth 

To see the funeral state. 

When Proterius is borne to his resting-place 

Without the Northern Gate. 

Not like a Pagan's is his bier 

At doleful midnight borne 

By ghastly torchlight, and with wail 

Of women hired to mourn. 

With tapers in the face of day. 

These rites their faithful hope display ; 

In long procession slow, 

With hymns that fortify the heart, 

And prayers that soften woe. 

In honor of the dead man's rank. 

But of his virtues more, 

The holy Bishop Basil 

Was one the bier who bore. 

And with the Bishop side by side. 

As nearest to the dead allied. 

Was Eleemon seen : 

All mark'd, but none could read aright. 

The trouble in his mien. 

" His master's benefits on him 
Were well bestow'd," they said, • 

" Whose sorrow now full plainly show'd j 
How well he loved the dead." 

They little ween'd what thoughts in him 
The solemn psalm awoke. 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



541 



Which to all other hearts that hour 
Its surest comfort spoke : — 

" Gather my Saints together ; 

In peace let them be laid, 

They who with me," thus saith the Lord, 

" Their covenant have made ! " 

What pangs to Eleemon then, 

O wretchedest of wretched men. 

That psalmody convey 'd ! 

For conscience told him that he, too, 

A covenant had made. 

And when he would have closed his ears 

Against the unwelcome word. 

Then from some elms beside the way 

A Raven's croak was heard. 

To him it seem'd a hollow voice 

That warn'd him of his doom ; 

For the tree whereon the Raven sat 

Grew over the Pagan's tomb. 



VL 

When weariness would let her 

No longer pray and weep, 

And midnight long was past, 

Then Cyra fell asleep. 

Into that wretched sleep she sunk 

Which only sorrow knows. 

Wherein the exhausted body rests, 

But the heart hath no repose. 

Of her Father she was dreaming, 

Still aware that he was dead. 

When, in the visions of the night. 

He stood beside her bed. 

Crown'd and in robes of light he came ; 

She saw he had found grace ; 

And yet there seem'd to be 

A trouble in his face. 

The eye and look were still the same 

That she from her cradle knew ; 

And he put forth his hand, and blest her, 

As he had been wont to do. 

But then the smile benign 

Of love forsook his face. 

And a sorrowful displeasure 

Came darkly in its place; — 

And he cast on Eleemon 

A melancholy eye, 

And sternly said, " I bless thee not, — 

Bondsman ! thou knowest why ! " 

Again to Cyra then he turn'd, — 
" Let not thy husband rest 



Till he hath wash'd away with tears 
The red spot from his breast ! 

" Hold fast thy hope, and Heaven will not 

Forsake thee in thine hour : 

Good Angels will be near thee, 

And evil ones shall fear thee. 

And Faith will give thee power." 

Perturb'd, yet comforted, she woke ; 

For in her waking ear 

The words were heard which promised her 

A strength above all fear. 

An odor, that refresh'd no less 

Her spirit with its blessedness 

Than her corporeal frame. 

Was breathed around, and she surely found 

That from Paradise it came. 

And, though the form revered was gone, 

A clear, unearthly light 

Reraain'd, encompassing the bed. 

When all around was night. 

It narrow'd as she gazed ; 

And soon she saw it rest. 

Concentred, like an eye of light. 

Upon her husbands breast. 

Not doubting now the presence 

Of some good presiding Power, 

Collectedness as well as strength 

Was given her in this hour. 

And rising half, the while in deep 

But troubled sleep he lay, 

She drew the covering from his breast 

With cautious hand away. 

The small, round, blood-red mark she saw; 

EleCmon felt her not ; 

But in his sleep he groan'd, and cried, 

" Out ! out — accursed spot ! " 

The darkness of surrounding night 
Closed then upon that eye of light. 

She waited for the break 

Of day, and lay the while in prayer 

For that poor sinner's sake — 

In fearful, miserable prayer ; 

But while she pray'd, the load of care 

Less heavily bore on her heart, 

And light was given, enabling her 

To choose her difficult part. 

And she drew, as comfortable texts 

Unto her thoughts recurr'd. 

Refreshment from the living well 

Of God's unerring word. 

But when the earliest dawn appear'd, 

Herself in haste she array 'd. 

And watch'd his waking patiently, 



542 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



And still as she watched she pray'd ; 
And when Eleemon had risen, 
She spake to him, and said : — 

" We have been visited this night ; 

My Father's Ghost I have seen ; 

I heard his voice, — an awful voice ! — 

And so hast thou, I ween ! " 

EleSmon was pale when he awoke ; 

But paler then he grew, 

And over his whole countenance 

There came a deathlike hue. 

Still he controll'd himself, and sought 

Her question to beguile ; 

And forcing, while he answer'd her, 

A faint and hollow smile, — 

"Cyra," he said, " thy thoughts possess'd 

With one too painful theme. 

Their own imaginations 

For reality misdeem ; 

Let not my dearest, best beloved, 

Be troubled for a dream ! " 

" O Eleemon," she replied, 
" Dissemble not with me thus ; 

111 it becomes me to forget 
What Dreams have been to us ! 

" Thinkest thou there can be peace for me, 

Near to me as thou art. 

While some unknown and fearful sin 

Is festering at tliy heart ? 

" Eleemon, Eleemon, 

I may not let thee rest. 

Till thou hast wash'd away with tears 

The red spot from thy breast ! 

" Thus to conceal thy crime from me, 

It is no tenderness ! 

The worst is better known than fear'd. 

Whatever it be, confess ; 

And the Merciful will cleanse thee 

From all unrighteousness ! " 

Like an aspen leaf he trembled; 

And his imploring eye 
Bespake compassion, ere his lips 
Could utter their dreaded reply. 

" O dearly loved, as dearly bought. 

My sin and punishment I had thought 

To bear through life alone ; 

Too much the Vision hath reveal'd. 

And all must now be known ! 

" On thee, methinks, and only thee, 

Dare I for pity call ; 

Abhor me not, — renounce me not, — 

My life, my love, my all ! 

" And, Cyra, sure, if ever cause 
Might be a sinner's plea. 



'Twould be for that lost wretch who sold 
His hope of Heaven for thee ! 

" Thou seest a miserable man 

Given over to despair. 

Who has bound himself, by his act and deed, 

To the Prince of the Powers of the Air." 

She seized him by the arm, 

And hurrying him into the street, 

" Come with me to the Church," she cried, 

" And to Basil the Bishop's feet ! " 



VII. 

Public must be the sinner's shame, 

As heinous his offence ; 

So Basil said, when he ordain'd 

His form of penitence. 

And never had such dismay been felt 
Through that astonish 'd town. 
As when, at morn, the Crier went j 

Proclaiming up and down, — 

" The miserable sinner, Eleemon, 

Who for love hath sold himself to the Demon, 

His guilt before God and man declares ; 

And beseeches all good Christians 

To aid him with their prayers." 

Many were the hearts compassionate 

Whom that woful petition moved ; 

For he had borne his fortune meekly, 

And therefore was well beloved. 

Open his hand had been. 

And liberal of its store ; 

And the prayers of the needy arose, 

Who had daily been fed at his door. 

They, too, whom Cyra's secret aid 

Relieved from pressing cares, 

In this her day of wretchedness, 

Repaid her with their prayers. 

And from many a gentle bosom 

Supplications for mercy were sent, 

If haply they might aid 

The wretched penitent. 

Sorely such aid he needed then ! 
Basil himself, of living men 
The powerfulest in prayer. 
For pity, rather than in hope, 
Had bidden him not despair. 



So hard a thing for him it seem'd 

To wrest from Satan's hand 

The fatal Bond, which, while retain'd, 

Must against him in judgment stand. 

Dost thou believe," he said, " that Grace 
Itself can reach this grief? " 



I 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



543 



With a feeble voice, and a woful eye, 

*'Lord, I believe ! " was the sinner's reply ; 

" Help thou mine unbelief! " 

The Bishop then cross'd him on the brow, 

And cross'd him on the breast ; 

And told him, if he did his part 

With true remorse and faithful heart, 

God's mercy might do the rest. 

" Alone in the holy Relic-room 

Must thou pass day and night. 

And wage with thy ghostly enemies 

A more than mortal fight. 

" The trial may be long, and the struggle strong, 

Yet be not thou dismay'd ; 

For thou mayst count on Saints in Heaven, 

And on earthly prayers for aid. 

" And in thy mind this scripture bear 

With steadfast faithfulness, whate'er 

To appall thee may arrive, — 

* When the wicked man turneth away from his sin. 

He shall save his soul alive ! ' 

" Take courage as thou lookest around 

On the relics of the blest; 

And night and day, continue to pray, 

Until thy tears have wash'd away 

The stigma from thy breast ! " 

" Let me be with him !" Cyra cried ; 

" If thou mayst not be there ; 

In this sore trial I at least 

My faithful part may bear : 

" My presence may some comfort prove. 

Yea, haply some defence ; 

O Father, in myself I feel 

The strength of innocence ! " 

" Nay, Daughter, nay ; it must not be ! 
Though dutiful this desire; 
He may by Heaven's good grace be saved, 
But only as if by fire ; — 

'•' Sights which should never meet thine eye 

Before him may appear ; 

And fiendish voices proffer words 

Which should never assail thy ear ; 

Alone must he this trance sustain ; 

Keep thou thy vigils here ! " 

He led him to the Relic-room ; 

Alone he left him there ; 

And Cyra with the Nuns remain'd 

To pass her time in prayer. 

Alone was Eleemon left 

For mercy on Heaven to call ; 

Deep and unceasing were his prayers, 

But not a tear would fall. 

His lips were parch'd, his head was hot. 
His eyeballs throbb'd with heat; 



And in that utter silence 
He could hear his temples beat. 

But cold his feet, and cold his hands ; 

And at his heart there lay 

An icy coldness unrelieved. 

While he pray'd the livelong day. 

A long, long day ! It pass'd away 

In dreadful expectation ; 

Yet free throughout the day was he 

From outward molestation. 

Nor sight appear'd, nor voice was heard, 

Though every moment both he fear'd ; 

The Spirits of the Air 

Were busy the while in infusing 

Suggestions of despair. 

And he in strong endeavor still 

Against them strove with earnest will ; 

Heart-piercing was his cry. 

Heart-breathed his groaning ; but it seem'd 

That the source of tears was dry. 

And now had evening closed ; 

The dim lamp-light alone 

On the stone cross, and the marble walls, 

And the shrines of the Martyrs, shone. 

Before the Cross Eleemon lay : 

His knees were on the ground ; 

Courage enough to touch the Cross 

Itself, he had not found. 

But on the steps of the pedestal 
His lifted hands were laid ; 
And in that lowliest attitude 
The suffering sinner pray'd. 

A strong temptation of the Fiend, 

Which bade him despair and die, 

He with the aid of Scripture 

Had faithfully put by ; 

And then, as with a dawning hope. 

He raised this contrite cry : — 

" O that mine eyes were fountains ! 

If the good grace of Heaven 

Would give me tears, methinks I then 

Might hope to be forgiven ! " 

To that meek prayer a short, loud laugh 

From fiendish lips replied : 

Close at his ear he felt it. 

And it sounded on every side. 

From the four walls and the vaulted roof 

A shout of mockery rung ; 

And the echoing ground repeated the sound, 

Which peal'd above, and below, and around. 

From many a fiendish tongue. 

The lamps went out at that hideous shout, 
But darkness had there no place, 



544 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED, 



For the room was fill'd with a lurid light 
That came from a Demon's face. 

A dreadful face it was, — too well 

By Eleemon known ! 

Alas ! he had seen it when he stood 

Before the dolorous Throne. 

"Eleemon! Eleemon!" 

Sternly said the Demon, 

How have I merited this .? 

1 kept my covenant with thee. 

And placed thee in worldly bliss ! 

" And still thou mightest have had, 

Thine after-days to bless, 

Health, wealth, long life, and whatsoe'er 

The World calls happiness. 

" Fool, to forego thine earthly joys. 

Who hast no hope beyond ! 

For judgment must be given for me, 

When I sue thee upon the Bond. 

"Remember I deceived thee not; 

Nor had I tempted thee : 

Thou camest of thine own accord. 

And didst act knowingly ! 

" I told thee thou mightst vainly think 
To cheat me by contrition. 

When thou wert written down among 
The Children of Perdition ! 

" ' So help me, Satan !' were thy words 

When thou didst this allow ; 

I help'd thee, Eleemon, then, — 

And I will have thee now ! " 

At the words of the Fiend, from the floor 

Eleemon in agony sprung ; 

Up the steps of the pedestal he ran, 

And to the Cross he clung. 

And then it seem'd as if he drew. 

While he clasp'd the senseless stone, 

A strength he had not felt till then, 

A hope he had not known. 

So when the Demon ceased, 
He answer' d him not a word ; 

But, looking upward, he 
His faithful prayer preferr'd : 

" All, all, to Thee, my Lord 

And Savior, 1 confess ! 

And 1 know that Thou canst cleanse me 

From all unrighteousness ! 

" I have turned away from my sin ; 

In Thee do 1 put my trust ; 

To such Thou hast promised forgiveness, 

And Thou art faithful and just ! " 

With that the Demon disappear'd ; 
The lamps resumed their light ; 



Nor voice nor vision more 
Disturb'd him through the night. 

He stirr'd not from his station, 

But there stood fix'd in prayer ; 

And when Basil the Bishop enter'd 

At morn, he found him there. 



VIII. 

Well might the Bishop see what he 

Had undergone that night ; 

Remorse and agony of mind 

Had made his dark hair white. 

So should the inner change, he ween'd, 

With the outward sign accord ; 

And holy Basil cross' d himself. 

And blest our gracious Lord. 

" Well hast thou done," said he, "my son, 

And faithfully fought the fight ; 

So shall this day complete, I trust. 

The victory of the night. 

" I fear'd that forty days and nights 

Too little all might be ; 

But great and strange hath been the change 

One night hath wrought in thee.' 

"O Father, Father," he replied, 
" And hath it been but one ? 

An endless time it seem'd to me ! 
1 almost thought Eternity 
With me had been begun. 

" And surely this poor flesh and blood 
Such terrors could not have withstood, 

If grace had not been given ; 
But when I clasp'd the blessed Cross, 

I then had help from Heaven. 

" The coldness from my heart is gone ; 

But still the weight is there. 

And thoughts, which I abhor, vrill come 

And tempt me to despair. 

" Those thoughts 1 constantly repel ; 

And all, methinks, might yet be well, 

Could I but weep once more. 

And with true tears of penitence 

My dreadful state deplore. 

" Tears are denied ; their source is dried ! 

And must it still be so .'' 

O Thou, who from a rock didst make 

The living waters flow, — 

"A broken and a bleeding heart 

This hour I offer Thee ; 

And, when Thou seest good, my tears 

Shall then again be free ! " 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED. 



545 



A knocking at the door was heard 

As he ended this reply 5 

Hearing that unexpected sound, 

The Bishop turn'd his eye, 

And his venerable Mother, 

Emmelia, the Abbess, drew nigh. 

"We have not ceased this mournful night," 

Said she, " on Heaven to call ; 

And our afflicted Cyra 

Hath edified us all. 

" More fervent prayers from suffering heart, 

I ween, have ne'er been sent ; 

And now she asks, as some relief. 

In this her overwhelming grief, 

To see the penitent. 

" So earnestly she ask'd, that I 

Her wish would not defer ; 

And I have brought her to the door : 

Forgive me, Son, if I err." 

" Hard were I did I not consent 

To thy compassionate intent, 

O Mother," he replied ; 

And raising then his voice, " Come in. 

Thou innocent ! " he cried. 

That welcome word when Cyra heard. 

With a sad pace and slow, 

Forward she came, like one whose heart 

Was overcharged with woe. 

Her face was pale, — long illness would 

Have changed those features less ; 

And long-continued tears had dimm'd 

Her eyes with heaviness. 

Her husband's words had reach'd her ear 

When at the door she stood ; 

"Thou hast pray'd in vain for tears," she said, 

" While I have pour'd a flood ! 

" Mine flow, and they will flow ; they must ; 

They cannot be repress'd ! 

And oh, that they might wash away 

The stigma from thy breast ! 

" Oh that these tears might cleanse that spot, — 

Tears which I cannot check 1 " 

Profusely weeping as she spake, 

She fell upon his neck. 

He clasp 'd the mourner close, and in 

That passionate embrace, 

In grief for her, almost forgot 

His own tremendous case. 

Warm as they fell he felt her tears. 

And in true sympathy. 

So gracious Heaven permitted then, 

His own to flow were free. 

And then the weight was taken off", 
Which at his heart had press'd ; — 



mercy I and the crimson spot 
Hath vanish' d from his breast ! 

At that most happy sight, 

The four, with one accord. 

Fell on their knees, and blest 

The mercy of the Lord. 

" What then ! before the strife is done, 
Would ye of victory boast.? " 
Said a Voice above : " they reckon too soon. 
Who reckon without their host ! " 

" Mine is he by a Bond 

Which holds him fast in law : 

I drew it myself for certainty, 

And sharper than me must the Lawyer be 

Who in it can find a flaw ! 

" Before the Congregation, 

And in the face of day. 

Whoever may pray, and whoever gainsay, 

I will challenge him for my Bondsman, 

And carry him quick away ! " 

" Ha, Satan ! dost thou in thy pride," 

With righteous anger Basil cried, 

" Defy the force of prayer ? 

In the face of the Church wilt thou brave it ? 

Why, then we will meet thee there ! 

" There mayst thou set forth thy right, 

With all thy might, before the sight 

Of all the Congregation ; 

And they that hour shall see the power 

Of the Lord unto salvation ! ' 

" A challenge fair ! We meet then there," 

Rejoin'd the Prince of the Powers of the Air; 

" The Bondsman is mine by right. 

Let the whole city come at thy call. 

And great and small : in face of them all, 

1 will have him in thy despite ! " 

So having said, he tarried not 

To hear the Saint's reply. 

" Beneath the sign which Constantine," 

Said Basil, " beheld in the sky, 

We strive, and have our strength therein, 

Therein our victory I " 



IX. 



The Church is fill'd ; so great the faith 

That City in its Bishop hath ; 

And now the Congregation 

Are waiting there in trembling prayer 

And terrible expectation. 

Emmelia and her sisterhood 

Have taken there their seat ; 

And Choristers, and Monks, and Priests, 

And Psalmists there, and Exorcists, 

Are station'd in order meet. 



546 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER W i!.LL SAVED. 



In sackcloth clad, with ashes strown 

Upon his whiter hair. 

Before the steps of the altar, 

His feet for penance bare, 

Eleemon stands, a spectacle 

For men and Angels there. 

Beside him Cyra stood, in weal 

Or woe, in good or ill. 

Not to be sever'd from his side. 

His faithful helpmate still. 

Dishevell'd were her raven locks, 

As one in mourner's guise ; 

And pale she was, but faith and hope 

Had now relumed her eyes. 

At the altar Basil took his stand ; 

He held the Gospel in his hand, 

And in his ardent eye 

Sm*e trust was seen, and conscious power, 

And strength for victory. 

At his command the Chorister 

Enounced the Prophet's song, 

" To God our Savior mercies 

And forgivenesses belong." 

Ten thousand voices join'd to raise 

The holy hymn on high. 

And hearts were thrill'd and eyes were fill'd 

By that full harmony. 

And when they ceased, and Basil's hand 

A warning signal gave. 

The whole huge multitude was hush'd 

In a stillness like that of the grave. 

The Sun was high in a bright blue sky ; 

But a chill came over the crowd. 

And the Church wa? suddenly darken'd, 

As if by a passing cloud. 

A sound as of a tempest rose. 

Though the day was calm and clear ; 

Intrepid must the heart have been 

Which did not then feel fear. 

In the sound of the storm came the dreadful Form : 

The Church then darken'd more. 

And He was seen erect on the screen 

Over the Holy Door. 

Day-light had sicken'd at his sight ; 

And the gloomy Presence threw 

A shade profound over all around. 

Like a cheerless twilight hue. 

"I come hither," said the Demon, 

" For my Bondsman Eleemon ! 

Mine is he, body and soul. 

See all men ! " and with that on high 

He held the open scroll. 

The fatal signature appear'd, 
To all the multitude. 



Distinct as when the accursed pen 

Had traced it with fresh blood. 

" See all men ! " Satan cried again, 

And then his claim pursued. 

" I ask for justice ! I prefer 

An equitable suit I 

I appeal to the Law, and the case 

Admitteth of no dispute. 

" If there be justice here, 

If Law have place in Heaven, 

Award upon this Bond 

Must then for me be given. 

" What to my rightful claim, 

Basil, canst thou gainsay. 

That I should not seize the Bondsman, 

And carry him quick away ^ 

" The writing is confess'd ; — 
No plea against it shown ; — 

The forfeiture is mine. 
And now I take my own ! " 

"Hold there ! " cried Basil, with a voice 

That arrested him on his way. 

When from the screen he would have swoopt 

To pounce upon his prey ; — 

" Hold there, I say ! Thou canst not sue 

Upon this Bond by law ! 

A sorry legalist were he 

Who could not, in thy boasted plea, 

Detect its fatal flaw. 

" The Deed is null, for it was framed 

With fraudulent intent ; 

A thing unlawful in itself; 

A wicked instrument, — 

Not to be pleaded in the Courts. — 

Sir Fiend, thy cause is shent ! 

" This were enough ; but, more than this, 

A maxim, as thou knowest, it is, 

Whereof all Laws partake. 

That no one may of his own wrong 

His own advantage make. 

"The man, thou sayest, thy Bondsman is; 

Mark, nov/, how stands the fact ! 

Thou hast allow'd, nay, aided him. 

As a Freedman, to contract 

A marriage with this Christian woman here. 

And by a public act. 

" That act being publicly perform'd 

With thy full cognizance. 

Claim to him as thy Bondsman thou 

Canst never more advance ; — 

" For when they solemnly were then 

United, in sight of Angels and men. 

The matrimonial band 

Gave to the wife a right in him ; 

And we on this might stand. 



ALL FOR LOVE, OR A SINNER WELL SAVED 



547 



" Thy claim upon the man was by 

Thy silence then forsaken ; 
A marriage thus by thee procured 

May not by thee be shaken ; 

And thou, O Satan, as thou seest, 

In thine own snare art taken ! " 

So Basil said, and paused awhile ; 

The Arch-fiend answer'd not; 

But he heaved in vexation 

A sulphurous sigh for the Bishop's vocation. 

And thus to himself he thought : — 

" The Law thy calling ought to have been. 

With thy wit so ready, and tongue so free ! 

To prove by reason, in reason's despite. 

That right is wrong, and wrong is right, 

And white is black, and black is white, — 

What a loss have I had in thee ! " 

" I rest not here," the Saint pursued ; 
" Though thou in this mayst see 
That in the meshes of thine own net 
I could entangle thee ! 

"Fiend, thou thyself didst bring about 

The spousal celebration. 

Which link'd them by the nuptial tie 

For both their souls' salvation. 

" Thou sufferedst them before high Heaven 

With solemn rites espoused to be. 

Then and for evermore, for time 

And for eternity. 

" That tie holds good ; those rites 

Will reach their whole intent ; 

And thou of his salvation wert 

Thyself the instrument. 

" And now, methinks, thou seest in this 

A higher power than thine ; 

And that thy ways were overruled. 

To work the will divine ! " 

With rising energy he spake. 

And more majestic look ; 
And with authoritative hand 
Held forth the Sacred Book. 

Then with a voice of power he said, 

" The Bond is null and void ! 
It is nullified, as thou knowest well, 
By a Covenant whose strength by Hell 
Can never be destroy'd ! — 

" The Covenant of grace. 

That greatest work of Heaven, 

Which whoso claims in perfect faith. 

His sins shall be forgiven. 

" Were they as scarlet red, 

They should be white as wool ; 

This is the All-mighty's Covenant, 

Who is All-merciful ! 



" His Minister am I ! 
In his All-mighty name 
To this repentant sinner 
God's pardon I proclaim ! 

" In token that against his soul 

The sin shall no longer stand, 

The writing is effaced, which there 

Thou boldest in thy hand ! 

" Angels that are in bliss above 
This triumph of Redeeming Love 

Will witness, and rejoice ; 

And ye shall now in thunder hear 

Heaven's ratifying voice ! " 

A peal of thunder shook the pile ; 

The Church was fill'd with light; 

And when the flash was past, the Fiend 

Had vanish'd from their sight. 

He fled as he came, but in anger and shame ; 

The pardon was complete : 

And the impious scroll was dropp'd, a blank, 

At Eleemon's feet. 



NOTES. 

FROM THE LIFE OF S. BASIL THE GREAT, BY S, AMPHILO- 
CHIUS, BISHOP OF ICONIUM. 

Roswcyde, Vitm Patrum, pp. ]56, 158. 

" Helladius atLtem sanctw recordationis, quiinspector et minister 
fuit miraculorum qua; ab eo patrata sunt, quique post obitam ejus- 
dem Apostolical mcmorice Basilii scdem illius suscipere meruit, vir 
miraculis et clarus, atque omni virtute omatus, retulit mihi, quia 
cUm senator quidamfidelis, nomine Proterius, pergerct ad sancta 
et pcrcolcnda loca, et ibidem Jiliam suam tondere, ct in ununi 
venerabilitim monasteriorum mittere, et sacrificium Deo offerre 
voluisset; Diabolus, qui ab initio homicida est, invidens ejus 
religioso proposito, commovit unum ex servis ejus, et hunc ad 
puellcB succendit amorem. Hie itaque cum tanto voto esset in- 
dignus, et nan auderct propositum saltern contingere, alloquitur 
unum ex detestandis maleficis, repromittens illi, ut siforti arte 
sua posset illam commovere, multam eiauri tribueret quantitatem. 
At vero veneficus dixit ad eum : homo, ego ad hoc impos existo : 
sed si vis, mitto te ad provisorem meum Diabolum, et ille faciei 
voluntatem tuam, si tu dumtaxat feceris voluntatem ejtis. Qui 
dixit ad eum: Qucecunque dixerit mihi, faciam. Ait ille : Abre- 
nuntias, inquit, Christo in scriptis 7 Dicit d .- Etiam. Porro 
iniquitatis operarius dicit ei ; Si ad hoc paratus es cooperator 
tibi efficiar. Ille autem ad ipsum: Paratus sum, tantum lit 
conseqiiar desiderium. Et facta epistolt, pessimal operationis 
minister ad Diabolum destinavit earn, habentem dictatum hujus- 
modi : Quoniam domino et provisori meo oportet me dare operam, 
quo a Christianorum religione discedant, et ad tuam societatem 
accedant, ut compleatur portio tua ; misi tibi prmsentem, meas 
defcrentem litterulas, cupidine puellce sauciatum. Et obsecro ut 
hujus voti compos existat, ut et in hoc glorior, et cum affluentiori 
alacritate colligam amatores tuos. Et dat& ei epistolt, dixit .- 
Vade tali horct noctis, et sta supra monumentumalicujus pagani, 
et erige chartam in a'^ra, et adstabunt tibi, qui te tebcnt ducere ad 
Diabolum. Qui hoc alacriter gesto, emisit miserrimam illam vo- 
cem, invocans Diaboli adjutorium .• et continud adstiterunt eiprin- 
cipes potestatis tenebrarum, spiritus nequiticB, et suscepto quifu- 
erat deceptus, cum gaudio magno duxerunt eum ubi erat Diabolus, 
quern et monstraverunt ei super excelsum solium sedentcm, et in 
gyro ejus nequitice spiritus circumstantes : et susceptis venefici 



548 



NOTES TO ALL FOR LOVE,&c. 



litteris, dixit ad infelicem ilium : Credis in me ? Qui dixit .- 
Credo. Dixit ei Diabolus : Tergiversatores estis vos Cliristiani, 
et quidem quando me opus habetis, venitis ad me ; cum autem con- 
secwti fueritis affectum., abnegatisme et acceditis ad Christum ves- 
trum, qui, cum sit bonus atque misericors, suscipit vos. Sedfac 
mihi in scriptis tarn Christi ttii et sancti Baptismatis voluntariam 
abrenuntiatioiiem, qudm in me per scecula spontaneam repromis- 
sionem, et quia mecum eris in die judicii simul perfruiturus 
cBternis suppliciis, quce mihi sunt prceparata. At ille exposuit 
propricB manus scriptum, quemadmodum fuerat expetitus. Rur- 
susque ille corruptor animarum draco destinat dcemonesfornicatio- 
niprcepositos, et exardescerefaciuntpuellam adamorempueri, qua 
projecit se in pavimentum, et caspit clamare ad patrem : Miserere 
mei, miserere! quia atrociter torqueor propter talem puerum 
nostrum ! Compatere visceribus tuis ; ostende in me unigeni- 
tam tuam paternum affectum, et junge me puero, quern elegi. 
Quod si hcBC agere nolueris, videbis me amarcL mortepostpaululum 
mortuavj, et rationem dabis Deo pro me in die judicii. Pater au- 
tem cum lachrymis dicebat .• Hen mihi peccatori J quid est quod 
contigit misercB filus mece 7 quis thesaurum meum furatus est 7 
quisfilice mem injuriam intulit 7 quis dulce oculorum vieorum lu- 
men extinxit 7 ego te semper superccelesti sponso consiliatus sum 
desponsare Christo, et Angelorum contubernio sociam constituere, 
et in psalmis et hymnis et canticis spiritualibus canere Deo acce- 
lerabam : tu autem in lasciviam petulantice. insanisti ! Dimitte 
me, sicut volo, cum Deo contractum facere, ne deducas scnectu- 
tem meam cum mcerore in ivfcrnum, neque confusione nobilitatem 
parentum tuorum operias. Quce in nihilum reputans, quce d patre 
sibi dicebantur, perseverabat damans .- Pater mi, aut fac deside- 
rium meum, aut prius pauxillum mortuam me videbis. Pater 
itaque eju^ in magn& dementatione constitutus, tam immensitate 
mastitice absorptus, qudm amicorum consiliis acquiescens se ad- 
monentium, ac dicentiiim, expedire potiiis voluntatem puellm fieri, 
qudm sese mavibus interficere, consensit, et prwcepit fieri deside- 
rium puellcB putiils, qudm eam exitiabili tradere morti. Et mox 
protulit puerum qui qucerebatur, simul et propriam genitam, et 
dans eis omnia bona sua, dixit .- Salve nata vere misera .- multum 
lamentabcris repcenitens in novissimis, quando nihil tibi proderit. 
Porro nefandi matrimonii con jugio facto, et diabolicm operationis 
completo facinore, etpauco tempore pretereunte, notatus est puer 
d quibusdam, quod non ingrederetur ecclesiam, neque attrcctaret 
immortalia et vivifica Sacramenta, et dicunt miserandm uxori 
ejus : JSToveris quia maritus tuus, quern elegisti, non est Christi- 
anus, sed extraneus est a fide, etpenitus est alienus. Quce tene- 
bris et dird, plagd, referta, projecit se in pavimentum, et capit un- 
gulis semetipsam discerpere, et percutere pectus, atque clamare .• 
JSTemo umquam qui parentibus inobediens fuit, salvus factus est. 
Qtds annuntiabit patri meo confusionem meam 7 Heu mihi infe- 
lici! in quod per ditionis profundum descendi ! quare nata suin7 
vel nata quare non statim indireptibilis facta sum 7 Hujusmodi 
ergo eam complorantem seductus vir ejus agnoscens, venit ad eam, 
assevcrans non se ita rei veritatem habere ; quce in refrigcrium 
suasoriis ejus verbis dcveniens, dixit ad eum .- Si vis mihi 
satisfacere, et infelicem animam meam certificare, eras ego et 
tu pergemus unanimiter ad ecclesiam, et coram me sum.e in- 
temerata mysteria, et taliter mihi poteris satisfacere. Tunc coac- 
tus dixit ei sententiam capituli. Protinus ergo puella femine& 
infirmitate deposits, et consilio bono accepto, currit ad pastorem 
et discipulum Christi Basilium, adversus tantam damans im- 
pietatem : Misericordiam mihi miserce prasta sancte Dei, mi- 
serere mei disdpule Domini, quce contractum cum dcemonibusfeci. 
Miserere mei, quae propria patri facta sum inobediens. Et cognita 
Mi fecit rei gcstce negotia. Porro sanctus Dei convocato puero, 
sciscitabatur ab eo si hcec hujusmodi esscnt. Qui ad sanctum cum 
lachrymis ait .• Etiam sancte Dei. JYam etsi ergo tacuero, opera 
mea clamabunt. Et enarravit ei et ipse malignam diaboli opera- 
tionem, qualiter ab exordio usque ad finem fuerit subsecutus. 
Tunc dicit ei .- Vis converti ad Dominum Deum. nostrum 7 Qui 
dixit: Etiam volo, sednon possum. Dicit ei: Cur 7 Respoiulit: 
In scriptis abrenuntiavi Christo, et fcedus pepegi cum diabolo. 
Dicit ei sanctus .- JsTon tibi sit curae .- benignus est Dcus noster, 
et suscipiet te pas.nitcntiam agentem. Benignus enim est super 
malitiis nostris. Et projiciens se puella ad pedes ejus, evangelice 
rogabat eum., dicens .- Disdpule Christi Dei nostri, si quid potes, 
adjuva nos ! Dicit sanctus ad puerum ; Credis posse salvari 7 
M ille dixit : Credo, Domine, adjuva incredulitatem meam. Et 
confestim adprehensh manu ejus, et facto super eum Christi signo 
simul et oratione, retrusit ilium in uno loco intra quem sacri ha- 
iebantur amictus, et dat& ei regula oravit et ipse pro ilia per tres 



dies. Post quos visitavit eum, et dixit; Quomodo te habes,fili 7 
Dicit eipuer .- In magndi sum, domine, defectione. Sancte Dei, 
non suffero damores, pavores, jacula, et lapidationes ipsorum 
Tenentes enimproprim manus mea scripturam, objurgantur in me, 
dicentes : Tu venisti ad nos, non nos ad te. Et dicit ei sanctus : 
JSToli timere, fili mi, tantummodo crede. Et dat& ei modica escSt, 
et facto super eum Christi denud signo et oratione, induct eum ; 
et post paucos dies visitavit ilium, et dixit : Quomodo te hates, 
fili 7 Ait : Pater sancte, d longe damores eorum audio simul et 
minas ; nam non video illos. Et rursus data ei cibo, et effusci 
oratione dausit ostium, et discessit. Prcetered quadragesimo die 
abiit ad eum, et dicit illi : Quomodo te habes,frater7 Respondit 
et dicit ei .- Bene, sancte Dei, Vidi enim te hodie in somnio 
pugnantem pro me, et vincentem Diabolum. Mox ergo secundum 
consuetudinemfacth oratione eduxit ilium, et duxit ilium ad cubi- 
culum suum, Mand autem facto, convocato tam venerabili clero, 
quam monasteriis et omni Christo amabili populo, dixit eis : Filii 
mei dilecti, universi gratias agamus Domino : Ecce enimfiiturum 
est, et ovem perditam pastor bonus super humeros suosimponat, et 
reducat EcdesicB : Et nos oportct pervigilem ducere noctem, et 
deprecari voluntatem ipsiiis, ut non vincat corruptor animarum. 
Quo protinus ado, et prornptissimi populo congregato, per totam 
noctem una cum bono pastore deprecati stint Deum, cum lacrijmis 
pro ipso damantes, Kyrie eleison, Et diluculd und cum omni 
multitudine populi assumit sanctus puerum, et tenens dexteram 
manum ejus, duxit eum in sanctum Dei ecclesiam cum psalmis et 
hymnis, Et ecce Diabolus, qui vita nostra semper invidit, si hanc 
sine tristitia viderit, cum tota perniciosd, virtute suh venit, et 
puero invisibilitercomprehenso,voluit rapereillum de manu sanc- 
ti : et capitpuer damans dicere .- Sancte Dei auxiliare mihi, et 
adeb contra ilium impudenti instantici venit, ut ipsum egregium 
Basilium simul cum illo impelleret et subverteret, Conversus 
ergo sanctus ad Diabolum ait : Impudentissime, et animarum. vio- 
lator, pater tenebrarum et perditionis, non tibi svfficit tuaperditio, 
quam. tibimet ipsi et his, qui sub te sunt, acquisisti, sed adhuc non 
quiescis, et Dei mei plasma tentando 7 Diabolus verd dixit ad 
eum : Prajudicas mihi, Basili : ita ut multi ex nobis audirent 
voces ejus. At vero sanctus Dei ad eum : increpat, inquit, tibi 
Dominus, diabole. At ille, Basili, prejudicium mihi fads, JSTon 
ivi ego ad eum, sed ille venit ad me, abrenuntiando Christum, 
mecumque est sponsione pactuatus, et ecce scriptum habeo, et in 
die judicii coram communi judlce defer am illud, Sanctus autem, 
Domini dixit : Benedictus Domhius Deus mens, non deponet 
populus iste manus ab excelso cceli, nisi reddideris scriptum., Et 
conversus dixit plebi .- Tollite mamis vest7-as in calum, universi 
damantes cum lacrymis, Kyrie eleison, Cumque staret populus 
horci multd. extensas habentes manus in ccelum, ecce scriptum pueri 
in aerem deportatum, et ab omnibus visunivenit, etpositum est in 
manus egregii patris nostri pastoris Basilii. Suscepto autem illo, 
gratias egit Deo, gavisusque vchementer und, cum universd, plebe, 
dixit ad puerum ; Recognoscis litterulas has, frater 7 At ille 
dixit ad eum : Etiam sancte Dei, propria manus mea scriptura 
est. Et diruptd, scripturd. introduxit eum in ecclesiam, et dignus 
habitus est sacris interesse Missarum officiis, et parti cipatione 
sacrorum mysteriorum, et muneribus Christi. Et fact& suscep- 
tione magna recreavit universiim populum, et ducto puero et in- 
structo, atque daih ei decenti regula, tradidit eum uxori ejus, 
hidesinenter glorificantem et laudantem Deum. Amen. 



Baei-t, though he pronounces the life in which this legend 
appears to he apocryphal, does not deliver a decided opinion 
upon the legend itself. He says, " Helladium Basilii in Epis- 
copatu successorem fuisse, omnibus est indubitatum ; vitam de- 
cessoris ab illo conscriptam., credimus {ut par est) S. Joanni 
Damasceno, qui utinam ad nos tantum transmississet thesaurum ; 
eum enim videturpra oculis habuisse, cum locum inde unum de- 
scripsit in oratione pro sacris Imaginibus. An vero ea, qua hie 
narrantur, ex Helladio sunt, lector judicet. Potuit enim fieri, 
ut eo quo Pseiido-Amphilochius scripsit tempore, fragmenta 
quadam Helladii extarent, qua ipse retulerit in Basilium suum. 
Quod attinet ad Proterii filiam, a damone in amorem juvenis 
concitatam, simile quid contigisse B. Maria Antiochena referimus 
tomo 7 Maji, die 29, pag. 52. Mihi tamen verosimilius est, 
eumdem qui ./imphilochium mentitus est, mentiri etiam Helladium 
potuisse.''—-p.952—2. Jun. t. 2. 

The story, to which Baert refers, resemhles the legend of 
St. Basil in one part, but is utterly unlike it in the circum 



NOTES TO ALL FOR LOVE, &c. 



549 



stances wherein he has supposed the resemblance to exist. It 
appears to have been one of those fictions which were com- 
posed honestly as works of imagination, not like the lives of 
St. Benedict, St. Francis, St. Dominic, St. Ignatius Loyola, 
and so many of their respective orders, with a fraudulent 
intent, to impose upon mankind. Like other such fictions, 
however, it has been adopted and legitimated by credulity 
and fraud, and the blessed Mary, the Virgin of Antioch, has 
her place accordingly in the Acta Sanctorum, on the 29th of 
May. But as the legend evidently was not written when 
Antioch was a Christian city, and, moreover, as the legend 
itself contains nothing whatever by which its age could be 
determined, Papebroche presents it as eo habendum esse loco, 
quo multa in Vitis Sanctorum Patrum, utilem quidem instruc- 
tionem continetctia ad formaiulos mores, sed ad historicam cer- 
titudinem parum aut nihil. Igitur istam quoque ut talem hie 
damns ; liherum lecton relinquentes, ut earn quo volet gradu 
credibilitatis collocet. 

In this legend, one of the chief persons in Antioch, An- 
themius by name, failing to win the affections of Maria, who 
was the daughter of a poor widow, and had resolved to lead a 
life of celibacy, applies to a Magician to assist him. The 
Magician sends two demons to influence mother and daughter 
in their sleep, so as to bring Maria to Anthemius's bed- 
chamber j but the temptations of worldly wealth, which are 
offered, have only the effect of alarming them ; they rise in 
the middle of the night, and go toward the Church, there to 
pray for protection and deliverance ; and, on the way thither, 
one demon takes upon liim Maria's form, while the other 
personates the mother, and thus decoys Maria into the apart- 
ment where Anthemius is expecting her. She is, however, 
allowed to depart uninjured, upon a promise to return at the 
end of fifteen days, and live with him as a servant, provided 
he will offer her no violence. Nothing can be more unlike 
the story of Proterius's daughter. Having extorted an oath 
from her, that she would return according to this promise, 
Anthemius remains, wondering at the great power of the 
Magician. " Certes," thought he, " one who can do what 
he hath done in this matter is greater than all men ; why, 
then, should I not off'er him all I am worth, if he will make 
me equal to himself? " And, being inflamed with this desire, 
he said within himself, " If I were such as he is, whatever 
I might wish for would be within my reach." This thought 
came into his mind as if it were by Divine Providence, to the 
end that he might willingly let the virgin depart, and that 
she might not be bound by the nefarious oath which she had 
taken, and that the devil, who was the instigator of his evil 
desires, might be confounded in his designs, both upon the 
virgin herself, and upon him who was at this time the virgin's 
enemy. 

" As soon, therefore, as it was day, Anthemius went out to 
seek for the Sorcerer, and to give him thanks. Having found 
him, and saluted him, he delivered to him, with many thanks, 
the gold which he had promised ; and then, falling at his feet, 
earnestly entreated that he might be made such as the Sorcerer 
himself was, promising that, if this could be effected through 
his means, he would requite him with whatever sum he might 
demand. But the Sorcerer replied, ' that it was not possible 
for him to be made a sorcerer also, because he was a Christian, 
having been made such by his baptism.' But Anthemius an- 
swered, ' Then I renounce my baptism and Christian name, 
if I may be made a sorcerer.' Still the Sorcerer replied, ' Thou 
canst not be made a sorcerer, neither canst thou keep the laws 
of the sorcerers, the which if thou wert not to keep, thou 
wouldst then fall from a place which could never again be 
recovered.' But Anthemius, again embracing his feet, prom- 
ised that he would perform whatever should be enjoined him. 
Then the Sorcerer, seeing his perseverance, asked for paper, 
and having written therein what he thought good, gave it to 
Anthemius, and said, ' Take this writing, and, in the dead of 
the night, go out of the city, supperless, and stand upon yon- 
der little bridge. A huge multitude will pass over it, about 
midnight, with a mighty uproar, and with their Prince seated 
in a chariot : yet fear not thou, for thou wilt not be hurt, 
having with thee this my writing ; but hold up the writing, so 
that it may be perceived : and if thou shouldest be asked 
what thou doest there at that hour, or who thou art, say, 
'The Great jVIaster sent me to my Lord the Prince, with this 
letter, that I might deliver it unto him.' But take heed nei- 



ther to sign thyself as a Christian, nor to call upon Christ j 
for in either case thy desire would then be frustrated.' 

" Anthemius, therefore, having received the letter, went 
his way ; and, when night came, he went out of the city, and 
took his stand upon tlie little bridge, holding up the writing in 
his hand. About midnight, a great multitude came there, and 
horsemen in great numbers, and the Prince himself sitting in 
a chariot J and they who went first surrounded him, saying, 
' Who is this that sttmdeth here .'' ' To whom Anthemius 
made answer, ' The Great Master hath sent me to my Lord 
the Prince with this letter.' And they took the letter from 
him, and delivered it to the Prince, who sat in the chariot; 
and he, having received and read the same, wrote something 
in the same paper, and gave it to Anthemius, that he should 
carry it to the Sorcerer. So, in the morning, Anthemius, 
having returned, deiivc-red it to the Sorcerer, who, having 
perused it, said, ' Wuuldst thou know what he hath written 
to us.' even just as I before said to thee, to wit, ' Knov/est 
thou not that this man is a Christian ? Such a one I can in 
no wise admit, unless, according to our manner, he performeth 
all things, and renounceth and abhorreth his faith.' When 
Anthemius heard this, he replied, ' Master, now as elsewhile 
I abjure the name of Christian, and the faith, and the baptism.' 
Then the Sorcerer wrote again ; and giving the writing to 
Anthemius, said, ' Go again, and take thy stand at night at 
the same place, and when he shall come, give him this, and 
attend to what he shall say.' Accordingly he went his way, 
and took his stand at the time and place appointed. Behold, 
at the same hour the same company appeared again, and they 
said unto him, ' Wherefore hast thou returned hither ? ' An- 
themius answered and said, ' Lord, the Great Master hath 
sent me back with this writing.' The Prince then received 
it, and read, and again w;ote in it, and gave it again to be 
returned to the Sorcerer. To whom Anthemius went again 
in the morning, and he, having read the writing, said unto 
him, 'Knowest thou what he hath written unto me in reply? 
I wrote to him, saying, " All these things, Lord, he hath ab- 
jured before me ; admit him, therefore, if it pleaseth thee." 
But he hath written back, " Unless he abjureth all this in 
writing, and in his own hand, I will not admit him." Say 
now, then, what wilt thou that I should do for thee ?' 

" The wretched Anthemius answered and said, ' Master, I 
am ready to do this also.' And with that he seated himself, 
and wrote thus : — I, Anthemius, adjure Christ and his faith. 
I abjure also his baptism, and the cross, and the Christian 
name, and I promise that I will never again use them, or 
invoke them.' But, while he was thus writing, a copious 
sweat ran from him, from the top of his head to the soles of his 
feet, so that his whole inner garment was wet therewith, as he 
himself afterwards with continual tears confessed. He never- 
theless ^vent on writing, and, when it was finished, he gave 
the writing to the Sorcerer to read, who, when he had perused 
it, said, ' This is well ; go thy way again, and he will now 
certainly receive thee. And when he shall have admitted 
thee, say to him reverently, I beseech thee. Lord, assign to 
me those who may be at my bidding ; and he will assign unto 
thee as many as thou wilt have. But this I advise thee, not 
to take more than one or two familiars, inasmuch as more 
would perplex thee, and would be perpetually disturbing thee 
night and day, that thovi mightest give them what to do.' 
Then Anthemius returned to the same place as before, and 
awaited there, and the same company came there again at 
midnight, and the leader of them, having incontinently re- 
cognized Anthemius, began to cry out, ' Lord, the Great 
Master hath again sent hither this man with his commands : ' 
and the Prince bade him draw nigh. And Anthemius, 
drawing nigh, gave unto him his profession of abjuration, full 
of calamity and woe. He, having received and read it, raised 
it on high in his hand, and began to exclaim, ' Christ, behold 
Anthemius, who heretofore was thine, hath, by this writing, 
abjured and execrated thee ! I am not the author of this his 
deed ; but he, offering himself to my service with many en- 
treaties, hath of his own accord written this his profession of 
abjuration, and delivered it to me. Have thou then there- 
fore no care of him from this time forth ! ' And he repeated 
these words a second time, and again a third. 

"But when Anthemius heard that dreadful voice, he 
trembled from head to foot, and began at the same time to cry 
aloud, and to say, ' Give me back the writing ! I am a Chris- 



550 



NOTES TO ALL FOR LOVE, &c 



tian ! I beseech thee, I adjure thee ! I will be a Christian ! 
Give me back the profession which I have wickedly written ! ' 
But when the miserable man was proceeding thus to exclaim, 
the Prince said unto him, ' Never again mayst thou have this 
thy profession, which I shall produce in the terrible day of 
judgment. From this moment thou art mine, and I have 
thee in my power at will, unless an outrage be done to justice.' 
With these words he departed, leaving Anthemius. But 
Anthemius lay prostrate on his face upon the bridge till it was 
dawn, weeping and lamenting his condition. As soon as it 
was daylight he rose, and returned to his own house, where he 
remained weeping and lamenting, not knowing what he sliould 
do. Now there was another city, some eighteen miles oflF, 
where there was said to be a Bishop, who was a man of God. 
To him, therefore, he resolved to repair, that he might obtain 
his intercession, and having confessed the whole matter even 
as it had taken place, to be again by him baptized ; for in his 
own city he was ashamed to confess what he had done. 
Having then cut off his hair, and clad himself in sackcloth, he 
departed, and came unto the Bishop, and having made himself 
known, was admitted to him, and threw himself at his feet, 
saying, ' I beseech thee, baptize me ! ' But the Bishop re- 
plied, ' Can I believe that thou hast not yet been baptized.' ' 
Then he, taking the Bishop apart, told him tlie whole matter, 
saying, ' I have indeed received baptism when I was a child, 
but having now renounced it in writing, behold I am unbap- 
tized ! ' To which the Bishop replied, ' How camest thou 
persuaded that thou hast been unbaptized of the baptism 
which thou hast received?' Anthemius answered, 'In that 
unhappy hour when I wrote the abjuration of my Lord and 
Savior, and of his baptism, incontinently a profuse sweat 
burst out, even from the top of my head to the soles of my 
feet, so that my inner garments were wet therewith j and 
from that time I have believed of a truth, that even as I then 
abjured my baptism, so did it depart from me. Now, if thou 
canst, O venerable Father, help me, in compassion upon one 
who has thus voluntarily undone himself.' He said this 
prostrate on the ground, and bedewed with tears. 

" When the man of God, the Bishop, heard this, he threw 
himself upon the ground, and lay there beside Anthemius, 
weeping and praying to the Lord. Then, after a long while, 
rising, he roused Anthemius, and said to him, ' Verily, son, I 
dare not again purify by baptism a man who hath been already 
baptized, for among Christians there is no second baptism, 
except of tears. Yet do not thou despair of thy salvation, 
nor of the divine mercy, but rather commit thyself to God, 
praying and humbly beseeching him for all the remainder of 
thy life ; and God, who is good and merciful, may render 
back to thee the writing of thy abjuration, and moreover 
forgive thee that impiety, as he forgave the ten thousand 
talents to the debtor in the Gospel. Hope not to find a better 
way than this, for there is no other to be found.' He then 
being persuaded thus to do, and having obtained the Bishop's 
prayers, went his way, weeping and groaning for the sin 
which he had committed; and having returned home, he sold 
all his goods, and set at liberty all his people, both men 
servants and maid servants, giving them also of his posses- 
sions, and the rest of his goods he distributed to the churches, 
and to the poor, secretly, by the hand of a faithful servant. 
Moreover, he gave three pounds of gold to the mother of that 
Virgin, with the love of whom the Demon, to his own de- 
struction, had inflamed him, having placed them in a certain 
church, saying, ' I beseech ye, pray to God for me a sinner: 
I shall never again trouble you, nor any other person ; for I 
depart I know not whither, to bewail the wickedness of my 
deeds.' TJius this man did, — and from that time he was seen 
no more, casting himself wholly upon the mercy of God, to 
which none who hath betaken himself can perish. 

" But we, who have heard the relation of this dreadful 
thing, praise the Almighty Lord our God, and adore the 
greatness of his works, that he hath protected the virgin Maria 
in her holy intention of leading a single life, and hath taken 
her mother out of poverty, affording liberally to them both 
for their support and maintenance, and hath delivered her 
also from the fear of sin, avoiding the transgression of the 
oath, which had passed between Maria the virgin and her 
enemy Anthemius, by annulling it. For the Lord brought 
these things to pass before the fifteen days, which were the 
appointed time between them, had elapsed. Wherefore we 



may say with the Evangelist, Our Lord hath done all things 
well. Nor hath he suffered the suppliant, who seeks him in 
penitence, to perish ; for he saitii, T came not to call the 
righteous, but sinners to repentance. Let us, therefore, con- 
tinue to entreat him, that we may be protected by his Al- 
mighty hand, and may be delivered from all the devices of 
the Devil, and that, being aided by the prayers of the Saints, 
we may be worthy to attain the kingdom of Heaven. To the 
Lord our God belong all honor, and glory, and adoration, now 
and always, forever and ever. Amen." 

The Greeks appear to have delighted in fictions of this 
peculiar kind. The most extravagant of such legends is that 
of St. Justina and St. Cyprian, which Martene and Durand 
present as a veritable history, censuring Bishop Fell for treat- 
ing it as fabulous ! It is much too long for insertion in this 
place, but it would be injured by abridging it. The reader 
may find it in the Thesaurus J\rovus Anecdotorum, t. iii. pp. 
1618 — 1650. Calderon has taken it for the subject of his 
Magico Prodigioso. 



There, on the everlasting ice, 

His dolorous throne was placed. — p. 535, col. 1. 

It was the north of Heaven that Lucifer, according to grave 
authors, attempted to take by storm. En aver criado Dios 
con tanta hermosura el cielo y la tierra, quedo ordenada su celes- 
tial Corte de divinas Hierarchias ; mas reynd tanto la ingratitud 
en uno de los Cortesanos, viendose tan Undo y hello, y en mas emi- 
nente lugar que los demas {segun Theodoreto) que quiso empare- 
jar con el Altissimo, y subir al Jlqwilon, formando para esto una 
quadrilla de sus confidentes y parciales. 

With this sentence Fr. Marco de Guadalajara y Xavierr 
begins his account of the Memorable Expulsion, y justissimo 
destierro de los Moriscos de Espana. 



Tlie marriage. — p. 538, col. 2. 

The description of the marriage service is taken from Dr. 
King's work upon "the Rites and Ceremonies of the Greek 
Church in Russia." " In all the offices of the Greek Church," 
he says, " there is not perhaps a more curious service than 
this of matrimony, nor any which carries more genuine marks 
of antiquity ; as from the bare perusal of it may be seen, at 
one view, most of the ceremonies which antiquarians have 
taken great pains to ascertain." It agrees very closely with 
the ritual given by Martene, De Antiquis Ecclesice Ritibus, 
t. ii. pp. 390—398. 

In these ceremonies, 

" The which do endless matrimony make," 

the parties are betrothed to each other "for their salvation," 
— " now and forever, even unto ages of ages." 



The Ante-nave. — p. 538, col. 2. 
The Upovaog. 



The coronals 

Composed of all sweet flowers. — p. 539, col. 1. 

" Formerly these crowns were garlands made of flowers or 
shrubs ; but now there are generally in all churches crowns of 
silver, or other metals, kept for that purpose." — Dr. King's 
Rites, &c. p. 232. 

" A certain crown of flowers used in marriages," says the 
excellent Bishop Heber, (writing from the Carnatic,) "has 
been denounced to me as a device of Satan ! And a gentle- 
man has just written to complain that the Danish Government 
of Tranquebar will not allow him to excommunicate some 
young persons for wearing masks, and acting, as it appears, in 
a Christmas mummery, or at least in some private rustic the- 
atricals. If this be heathenish, Heaven help the wicked ! But 
I hope you will not suspect that I shall lend any countenance 
to this kind of ecclesiastical tyranny, or consent to men's con- 
sciences being burdened with restrictions so foreign to the 
cheerful spirit of tlie Gospel." — vol, iii. pp. 446. 



NOTES TO ALL FOR LOVE, &c. 



551 



Basil, of living' mm 

The powerfulest in prayer. — p. 5^, col. 2. 
The most remarkable instance of St. Basil's power in prayer 
is to be found, not in either of his lives, the veracious or the 
apocryphal one, hut in a very curious account of the opinions 
held by the Armenian Christians, as drawn up for the informa- 
tion of Pope Benedict XII., and inserted by Domenico 
Bernino in his Historia di tutte VHcresie (Secolo xiv. cap. iv. 
t. iii. pp. 508 — 536.) It is there related that on the sixth 
day of the Creation, when the rebellious angels fell from 
heaven through that opening in the firmament whicli the 
Armenians call Arocea, and we the Galaxy, one unlucky 
angel, who had no participation in their sin, but seems to have 
been caught in the crowd, fell with them ; and many others 
would in like manner have fallen by no fault of their own, if 
the Lord had not said unto them, Pax vibis. But this un- 
fortunate angel was not restored till he obtained, it is not said 
how, the prayers of St. Basil ; his condition meantime, from 
the sixth day of the Creation to the fourth century of the 
Christian era, must have been even more uncomfortable than 
that of Klopstock's repentant Devil, —p. 512, $ 10. 



Ele'&mon's penance. — p. 543, col. 1. 

In the legend the penitent is left forty days and nights to 
contend with the Powers of Darkness in the Relic Chamber. 

Captain Hall relates an amusing example of the manner in 
which penance may be managed at this time in Mexico. 

"I went," he says, " to the Convent of La Cruz to visit a 
friend who was doing penance, not for a sin he had committed, 
but for one he was preparing to commit. The case was this : 
— Don N. had recently lost his wife, and, not choosing to live 
in solitude, looked about for another helpmate ; and being of 
a disposition to take little trouble in such a research, or, prob- 
ably, thinking that no labor could procure for him any one 
so suitable as what his own house afforded, he proposed the 
matter to his lately lamented wife's sister, vvho had lived in 
his house several years ; and Avho, as he told me himself, was 
not only a very good sort of person, but one well acquainted 
with all the details of his household, known and esteemed by 
his children, and accustomed to his society. 

" The church, however, looked exceedingly grave upon the 
occasion ; not, however, as I at first supposed, from the near- 
ness of the connection, or the shortness of the interval since 
the first wife's death, but because the intended lady had stood 
godmother to four of Don N.'s children. This, the church 
said, was a serious bar to the new alliance, which nothing 
could surmount but protracted penances and extensive charity. 
Don N. was urgent ; and a council was assembled to deliberate 
on the matter. The learned body declared, after some dis- 
cussion, the case to be a very knotty one ; and that, as the 
lady had been four times godmother to Don N.'s children, it 
was impossible she could marry him. Nevertheless, the 
Fathers (compassionate persons I) wished to give the unhappy 
couple another chance ; and agreed to refer the question to a 
learned doctor in the neighborhood, skilled in all difficult ques- 
tions of casuistry. This sage person decided that, according 
to the canons of the church, the marriage might take place, 
on payment of a fine of four hundred dollars ; two for the poor 
in pocket, and two for the poor in spirit ; namely, the priests. 
But to expiate the crime of marrying a quadruple godmother, 
a slight penance must also be submitted to in the following 
manner. Don N. was to place himself on his knees before 
the altar, with a long wax candle burning in his hand, while 
his intended lady stood by his side holding another : this was 
to be repeated in the face of the congregation, for one hour, 
during every Sunday and fast-day throughout a whole year ; 
after which purifying exposure, the parties were to be held 
eligible to proceed with the marriage. Don N., who chose 
rather to put his conscience than his knees to such discipline, 
took his own measures on the occasion. What these were, the 
idle public took the liberty of guessing broadly enough, but no 
one could say positively. At the end of a week, however, it 
was announced, that the case had undergone a careful reex- 
amination, and that it had been deemed proper to commute 
the penance into one week's retirement from the world ; that 
is to say, Don N. was to shut himself up in the Convent of La 



Cruz, there to fast and pray in solitude and silence for seven 
days. The manner in which this penance was performed is 
an appropriate commentary on the whole transaction. The 
penitent, aided and assisted by two or three of the jovial friars 
of the convent, passed the evening in discussing some capital 
wine, sent out for the occasion by Don N. himself, after eating 
a dinner, prepared by the cook of tlie convent, tlie best in New 
Galicia. As for silence and solitude, his romping boys and 
girls were with him during all the morning ; besides a score 
of visitors, who strolled daily out of town as far as the con- 
vent, to keep up the poor man's spirits, by relating all the 
gossip which was afloat about his marriage, his penitence, 
and the wonderful kindness of the church." — Capt. Hall's 
Journal, vol. ii. pp. 210 — 214. 

" I have read of a gentleman," says Bishop Taylor, " who, 
being on liis death-bed, and his confessor searching and dress- 
ing liis wounded soul, was found to be obliged to make restitu- 
tion of a considerable sum of money, witli the diminution of 
his estate. His confessor found him desirous to be saved, a 
lover of his religion, and yet to have a kindness for his estate, 
which he desired might be entirely transmitted to his beloved 
heir: he would serve God with all his heart, and repented 
him of his sin, of his rapine and injustice ; he begged for par- 
don passionately, he humbly hoped for mercy, he resolved, in 
case he did recover, to live strictly, to love God, to reverence 
his priests, to be charitable to the poor ; but to make restitu- 
tion he found impossible to him, and he hoped the command- 
ment would not require it of him, and desired to be relieved 
by an easy and a favorable interpn^tation ; for it is ten thou- 
sand pities so many good actions and good purposes should be 
in vain, but it is worse, infinitely worse, if the man should 
perish. What should the confessor do in this case.'' — shall 
not the man be relieved, and his piety be accepted; or shall 
the rigor and severity of his confessor, and his scrupulous 
fears and impertinent niceness, cast away a soul either into 
future misery, or present discomfort ? Neither one nor other 
was to be done ; and the good man was only to consider what 
God had made necessary, not what the vices of his penitent 
and his present follies should make so. Well : the priest 
insists upon his first resolution, ' JVon dimittitur pcccatum, nisi 
rcstituatur ablatuni ; ' the sick man could have no ease by the 
loss of a duty. The poor clinic desires the confessor to deal 
with his son, and try if he could be made willing that his 
fatlier might go to heaven at charge of his son, which when he 
had attempted, he was answered with extreme rudeness and 
injurious language ; which caused great trouble to the pries* 
and to the dying father. At last the religious man found out 
this device, telling his penitent, that unless by corporal pen- 
ances there could be made satisfaction in exchange of restitu- 
tion, he knew no hopes ; but because the profit of the estate, 
which was obliged to restitution, was to descend upon the son, 
he thought something might be hoped, if, by way of commuta- 
tion, the son would hold his finger in a burning candle for a 
quarter of an hour. The glad father, being overjoyed at this 
loop-hole of eternity, this glimpse of heaven, and the certain 
retaining of the whole estate, called to his son, told him the 
condition and the advantages to them both, making no ques- 
tion but he would gladly undertake the penance. But the son 
with indignation replied, ' he would not endure so much tor- 
ture to save the whole estate.' To whicli the priest, espying 
his advantage, made this quick return to the old man : — ' Sir, 
if your son will not, for a quarter of an hour, endure the pains 
of a burning finger to save your soul, will you, to save a por- 
tion of the estate for him, endure the flames of hell to eternal 
ages ? ' The unreasonableness of the odds, and the ungrate- 
fulness of the son, and the importunity of the priest, and the 
fear of hell, and the indispensable necessity of restitution, 
awakened the old man from his lethargy, and he bowed himself 
to the rule, made restitution, and had hopes of pardon and 
present comfort." — Works o/ Jeremy Taylor, vol. xiii. p. 38. 
The penances which Indian fanatics voluntarily undertake 
and perform would be deemed impossible in Europe, if they 
had not been witnessed by so many persons of unquestionable 
authority. The penances which the Bramins enjoin are prob- 
ably more severe than they would otherwise be, on this ac- 
count, lest they should seem trifling in the eyes of a people 
accustomed to such exhibitions. 

" If a Shoodru go to a Bramhunee of bad character, he must 
renounce life by casting himself into a large fire. If a Shoodru 



552 



NOTES TO ALL FOR LOVE, &c 



go to a Bramhunee of unsullied character, he must tie straw 
round the different parts of his body, and cast himself into the 
fire. The woman must he placed on an ass and led round the 
city, and then go the Great Way : the meaning of this is, she 
must wander to those sacred places of the Hindoos where the 
climate is exceedingly cold, and proceed till she actually per- 
ish with cold. This is a meritorious way of terminating life, 
and is mentioned as such in the Hindoo writings." — Ward, 
vol. i. p. 427. 

Sometimes the law is frustrated by its own severity. " It is 
a dogma of general notoriety, that if a Jungum has the mis- 
chance to lose his Lingum, he ought not to survive the misfor- 
tune. Poornia, the present minister of Mysoor, relates an 
incident of a Ling-ayet friend of his, who had unhappily lost 
his portable god, and came to take a last farewell. The 
Indians, like more enlightened nations, readily laugh at the 
absurdities of every sect but their own, and Poornia gave him 
better counsel. It is a part of the ceremonial, preceding the 
sacrifice of the individual, that the principal persons of the 
sect should assemble on the banks of some holy stream, and 
placing in a basket the lingum images of the whole assembly, 
purify them in the sacred waters. The destined victim, in 
conformity to the advice of his friend, suddenly seized the 
basket, and overturned its contents into the rapid Caveri. 
' Now, my friends,' said he, ' we are on equal terms : let us 
prepare to die together.' The discussion terminated accord- 
ing to expectation. The whole party took an oath of invio- 
lable secrecy, and each privately provided himself with a new 
image of the lingum." — Wilks, vol. i. p. 506. 

In 1790, when the Mahrattas were to have cooperated with 
Lord Cornwallis at Seringapatam, their general, Parasu Ram 
Bhao, became unclean from eating with a Bramin who had — 
kissed a cobbler's wife. Tliere was no stream near holy enough 
to wash away the imp\irity ; so he marched his whole immense 
array to the junction of the Tungha and the Badra. Major 
Moor, who was with him, says, " During this march, uncalled 
for in a military point of view, the army laid waste scores of 
towns and thousands of acres, — indeed, whole districts j we 
fought battles, stormed forts, destroyed a large army, and ran 
every military risk. Having reached the sacred place of 
junction, he washed, and having been made clean, was weighed 
against gold and silver ; his weight was 16,000 pagodas, about 
7000L, which was given to the Bramins. They who had eaten 
with the Bramin at the same time, in like manner washed 
away the defilement ; but the weighing is a ceremony peculiar 
to the great." — Moor's Hindu Infanticide, p. 234. 

" The present king of Travancore has conquered, or carried 
war into all the countries which lay round his dominions, and 
lives in the continual exercise of his arms. To atone for the 
blood which he has spilt, the Brachmans persuaded him that 
it was necessary he should be born anew : this ceremony con- 
sisted in putting the prince into the body of a golden cow of 
immense value, where, after he had lain the time prescribed, 
he came out regenerated, and freed from all the crimes of his 
former life. The cow was afterwards cut up, and divided 
amongst the seers who had invented this extraordinary method 
for the remission of his sins." — Orme's Fragments. 

A far less expensive form was observed among the ancient 
Greeks, in cases wherein a second birth was deemed indispen- 
sable ; " for in Greece they thought not those pure and clean 
who had been carried forth for dead to be interred, or whose 
sepulchre and funerals had been solemnized or prepared ; 
neither were such allowed to frequent the comi)any of others, 
nor suffered to come near unto their sacrifices. And there 
goeth a report of a certain man named Aristinus, one of those 
who had been possessed with this superstition ; how he sent 
unto the oracle of Apollo at Delphos, for to make supplication 
and prayer unto the god, for to be delivered out of this per- 
plexed anxiety that troubled him by occasion of the said 
custom, or law, then in force, and that the prophetess Pythia 
returned this answer : — 

" Look whatsoever women do, 

in childbed newly laid. 
Unto their babes which they brought forth, 

the very same, I say, 
See that be done to thee again ; 

and after that be sure, 



Unto the blessed Gods with hands 
to sacrifice, most pure. 

" Which oracle thus delivered, Aristinus, having well pon- 
dered and considered, committed himself as an infant new born 
unto women, for to be washed, to be wrapped in swaddling 
clothes, and to be suckled with the breast-head : after which 
all such others, whom we call Hysteropotmous, that is to say, 
those whose graves were made as if they were dead, did the 
semblable. Howbeit some do say that, before Aristinus was 
born, these ceremonies were observed about these Hystero- 
potmoi, and that this was a right ancient custom kept in the 
semblable case." — Pluturch's Morals, tr.by Philemon Hol- 
land, p. 852. 

Tlie lamps went out. — p. 543, col. 2. 

There is the authority of a Holy Man, in the Romance of 
Merlin, — which is as good authority for such a fact as any 
thing in the Acta Sanctorum, — that the Devil, like other 
wild beasts who prowl about seeking what they may devour, is 
afraid of a light. The Holy Man's advice to a pious damsel 
is never to lie down in the dark: ^^ garde que la ou tu cou- 
cheras il y ait tousjours clarte, car le Diable hait toutes cleres 
choses ; ne ne vient pas voulentiers ou ily a clarte." — vol. i. 
ff. 4. 



And tohite is black, and black is white. — p. 547, col. 1. 

Satan might have been reconciled to St. Basil's profession 
if he had understood, by his faculty of second-sight, that this, 
which it is sometimes the business of a law yer to prove, would 
one day be the duty of the Romanists to believe, if their 
church were to tell them so. No less a personage than St. Ig- 
natius Loyola has asserted this. In his Exercitia Spiritualia, 
the 13th of the Rules which are laid down ad sentiendum cum 
Ecclesict, is in these words : — 

" Denique, utipsiEcclesicB Catholicce omnino unanimes, confor- 
mesque simus, si quid, quod oculis nostris apparet album, nigrum 
ilia esse definierit, debemus itidem, quod nigrum sit, pronun- 
tiare. Indubitate namque credendum est, endem esse Domini 
nostri Jesu Christi, et EcclesicB orthodoxcc, sponsce ejus, spiritum, 
per quern gubemamur ac dirigimur ad salutem ; neque alium esse 
Deum, qui olim tradidit Decalogi prmcepta, et qui nunc temporis 
Ecclesiam hierarchicam instruit atque regit." — p. 141. Ant- 
werpiae, 1635. 

Such is the implicit obedience enjoined in those Spiritual 
Exercises, of which Pope Paul III. said in his brief, sub 
annulo Piscatoris, " Omnia et singula in eis contenta, ex cert& 
scientioL nostrt, approbamus, collaudamus, ac prccsentis scripti 
patrocinio communimus." The Romanists are to believe that 
black is white, if the Roman Church tells them so : morally 
and politically it has often told them so, and they have believed 
and acted accordingly. 

The impious scroll was dropped, a blank. 
At Eleemon'sfeet. — p. 547, col. 2. 

This is not the only miracle of this kind recorded of St. 
Basil. 

" There was a certain woman of noble family, and born of 
rich parents, who was wholly made up of the vanities of this 
world, and beyond measure arrogant in all things ; she, be- 
coming a widow, wasted her substance shamelessly, living a 
loose and profligate life, doing none of those things which are 
enjoined by the Lord, but wallowing like a swine in the mire 
and filth of her iniquities. But being at length, by the will 
of God, brought to a consideration of her own estate, and her 
mind filled with consciousness of the immeasurable offences 
which she had committed, she called to remembrance the 
multitude of her sins, and bewailed them penitently, saying, 
' Woe to me a sinner, how shall I render an account of the 
multitude of my sins ! I have profaned a spiritual temple ; 1 
have defiled the soul which inhabiteth this body ! Woe is 
me, woe is me ! what have I done ! what hath befallen me I 
Shall I say, like the Harlot or the Publican, that I have 
sinned? But no one has sinned like me ! How, then, shall 
I be assured that God will receive my repentance ? ' While 



NOTES TO ALL FOR LOVE, &c, 



553 



she meditated in herself upon these things, He, who would 
that all sliould be saved and brought back into the way of 
truth, and would have no one perish, was pleased to bring 
unto her remembrance ail the sins wliich she had committed 
from her youth up. And slie set down in writing all these 
offences, even all that she had committed from her youth to 
this her elder age ; and, last of all, she set down one great and 
heinous sin, the worst of all ; and having done tjiis, she folded 
up the writing, and fastened it with lead. After this, having 
waited till a convenient season, when holy Basil was ac- 
customed to go to the church that he might pray there, she 
ran before to meet him, and threw the writing at his feet, and 
prostrated herself before him, saying, ' O, holy man of God, 
Lave compassion upon me a sinner, yea, the vilest of sinners ! ' 
The most blessed man stopt thereat, and asked of her ' where- 
fore she thus groaned and lamented : ' and she said unto him, 
' Saint of God, sec, I have set down all my sins and iniquities 
in this writing, and I have folded it, and fastened it with lead ; 
do not thou, [ charge thee, open it, but by thy powerful 
prayers blot out all that is written therein.' Then the great 
and holy Basil held up the writing, and, looking toward 
Heaven, said, ' O Lord, to Thee alone all the deeds of this 
woman are manifest ! Thou hast taken away the sins of the 
world, and more easily mayst thou blot out those of this 
single soul. Before thee, indeed, all our oftences are num- 
bered ; but thy mercy is infinite.' Saying thus, he went into 
the church, holding the aforesaid writing in his hand; and 
prostrating himself before the altar, there he remained through 
the night, and on the morrow, during the performance of all 
the masses whicji were celebrated there, entreating God for 
this woman's sake. And when she came to him, he gave her 
the writing, and said to her, ' Woman, hast thou heard that 
the remission of sins can come from God alone .'' ' She an- 
swered, ' Yea, father ; and- therefore have I supplicated thee 
that thou shouldst intercede with that most merciful God in 
my behalf.' And then she opened the writing, and found that 
it was all blotted out, save only that the one great and most 
heinous sin still remained written there. But she, seeing 
that this great sin was still legible as before, beat her breast, 
and began to bewail herself, and falling at his feet again, with 
many tears she said, ' Have compassion upon me, O Servant 
of the Most High, and as thou hast once exerted thyself in 
prayer for all my sins, and hast prevailed, so now intercede, as 
thou canst, that this oftence also may be blotted out.' Thereat 
holy Basil wept for pity ; and he said unto her, ' Woman, 
arise ! I also am a sinner, and have myself need of forgiveness. 
He who hath blotted out thus much, hath granted tliee re- 
mission of thy sins as far as hath to him seemed good ; and 
God, who hath taken away the sins of the world, is able to 
take from thee this remaining sin also ; and if thou wilt keep 
his commandments, and walk in his ways, thou shalt not only 
have forgiveness, but wilt also become worthy of glory. But 
go thou into the desert, and there thou wilt find a holy man, 
who is well known to all the holy fathers, and who is called 
Ephrsem. Give thou this writing to him, and he will in- 
tercede for thee, and will prevail with the Lord.' 

" The woman then commended herself to the holy Bishop's 
prayers, and hastened away into the desert, and performed a 
long journey therein. She came to the great and wonderful 
Hermit, who was called Ephrfem by name, and knocking at 
his door, she cried aloud, saying, ' Have compassion on me. 
Saint of God, have compassion on me ! ' But he, having been 
forewarned in spirit concerning the errand on which she came, 
replied unto her, saying, 'Woman, depart, for I also am a 
man and a sinner, standing myself in need of an intercessor.' 
But she held out the writing, and said, ' The holy Archbishop 
Basil sent me to thee, that thou mightst intercede for me, and 
that theretlirough the sin which is written herein might be 
blotted out. The other many sins holy Basil hath blotted 
out by his prayers : Saint of God, do not thou think it much 
to intercede with the Lord for me for this one sin, seeing that 
I am sent unto thee to that end.' But that confessor made 
answer, ' No, daughter I Could he obtain from the Lord the 
remission of so many other sins, and cannot he intercede and 
prevail for this single one .'' Go thy way back, therefore, and 
tarry not, that thou mayst find him before his soul be de- 
70 



parted from his body.' Then the woman commended herself 
to the holy Confessor Ephrsm, and returned to Ccesarea. 

" But when she entered that city, she met the persons who 
were bearing the body of St. B;isil to burial ; seeing which, 
she threw herself upon the ground, and began to cry aloud 
against the holy man, saying, ' Woe is me a sinner, woe is 
me a lost wretch, woe is me ! O man of God, thou hast sent 
me into the desert, that thou mightst be rid of me, and not 
wearied more ; and behold I am returned from my bootless 
journey, having gone over so great a way in vain ! The Lord 
God see to this thing, and judge between me and thee, in- 
asmuch as thou couldst have interceded with Him for me, 
and have prevailed, if thou hadst not sent me away to another.' 
Saying this, she threw the writing upon the bier whereon the 
body of holy Basil was borne, and related before the people 
all that passed between them. One of the clergy then desiring 
to know what this one sin was, took up the writing, and 
opened it, and found that it was clean blotted out : whereupon 
he cried with a loud voice unto the woman, and said, ' O 
woman, there is nothing written herein ! Why dost thou 
consume thyself with so much labor and sorrow, not knowing 
the great things of God unto thee ward, and his inscrutable 
mercies .'' ' Then the multitude of the people, seeing this 
glorious and great miracle, glorified God, who hath such 
power, that he remitteth the sins of all who are living, and 
giveth grace to his servants, that after their decease they 
should heal all sickness and all infirmity ; and hath given unto 
them power for remitting all sins to those who preserve a right 
faith in the Lord, continuing in good works, and glorifying 
God and our Lord and Savior." — Vitw Patrum, pp. 159, 160. 

" In the days of the blessed Theodemir, Bishop of Com- 
postella, there was a certain Italian, who had hardly dared 
confess to his own Priest and Bishop a certain enormous 
crime which he had formerly committed. His Bishop having 
heard the confession, and being struck with astonishment and 
horror at so great an offence, dared not appoint what penance 
he should perform. Nevertheless, being moved with com- 
passion, he sent the sinner with a schedule, in which the 
oftence was written, to the Church of Santiago at Compostella, 
enjoining him that he should, with his whole heart, implore 
the aid of the blessed Apostle, and submit himself to the 
sentence of the Bishop of that Apostolical Church. He there- 
fore, without delay, went to Santiago in Galicia, and there 
placed the schedule, which contained the statement of his 
crime, upon the venerable altar, repenting that he had com- 
mitted so great a sin, and entreating forgiveness, with tears 
and sol)3, from God and the Apostle. This was on Santiago's 
Day, being the eighth of the Kalends of August, and at the 
first hour. 

" When the blessed Theodemir, Bishop of the See of Com- 
postella, came attired in his pontificals to sing mass at the altar 
that day at the third hour, he found the schedule under the 
covering of the altar, and demanded forthwith, wherefore, and 
by whom it had been placed there. The Penitent upon this 
came forward, and on his knees declared, with many tears, 
before all the people, the crime which he had committed, and 
the injunctions which had been laid on him by his own Bishop. 
The holy Bishop then opened the schedule, and found nothing 
written therein; it appeared as if no letters had ever been 
inscril)ed there. A marvellous thing, and an exceeding joy, 
for which great praise and glory were incontinently rendered 
to God and the Apostle, the people all singing, ' This is the 
Lord's doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes ! ' The holy 
Bishop then of a truth believing, tiiat the penitent had ob- 
tained forgiveness with God through the merits of the Apostle, 
would impose upon him no other penance for the crime which 
he had committed, except that of keeping Friday as a fast 
from that time forth, and having absolved him from all his 
other sins, he dismissed him to his own country. Hence it 
may be inferred, that if any one shall truly repent, and, going 
from distant countries to Galicia, shall there, with his whole 
heart, entreat pardon from God, and pray for the aid of the 
blessed Santiago, the record of his misdeeds shall, without all 
doubt, be blotted out forever." — ./9cto SS. Jul. t. vi. p. 48. 

There is a miracle of the same kind related of St. Antonio, 
— and probably many other examples might be found. 



554 



THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA; PRELUDE, &c. 



PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA ; 

BEING THE 

LEGEND OF A COCK AND A HEN, 

TO THE HONOR AND GLORY OF 

SANTIAGO. 



A CHRISTMAS TALE. 



" Res similis fictcB ; sed quid mihifingere prodest." 

Ovid, Met. xiii. v. 935. 

" Hear also no lean story of theirs ! " — Lightfoot. 



The Legend, (for a genuine Legend it is,) which has been 
made the subject of the ensuing Ballad, is related by Bishop 
Patrick in his Parable of the Pilgrim, (ch. xxxv. pp. 430 
— 434.) Udal ap Rhys relates it in his Tour through Spain 
and Portugal, (pp. 35 — 38.) Both these writers refer to 
Lucius Marineus Siculus as their authority. And it is told 
also in the Journal du Voyage d^Espagne, (Paris, 1669,) by a 
Conseiller who was attached to the French Embassy in that 
country, (p. 18.) 

The story may likewise be found in the Jlcta Sanctorum. A 
duplicate of the principal miracle occurs in the third volume, 
for the month of May, {die 12^, p. 171,) and is there as- 
cribed to S. Domingo de la Calzada, the author, Luiz de 
la Vega, contending, that both relations are to be received 
as true, the Bollandist (Henschenius) contrariwise opining 
that they are distinct miracles, but leaving the reader never- 
theless to determine freely for himself utrum id malit, an 
vera credere velit, unicum dumtaxat esse quod sub quadam 
circumstantiarum varietate refertur ut geminum. 

In the sixth volume of the same work, for the month of July, 
(die 25^,) the legend of the Pilgrim is twice told, once 
(p. 45) as occurring to a native of Utrecht, (Csesarius 
Heisterbachensis is the authority,) once as having befallen 
a German at Thoulouse, (p. 50 ;) the latter story is in the 
collection of Santiago's miracles, which Pope Calixtus II. 
is said to have compiled. The extract from Lucius Marineus 
Siculus may also be seen there. It is here annexed as it 
stands in the fifth book of that author's work de rebus His- 
panicB memorabilibus. 

" III antiquissimd civitate quam Sancti Dominici Calciatensis 
vulgus appellat, gallum vidimus et gallinam, qui dum vixe- 
runt, cvjus coloris fuissent ignoramvs : postea vero cum ju- 
gulati fuissent et assi, candidissi/ni revixerunt, magnam Dei 
poteniiam summumque miraculum referentes. Cujus rei Veri- 
tas et ratio sic se habct. Vir quidam probus et amicus Dei, 
et uxor ejus, optima mulier, cum filio adolescentuJo magnm 
prubitatis, ad Sanctum Jacobum Compostellam proficiscentes, 
in hanc urbcm itineris labore defessi ingrediuntur, et quiescendi 
gratit rcstiteruntin dovio cujusdam qui adultam filiam habebat. 
Quce cum adolescentem pulchrct facie vidisset, ejus amore capta 
est. Et cum juvenis ab ea requisitus atquc vexatus, ejus voto 
repiignassct, amorem convertit in odium, et ei nocere cupiens, 
tempore quo discedere valebant ejus cucullo crateram sui patris 
clam rcposuit. Cumque peregrini mane discessissent, excla- 
mavit puclla coram parentibus crateram sibi fuisse subreptam. 

^uod audiens PrcBtor satellites confestim misit, ut peregrinos re- 
ducerent. Qui cum venissent, puella conscia sui sceleris ac- 
cessit adjuvenem et crateram eruit e cucullo. Quapropter com- 
perto delicto , juvenis in campum productus iniquct sententid. et 
sine culpd. laqueo suspensus est : miserique parentes cumfilium 
deplorassent, postea discodentcs Compostellam pervenerunt. 
Ubi solutis votis et Deo gratias agentes subinde redeuntes ad 
locum pervenerunt, ubi filius erat suspensus, et mater multis 
perfusa lacrymis adfilium accessit, inultum desuadente marito. 



Cumque filium suspiceret, dixit et filius. Mater mea noli fiere 
super me .- ego enini vivus sum, quoniam Virgo Dei genetrix, 
et Sanctus Jacobus me sustinent et servant incolumem. Vade 
charissima mater adjudicem qui me falso condemnavit, et die 
ei me vivere propter innocentiam meam, ut me liberari jubeat, 
tibique restituat. Properat solicita mater, et prm nimio gaudio 

jieiis uberius, Prcetorcm convenit in mens& sedentem, qui 
gallum et gallinam assos scindere volebat. ' Pra:tor, inquit, 

filius mens vivit ; jube solvi, obsecro ! ' Qiiod cum audisset 
Prcetor, existimans earn quod dicebat propter amorem mater- 
num somniasse, respondit subridens, ' quid hoc est, bona mulier ? 
JVe fallaris ! sic enim vivit filius tuus, ut viv^mt hce aves ! ' 
Et viz hoc dixerat cum gallus et gallina saltaverunt in mens&y 
statimque gallus cantavit. Quod cum Prator vidisset attoni- 
tus continuo egreditur, vocatsacer dotes, et cives, proficiscuntui 
ad juvenum suspensum : et invenerunt incolumem valdeque 
Icetantem, et parentibus restituunt ; domumque reversi gallum 
capiunt et gallinam, et in ecclesiam transferunt magnt solem- 
nitate. Qtue ibi clausce res admirabiles et Dei potentiam 
teetificantes observantur, ubi septennio vivunt ; hunc enim 
terminum Deus illis instituit; et in fine septennii antequam 
moriantur, pullum relinquunt et pullam sui coloris et magni- 
tudinis ; et hoc fit in ed, ecclesicc quolibet septennio. Magnce 
quoque admirationis est, quod omnes per hanc urbem trans- 
euntes peregrini, qui sunt innumerabiles, galli hujus et gal- 
linm plumam capiunt, et numquam illis plumas deficiunt. Hoc 
ego testor, propterea quod vidi et interfui, plumamque mecum 
fero.^^ — Rerum Hispanicarum Scriptores, t. ii.p. 805. 
Luiz de la Vega agrees with Marineus Siculus in all the 
particulars of this perpetual miracle, except the latter ; " sed 
scriptorcm ilium fictionis arguit, quod asserat, plumas galli et 
gallincB, quce quotidie peregrinis iliac transeuntibus distribuun- 
tur, prodigiose multiplicari : afjirmat autem tamquam testis ocu- 
latus, in e& ecclesia designatum esse quemdam clcricum, qui plu- 
mas illas conservit et peregrinis distribuit ; at negat continuum 
multiplicationis miraculum d Marineo Siculo tarn confidenter 
assertum, in ea urbe videri, aut patrari. Multis tamen probare 
nititur reliqua omnia prodigia esse vera, testaturque ad per- 
pctuam rei memoriam in superiori ecclesice parte omnium oculis 
exponi idem patibulum, in quo peregrinus suspensus fuit.^^ — 
Acta Sanctorum, Jul. t. vi. p. 46. 



PRELUDE. 

" Tell us a story, old Robin Gray I 

This merry Christmas time ; 

We are all in our glory ; so tell us a story, 

Either in prose or in rhyme. 

" Open your budget, old Robin Gray ! 

We very well know it is full : 

Come ! out with a murder, — a Goblin, — a Ghost, 

Or a tale of a Cock and a Bull ! " 

" I have no tale of a Cock and a Bull, 

My good little women and men ; 

But 'twill do as well, perhaps, if I tell 

A tale of a Cock and a Hen." 



INTRODUCTION. 

You have all of you heard of St. James for Spain 

As one of the Champions Seven, 

Who, having been good Knights on Earth, 

Became Hermits, and Saints in Heaven. 

Their history once was in good repute, 

And so it ought to be still ; 

Little friends, I dare say you have read it : 

And if not, why, I hope you will. 



THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA. 



555 



Of this St. James that book proclaims 

Great actions manifold ; 

But more amazing are the tilings 

Which of him in Spain are told ; — 

How once a ship, of marble made, 

Came sailing o'er the sea. 

Wherein his headless corpse was laid, 

Perfumed with sanctity ; — 

And how, though then he had no head, 

He afterwards had two, 

Which both work'd miracles so well, 

That it was not possible to tell 

The false one from the true ; — * 

And how he used to fight the Moors 
Upon a milk-white charger : 
Large tales of him the Spaniards tell, 
Munchausen tells no larger. 

But in their cause, of latter years. 

He has not been so hearty ; 

For that he never struck a stroke is plain. 

When our Duke, in many a hard campaign. 

Beat the French armies out of Spain, 

And conquer'd Bonaparte. 

Yet still they worship him in Spain, 

And believe in him with might and main ; 

Santiago there they call him ; 

And if any one there should doubt these tales, 

They've an Inquisition to maul him. 

At Compostella, in his Church, 

His body and one head 

Have been, for some eight hundred years. 

By Pilgrims visited. 

Old scores might there be clean rubb'd off; 

And tickets there were given 

To clear all toll-gates on the way 

Between the Church-yard and Heaven. 

Some went for payment of a vow 

In time of trouble made ; 

And some, who found that pilgrimage 

Was a pleasant sort of trade ; — 

And some, I trow, because it was 
Believed, as well as said. 



* Whereby, my little friends, we see 

That an original may sometimes be 

No better than its fac simile ; 

A useful truth I trow. 

Which picture-buyers won't believe, 

But which picture-dealers know. 

Young Connoisseurs who will be. 
Remember I say this — 
For your benefit hereafter — 
In a parenthesis. _ 

And not to interrupt 

The order of narration, 

This warning shall be printed 

By way of annotation. 



That all, who in their mortal stage 

Did not perform this pilgrimage, 

Must make it when they were dead ; — 

Some upon penance for their sins, 

In person, or by attorney ; 

And some who were or had been sick ; 

And some who thought to cheat Old Nick j 

And some who liked the journey j 

Which well they might when ways were safe ; 

And therefore rich and poor 

Went in that age on pilgrimage, 

As folks now make a tour. 

The poor with scrip, the rich with purse, 

They took their chance for better for worse, 

From many a foreign land. 

With a scallop-shell in the hat for badge, 

And a Pilgrim's staff in hand. 

Something there is, the which to leave 

Untold would not be well. 

Relating to the Pilgrim's staff, 

And to the scallop-shell. 

For the scallop shows, in a coat of arms, 

That of the bearer's line 

Some one, informer days, hath been 

To Santiago's shrine. 

And the staff was bored and drilled for those 

Who on a flute could play ; 

And thus the merry Pilgrim had 

His music on the way. 



THE LEGEND. 



PART I. 



Once on a time, three Pilgrims true, 

Being Father, and Mother, and Son, 

For pure devotion to the Saint, 

This pilgrimage begun. 

Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say, 

In none of my books can I find ; 
But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre; 
What the parents were call'd, never mind. 

From France they came, in which fair land 

They were people of good renown ; 

And they took up their lodging one night on the way 

In La Calzada town. 

Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been. 

And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn, 

My good little women and men, 

Why, then you never would have heard 

This tale of the Cock and the Hen. 

For the innkeepers they had a daughter, 
Sad to say, who was just such another 



556 



THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA 



As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been, 
If she follow'd the ways of her mother. 

This wicked woman to our Pierre 

Behaved like Pociphar's wife ; 

And, because she fail'd to win his love, 

She resolved to take his life. 

So she pack'd up a silver cup 

In his wallet privily ; 

And then, as soon as they were gone, 

She raised a hue and cry. 

The Pilgrims were overtaken ; 

The people gather' d round ; 

Their wallets were search'd, and in Pierre's 

The silver cup was found. 

They dragg'd him before the Alcayds j 

A hasty Judge was he ; 

"The theft," he said, " was plain and proved, 

And hang'd the thief must be." 

So to the gallows our poor Pierre 

Was hurried instantly. 

If I should now relate 

The piteous lamentation, 

Which for their son these parents made, 

My little friends, I am afraid 

You'd weep at the relation. 

But Pierre in Santiago still 

His constant faith profess'd ; 

When to the gallows he was led, 

" 'Twas a short way to Heaven," he said, 

" Though not the pleasantest." 

And from their pilgrimage he charged 

His parents not to cease. 

Saying that, unless they promised this. 

He could not be hang'd in peace. 

They promised it with heavy hearts : 

Pierre then, therewith content. 

Was hang'd ; and they upon their way 

To Compostella went. 



PART II. 



Four weeks they travell'd painfully ; 

They paid their vows, and then 

To La Calzada's fatal town 

Did they come back again. 

The Mother would not be withheld. 

But go she must to see 

Where her poor Pierre was left to hang 

Upon the gallows tree. 

Oh tale most marvellous to hear. 

Most marvellous to tell ! 

Eight weeks had he been hanging there. 

And yet was alive and well ! 



"Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd; 

It is time I should now be released : 

Though I cannot complain that I'm tired. 

And my neck does not ache in the least. 

"The Sun has not scorch'd me by day; 

The Moon has not chill' d me by night; 

And the winds have but help'd me to swing, 

As if in a dream of delight. 

" Go you to the Alcayde, 

That hasty Judge unjust; 

Tell him Santiago has saved me. 

And take me down he must ! " 

Now, you must know the Alcayde, 

Not thinking himself a great sinner, 

Just then at table had sat down, 

About to begin his dinner. 

His knife was raised to carve. 

The dish before him then ; 

Two roasted fowls were laid therein ; 

That very morning they had been 

A Cock and his faithful Hen 

In came the Mother wild with joy ; 

"A miracle ! " she cried; 

But that most hasty Judge unjust 

Repell'd her in his pride. 

"Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this 

That I should give belief! 

Santiago never would bestow 

His miracles, full well I know. 

On a Frenchman and a thief" 

And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which 

He held his ready knife, 

"As easily might I believe 

These birds should come to life ! " 

The good Saint would not let him thus 

The Mother's true tale withstand ; 

So up rose the Fowls in the dish, 

And down dropp'd the knife from his hand. 

The Cock would have crow'd if he could ; 

To cackle the Hen had a wish ; 

And they both slipp'd about in the gravy, 

Before they got out of the dish. 

And when each would have open'd its eyes, 

For the purpose of looking about them. 

They saw they had no eyes to open, 

And that there was no seeing without them. 

All this was to them a great wonder ; 

They stagger'd and reel'd on the table ; 

And either to guess where they were. 

Or what was their plight, or how they came there, 

Alas ! they were wholly unable ; — 

Because, you must know, that that morning —^ 
A thing which they thought very hard — 



THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA 



557 



The Cook had cut off their heads, 
And thrown them away in the yard. 

The Hen w^ould have prank'd up her feathers, 

But pluckino- had sadly defonn'd her ; 

And for want of them she would have shiver'd 

with cold, 

If the roasting she had had not warm'd her. 

And the Cock felt exceedingly queer ; 

He thought it a very odd thing 

That his head and his voice were he did not know 

where, 

And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing. 

The gizzard got into its place. 
But how, Santiago knows best ; 
And so, by the help of the Saint, 

Did the liver and all the rest. 

The heads saw their way to the bodies ; 

In they came from the yard without check, 

And each took its own proper station, 

To the very great joy of the neck. 

And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower. 

For they all became white on the way ; 

And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged , 

And then who so happy as they ? 

Cluck ! cluck ! cried the Hen right merrily then 

The Cock his clarion blew; 

Full glad Avas he to hear again 

His own cock-a-doo-del-doo ! 



PART ITI. 



" A MIRACLE ! a miracle ! " 

The people shouted, as they might well, 

When the news went through the town ; 

And every child, and woman, and man 

Took up the cry, and away they ran 

To see Pierre taken down. 

They made a famous procession ; 

My good little women and men. 

Such a sight was never seen before, 

And I think will never again. 

Santiago's Image, large as life. 

Went first with banners, and drum, and fife ] 

And next, as was most meet. 

The twice-born Cock and Hen were borne 

Along the thronging street. 

Perch'd on a cross-pole hoisted high. 

They were raised in sight of the crowd ; 

And, when the people set up a cry. 

The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy. 

And the Cock he crow'd aloud. 

And because they very well knew for why 
They were carried in such solemnity. 



And saw the Saint and his banners before 'era, 

They behaved with the greatest propriety, 

And most correct decorum. 

The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn, 
Still red with their innocent blood, was borne ; 

The scullion boy he carried it; 

And the Skewers also made a part of the show, 

With which they were truss'd for the spit. 

The Cook in triumph bore that Spit 

As high as he was able ; 

And the Dish was display 'd, wherein they were laid, 

When they had been served at table. 

With eager faith the crowd press'd round ; 

There was a scramble of women and men 

For who should dip a filiger-tip 

In the blessed Gravy then. 

Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast, 

Crying aloud, like a man distress'd. 

And amazed at the loss of his dinner, 

" Santiago, Santiago ! 

Have mercy on me a sinner ! " 

And lifting oftentimes his hands 

Towards the Cock and Hen, 

" Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried; 

And as devoutly the people replied, 

Whenever he said it, " Amen ! " 

The Father and Mother were last in the train ; 

Rejoicingly they came. 

And extoll'd, with tears of gratitude, 

Santiago's glorious name. 

So, with all honors that might be. 

They gently unhang'd Pierre ; 
No hurt or harm had he sustain'd, 

But, to make the wonder clear, 

A deep, black halter-mark remain'd 

Just under his left ear. 



PART IV. 



And now, my little listening dears. 

With open mouths and open ears. 

Like a rhymer whose only art is 

That of telling a plain, unvarnish'd tale, 

To let you know, I must not fail. 

What became of all the parties. 

Pierre went on to Compostella 

To finish his pilgrimage ; 

His parents went back with him joyfully. 

After which they return'd to their own country 

And there, I believe, that all the three 

Lived to a good old age. 

For the gallows on which Pierre 
So happily had swung. 



558 



THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA. 



It was resolved that never more 
On it should man be hung. 

To the Church it was transplanted, 

As ancient books declare ; 

And the people in commotion, 

With an uproar of devotion, 

Set it up for a relic there. 

What became of the halter I know not, 

Because the old books show not ; 

But we may suppose and hope, 

That the city presented Pierre 

With that interesting rope. 

For in his family — and this 

The Corporation knew — 

It rightly would be valued more 

Than any cordon bleu. 

The Innkeeper's wicked daughter 
Confess'd what she had done ; 
So they put her in a convent, 
And she was made a Nun. 

The Alcayde had been so frighten'd 

That he never ate fowls again ; 

And he always pull'd off his hat 

When he saw a Cock and Hen. 

Wherever he sat at table, 

Not an egg might there be placed; 

And he never even muster' d courage for a custard. 

Though garlic tempted him to taste 

Of an omelet now and then. 

But always, after such a transgression, 

He hasten'd away to make confession ; 

And not till he had confess'd. 

And the Priest had absolved him, did he feel 

His conscience and stomach at rest. 

The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church, 

As by miracle consecrated. 

Were given ; and there unto the Saint 

They were publicly dedicated. 

At their dedication the Corporation 
A fund for their keep supplied ; 
And after following the Saint and his banners, 
This Cock and Hen were so changed in their man- 
ners. 
That the Priests were edified. 

Gentle as any turtle-dove. 

Saint Cock became all meekness and love ; 

Most dutiful of wives. 

Saint Hen she never peck'd again; 

So they led happy lives. 

The ways of ordinary fowls 

You must know they had clean forsaken ; 

And if every Cock and Hen in Spain 

Had their example taken. 

Why, then — the Spaniards would have had 

No eggs to eat with bacon. 



These blessed Fowls, at seven years' end, 

In the odor of sanctity died ; 

They were carefully pluck' d, and then 

They were buried, side by side. 

And, lest the fact should be forgotten, 

(Which would have been a pity,) 

'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth. 

That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth 

In the arms of that ancient City. 

Two eggs Saint Hen had laid, no more ; 

The chicken were her delight ; 

A Cock and Hen they proved, 

And both, like their parents, were virtuous and 

white. 

The last act of the Holy Hen 

Was to rear this precious brood ; and, when 

Saint Cock and she were dead. 

This couple, as the lawful heirs, 

Succeeded in their stead. 

They also lived seven years ; 

And they laid eggs but two. 

From which two milk-white chicken 

To Cock and Henhood grew ; 

And always their posterity 
The self-same course pursue. 

Not one of these eggs ever addled, 

(With v/onder be it spoken !) 

Not one of them ever was lost. 

Not one of them ever was broken. 

Sacred they are ; neither magpie, nor rat. 

Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them : 

And woe to the irreverent wretch 

Who should even dream of poaching them' 

Thus, then, is this great miracle 

Continued to this day ; 

And to their Church all Pilgrims go, 

When they are on the way ; 

And some of the feathers are given them ; 

For which they always pay. 

No price is set upon them ; 

And this leaves all persons at ease ; 

The Poor give as much as they can, 

The Rich as much as they please. 

But that the more they give the better, 

Is very well understood ; 

Seeing whatever is thus disposed of 

Is for their own souls' good ; — 

For Santiago will always 

Befriend his true believers ; 

And the money is for him, the Priests 

Being only his receivers. 

To make the miracle the more. 

Of these feathers there is always store, 

And all are genuine too ; 



NOTES TO THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA. 



559 



All of the original Cock and Hen, 
Which the Priests will swear is true. 

Thousands a thousand times told have bought 

them ; 

And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them, 

They would still find some to buy ; 

For, however great were the demand, 

So great would be the supply. 

And if any of you, my small friends, 

Should visit those parts, 1 dare say 

You will bring away some of the feathers, 

And think of old Robin Gray. 



NOTES. 



A ship of marble made. — p. 555, col. 1. 

The marble ship I have not found any where except in 
Geddes, who must have found it in some version of the legend 
which has not fallen into my hands. But that the ship was 
made of marble I believe to be quite as true as any other part 
of the legend of Santiago. — Whether of marble or not, it was 
a miraculous ship which, without oars or sails, performed the 
voyage from Joppa to Iria Flava, now El Padron, in Galicia, 
in seven days. 

Classical fables were still so passable when the Historia 
Compostelana was written, that the safe passage of this ship 
over the Syrtes, and between Scylla and Charybdis, is ascribed 
to the presiding hand of Providence. — Espana Sagrada, t. xx. 
p. 6. 



.... Ms headless corpse, — p. 555, col. 1. 

How the body came to leave its head behind is a circum- 
stance Avhich has not been accounted for ; and yet it requires 
explanation, because we are assured that Santiago took par- 
ticular care not to part with his head, when it was cut oft'. 

" At the moment," says the Annalist of Galicia, " when the 
cruel executioner severed from its neck tJie precious head of 
the sacred Apostle, the body miraculously raised its hands and 
caught it, and in that posture it continued till night. The 
astonished Jews attempted to separate it, but in vain ; for upon 
touching the venerable corpse, their arms became cold, as if 
frozen, and they remained without the use of them." — Ana- 
les de Oalicia, por El Doctor D. Francisco Xavier Manuel de la 
Haerta y Vega. — Santiago, 1733. 

" Cortada la cabeza no Dio en tierra. 

Que por virtud de Dios, el con las manos, 
Antes que cayga al suclo a si la afierra. 
Que no pueden quitarsela tyranos.^' 
Christoval de Mesa : El Patron de Espana, ff. 62. 

Perhaps his companions dropped it on their way to the coast, 
for the poet tells us they travelled in the dark, and in a hurry : 

" Ciibiertos de la noche con el manto 

Sin que ningiin contrario los impida, 
Mas presto que sifueran a galope, 

Llevan el cuerpo a la ciudad de Jope.^'' — lb. ff. 65. 

But according to the Historia Compostelana, (Espana Sa- 
grada, t. xx. p. 6,) there is the testimony of Pope St. Leo, 
that the original head came with the body. 



And Iww, though then he had no head. 
He afterwards had two. — p. 555, col. 1. 

This is a small allowance, and must be understood with 
reference to the two most authentic ones in that part of the 
world, — that at Braga, and one of the two at Compostella. 



It is a common thing for Saints to be polycephalous ; and 
Santiago is almost as great a pluralist in heads as St. John the 
Baptist has been made by the dealers in relics. There are 
some half dozen heads, and almost as many whole bodies 
ascribed to him, — all in good odor, all having worked mira- 
cles, and all, beyond a doubt, equally authentic. 



And how he used to fght the Moors. — p. 555, col. 1. 

Most appropriately therefore, according to P. Sautel, was 
he called Boanerges. 

" Conspicitur media cataphractv^ in acre ductor, 
Qui dedit in trepidam barbara castrafugam. 
Tarn cito tam validce cur terga dederc phalanges 7 
JVimiruin Tonitru Films ista patrat." 

Annus Sacer Poeticus, vol. ii. p. 32. 

— " sicndo aca en Espana nuestro amparo y defensa en las 
guerras, mcrecio con razon este nombrc .- pues mas feroz que 
trueno ni rayo espantaba, covfundia y desbarataba los grandes 
exercitos de los Moros." — Morales, Coronica Gen. de Espana, 
1. ix. c. vii. § 4. 

" Vitoria Espana, vitoria, 

que tienes en tu defensa, 

uno de los Doze Pares ; 

mas no de nacion Francesa. 
Hijo es tuyo, y tantos mata, 

qucparece que sufuerza 

excede a la de la muerte 

quando masfuriosa y presfM." 

Ledesma, Conceptos Espirituales, p. 242. 

The Spanish Clergy had a powerful motive for propagating 
these fables ; their Privilegio de los votos being one of the 
most gainful, as well as most impudent forgeries, that ever 
was committed. 

"The two sons of Zehedee manifested," says Morales," their 
courage and great heart, and the faith which was strength- 
ening in them, by their eagerness to revenge the injury done to 
their kinsman and master when the Samaritans would not re- 
ceive him into their city. Then Santiago and St. John distin- 
guished themselves from the other Apostles, by coming for- 
ward, and saying to our Savior, ' Lord, wilt thou that we 
command fire to come down from Heaven and consume them ? ' 
It seems as if (according to the Castilian proverb concerning 
kinsmen) their blood boiled in them to kill and to destroy, 
because of the part which they had in his. But be not in 
such haste, O glorious Apostle Santiago, to shed the blood of 
others for Christ, your cousin-german ! It will not be long 
before you will give it to him, and for him will give all your 
own. Let him first shed his for you, that, when yours shall 
be mingled with it by another new tie of spiritual relationship, 
and by a new friendship in martyrdom, it shall be more es- 
teemed by him. and held in great account. Let the debt be 
well made out, that the payment may be the more due. Let 
the benefit be completed, that you may make the recompense 
under greater obligation, and with more will. Then will it 
be worth more, and manifest more gratitude. Learn mean- 
time from your Master, that love is not shown in killing and 
destroying the souls of others for the beloved, but in mortify- 
ing and offering your own to death. This, which is the height 
and perfection of love, your Master will teach you, and thence- 
forth you will not content yourself with any thing less. And 
if you are desirous, for Christ's sake, to smite and slay his ene- 
mies, have patience awhile, fierce Saint ! {Santo feroz.) There 
will come a time when you shall wage war for your Master, 
sword in hand, and in your person shall slaughter myriads and 
myriads of Moors, his wicked enemies ! "— Coronica General 
de Espana, 1. ix. c. vii. § 8. 

An old hymn, which was formerly used in the service of his 
day, likens this Apostle to — a Lion's whelp ! 

" Elcetus hie Apostolus 
Decorus et amabilis, 
Velut Lennis catulus 
Vicit bella certaminis.^'' — Divi Tutelares, 229. 



560 



NOTES TO THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA. 



" Thirty-eight visible appearances," says the Padre Maestro 
Fray Felipe tie la Gandara, Chronicler General of the King- 
dom of Galicia, — "thirty-eight visible appearances, in as 
many different battles, aiding and favoring the Spaniards, are 
recounted by the very learned Bon Miguel Erce Gimenez in 
his most erudite and laborious work upon the Preaching of 
Santiago in Spam; from which work the illustrissimus Doctor 
Don Antonio Calderon has collected them in his book upon 
the Excellencies of this Apostle. And I hold it for certain 
that h:s appearances have been many more ; and that in every 
victory, which the Spaniards have achieved over their enemies, 
this their Great Captain has been present with his favor and 
intercession." Snnas i Triunfos del Reino de Galicia, p. 648. 

The Chronista General proceeds to say that Galicia may be 
especially proud of its part in all these victories, the Saint 
having publicly prided liimself upon his connection with that 
kingdom ; for being asked in a battle once, who and what he 
was, (being a stranger,) he replied, " I am a Soldier, a Kins- 
man of the Eternal King, a Citizen and Inhabitant of Com- 
postella, and my name is James." For this fact the Chron- 
icler assures us that book of manuscript sermons, preached 
in Paris three centuries before his time by a Franciscan Friar, 
is sufficient authority: " es valiente autoridad I " — Armas i 
Triunfos del Reino de Galicia, p. 649. 



still they worship him in Spain, 

Jlnd believe in him with might and main. — p. 555, col. 1. 

— '^ calamo descHbi viz potest, cut verbis exprimi, quanta in 
Jacobum Apostolum Hispani amove ferantur, quam tenero pie- 
tatis sensu festos illius dies et memoriam celebrent ; quam se 
suaque omnia illius fidei et clientclm devoveant; ipsius auspiciis 
bellicas expeditiones suscipere, et cor^ficere soliti, et Jaboci nomine 
quasi tesserd. se miiites illius esse profiteri. Cum pugnam ineunt, 
ut sibi animos faciant et hostibus terrorem incutiant, in prima, 
qum vehementior es^-s solet, impressione, illam vocem intonant, 
Sancte Jacobe, urge Hispania, hoc est, Santiago, cierra Hes- 
panha ; militari se illi sacramento addicunt ; et illustrissimo 
Equitum Ordiae Jacohl nomine instituto, ejusque numini sacro, 
cujus Rex ipse Catholicns Magnus Magister et Rector est ; ejus 
se obsequiis dedicant et legibus adstringii.nt, ut nullius erga quen- 
quam alium Sanctum Patronum gentis clariora extent, quam His- 
paniccc erga Jacobum amoris et religionis indicia. Qudm verd 
bene respondeat huic amori et pietati Apostolus curd., et solicitu- 
dine Putris et Patroni, ex rebus d suis clientibus, ejus auxilio, 
prcBclari gestis, satis constat, turn in ipsa Hispania, turn in utrcL- 
que, ad Orientem et Occidentem Solem Indicl, Hispanorum et 
Lusitanorum armis subact&, et illorum opera et industrit ubique 
locorum propagatd. Christian^ religione." — P. Ant. Macedo. 
Divi Tutelares Orbis Christiani, p. 228. 



Santiago there they call him. — p. 555, col. 1. 

«' The true name of this Saint," says Ambrosio de Morales, 
" was Jacobo, (that is, according to the Spanish form,) taken 
with little difference from that of the Patriarch Jacob. A 
greater is that which we Spaniards have made, corrupting the 
word little by little, till it has become the very different one 
which we now use. From Santo Jacobo we shortened it, as 
we commonly do with proper names, and said Santo Jaco. 
We clipped it again after this abbreviation, and by taking away 
one letter, and changing another, made it into Santiago. The 
alteration did not stop here ; but because Yago or Tiago by 
itself did not sound distinctly and well, we began to call it 
Diago, as may be seen in Spanish writings of two or three 
hundred years old. At last, having passed through all these 
mutations, we rested with Diego for the ordinary name, re- 
serving that of Santiago when we speak of the Saint." — Co- 
ronica General de Espana, 1. ix. c. vii. $ 2. 

Florez pursues the corruption further : " nombrandole por la 
voz latina Jacobus Apostolus con abrcviacion y vulgaridad Ja- 
cobo Apostolo, 6 GiacomoPostolo, d Jiac Apostol." — Espana 
Sagrada, t. xix. p. 71. 

It has not been explained how Jack in this country was 
transferred from James to John. 

The Prior Cayrasco de Figueroa assures us that St. James 
was a gentleman, his father Zebedee being 



" Varon de ilustre sangre y Galileo, 
Puesto que usava el arte piscatoria, 
Que entonces no era illicito, nifeo, 
JVi aora en muchas partes menos gloria, 
La gente principal tener ojicio, 
por su menester, o su exercicio.^' 

Templo Militante, p. iii. p. 83. 

Morales also takes some pains to establish this point. Zebe- 
dee, he assures us, " era homhre principal, senor de un navio, 
con que seguia lapesca; " and it is clsar, he says, " como padre 
y hijos seguian este trato dela pesqueriahonradamente, mas como 
senores que como oficiales ! " — Coronica Gen. de Espana, 1. ix 
c. vii. $ 3. 

Thcxfve an Inquisition to maul him. — p. 555, col. I. 

Under the dominion of that atrocious Tribunal Ambrosio 
de Morales might truly say, " No one will dare deny that the 
body of the glorious Apostle is in the city which is named after 
him, and that it was brought thither, and afterwards discovered 
there by the great miracles," — of which he proceeds to give 
an account. " People have been burnt for less," — as a fellow 
at Leeds said the otiier day of awoman whom he suspected of 
bewitching him. 

There is nothing of which the Spanish and Portuguese au- 
thors have boasted with greater complacency and pleasure than 
of the said Inquisition. A notable example of this is afforded 
in the following passage from the Templo Militante, Flos San- 
torum, y Triumphos desus Virtudes, hy D. Bartolome Cayrasco 
de Figueroa, Prior and Canon of the Cathedial Church of 
Grand Canary. (Lisbon, 1613.) 



" gloriosa Espana, 

Jlunque de mucho puedes gloriarte, 
JSTo esta en esso el valor que te acompana, 
Sino en tener la Fe por estandarte : 
Por esta la provincia mas estrana, 

Y todo el orbe teme de enojarte ; 

Por esta de tu nombre tiembla el mundo 

Y el cavernosa Tartaro profunda. 

" Agradecelo a Dios de cuya mano 
Precede toda gracia, toda gloria ; 

Y despues del al Principe Christiana, 
Philipo digno de immortal memoria : 
Porque con su govierna soberano, 
Con sujusticia, y supiedad notoria, 
Estas assegurada, y dcfendida, 

De todos los peligros desta vida. 

" Este gran Rey decora tu terreno 
Con veynte y dos insignes fortalezas, 
Cuyos fuertes jilcaydes ponen freno 
A todas tas tarlaricas bravezas : 

Y con temor del mala, honor del bueno, 
Castigan las malicias, y simplezas 

De liercticas palabras y apiniones, 
Que son las veijnte y dos Inquisiciones. 

"■Dela Imperial Toledo es la primera ; 
De la Real Sevilla la segunda, 
De Cordova la ilustre la tercera, 
La quarta de Granada la fenmda : 
Tambien en Calahorra la vandera 
De la sagrada Inquisicion sefunda, 

Y margatitas son desta corona, 
Zaragoza, Valencia, Barcelona. 

" Tambien Valladalid aventajada: 

Despues del gran incendia, en edijicio ; 
Cuenca, Murcia, Llerena celebrada 
En mucha antiguedad del Santa Ojicio : 
En Galicia assi mismo estafundada 
Torre deste santissimo exercicio, 
En Evora, en Coimbra, en Ulisipo, 
Que ya la Lusitania cs de Philipo. 

" Tambien Sicilia en esta viva pena 
De la importante Inquisicion estriva ; 



NOTES TO THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA 



561 



Y Oran Canaria en publlca resena 
Los adversarios de la Fe derriba .- 
Las islas de Mallorca y de Ccrdena, 

Y el grail Riyno que fae de Atabalipa, 

Y la postrera desta hereyca suina 
Es la ciudad quefue de Muteiuma. 

" Sobre estas fortaleias de importancia 
Esta la general toi~re suprema, 
Finidada sobre altissima constancia, 
Cubierta de CatoUca diadema .- 
De cuya soberana vigilancia, 
Respleiideciente luz, virtud cstrema, 
Procede a las dcrnas, la fu.erza, el brio, 
El Clirlstiano valor, el puderio. 

" Estes pues son los cehbres Castillos, 
De la Fe verdaderos defensores, 
Que con habitns roxos y amarillos, 
Castigan los heretycos errores : 
Ya los pechos Catolicos sentillos, 
De la verdad Chrisliana zeladores, 
Lcs dan eljuslopremio, honor devido, 
De la virtud licroyca mcrecido." 

The Poet proceeds to eulogize Santiago as having been the 
founder in Spain of that faith for the defence and promotion 
of vvliich these two-and-tvventy Castles weie erected. 

" Pues si en el mundo es digno de memoria 
Elfundador de una ciudad terrena ; 

Y lucgo es celcbrada en larga historia 
El inventor de alguna cosa buena, 

Que premio le daras 7 que honor? que gloria? 
Felice Espalia, de virtudes llena, 
Al quefue de la Fe que aqui rcjicro, 
En tus Provincias fundador primer 7 

" Razon sera, que su memoria sea 
En todo tu dislrito eternizada, 
Y que en aqueste Santoral se lea 
(j^angue con dcbil pluma) celcbrada ; 
Pues alto Espana, porqae el mundo vea 
Qaepuedes en la Fe mas que en la espada. 
Da me atentos oydos entretanto 
Que de tu Cavallero ilustre canto. 

" Oyganme los magnanimos guerreros 
Que ponen freno al barbaro despecho, 

Y en especial aquellos Cavalleros 

Que adornan de su insinia roxa el pecho ; 
Veran que los hlasones verdaderos 
Se alcanzan, imitando en dicho y hecho 
Jll Espanol caudillo Santiago 
Oran zelador del Agareno estrago." 



At Compostella, in his Church, 
His body and one head 
Have been, for some eight hundred years. 
By Pilgrims visited. — p. 555, col. 1. 

*' a visitar el cuerpo santo 

Todofiel Christiana la via toma : 
Adonde viene peregrino tanto 
Como a Jerusalem, y como a Roma, 
Que a el de tierra y mar por los caminos 
Vienen de todo el mundo peregrinos 

" Varia genie fiel, pueblo devoto, 
El Santuario celebre freqiienta, 
Acude el casi naufrago piloto, 
Libre de la maritima tormenta : 
Que del mar combatido hizo voto, 
Teniendo de salvar el alma cuenta, 
Que de la tempestad casi sin habla. 
Con la vida salio sobre una labia. 
71 



" El coxo del lugar propio se alera 
De una azemila o carro hecho carga, 

Y representa su piadosa quexa, 
De aquella enfermedad pruliia y larga: 
Buelne en sus pies, y las mulctas deca, 

Y de alguna piadosa obra se encarga, 
Gratificando con palabras santas, 
Poder bolver sobre sus propias plantas. 

" El que ya tuvo vista, y no ticne ojos, 
Al Templo viene del Apostol Diego, 
Haze oracion, y postrase de hinojos, 
Buclve con luz, aviendo entrado ciego : 

Y ojos de cera dexa por despojns, 
De que alcancd salud su humilde ruego, 

Y en recompensa de la nueva vista, 
Es del raro milagro coronista. 

" El que hablar no puede, aunque con lengua 
Que subito accidente hizo mudo, 
Pide remedio de sufalta y mengua, 
Con un sonido balhuciente y rudo : 
Su dcvocion humilde su mal mengua, 
Y pudiendo dezir lo que no pudo. 
Con nueva voz, y con palabras claras, 
Haze gracias por dadivas tan raras. 

" St aqueste viene de sus miembros manco, 

Y aqucl sordo del todo, otro contrecho, 
Con todos el Apostol es tan franco. 
Con su medio con Dios es de provecho : 
Cada qual con alegre habito bianco, 
Buelve de su demanda saiisfecho, 
Dando buelta a su tierra los dolientes, 
Sanos de enfermedades diferentes. 

" A quien de prision saca, d cautiverio, 
Remedia enfermos, muertos rcsucita. 
Da a los desconsulados refrigerio, 

Y diferentes aflicciones quita: 
Sobre toda dolencia ticne imperio 
La milagrosa fiibrica bendita. 

Libra de muerte en agua, en hicrro, enfuego. 
El cuerpo santo del Apostol Diego. 

" Da toda alma fiel gracias al cielo, 
Que perdonado al pecador que yerra, 
Para remedio suyo, y su consuelo, 
Tal bien el Reyno de Galizia encierra : 
Para que venga desde todo el suelo 
A las postreras partes de la tierra, 
Todofiel Catolico Christiana, 
A implorar el auxilio soberana.^'' 

Cristoval de Mesa, El Patron de Espana, ff. Ixxii. p. 3. 

The high altar at Compostella is, as all the altars formerly 
were in Galicia and Asturias, not close to the wall, but a 
little detached from it. It is ten feet in length, and very 
wide, with a splendid frontispiece of silver. The altar itself 
is hollow, and at the Gospel end there is a small door, never 
opened except to royal visitors, and wlien a new Archbishop 
first comes to take possession. It was opened for Ambrosio 
de Morales, because he was commissioned to inspect the 
churches : nothing, however, was to be seen within, except 
two large, flat stones, which formed the floor, and at the end 
of them a hole about the size of an orange, but filled with 
mortar. Below is the vault in which the body of Santiago is 
said to be deposited in the marble coffin wherein it was found. 
The vault extends under the altar and its steps, and some way 
back under the Capella INFayor: it is in fact a part of the 
Crypt walled off with a thick \vsX\,para dexarcerrado del todo 
el santo cuerpo. 

The Saint, whose real presence is thus carefully concealed, 
receives his pilgrims in effigy. The image is a half figure of 
stone, a little less than life, gilt and painted, holding in one 
hand a book, and as if giving a blessing with the other. Esta 
en cabello, without either crown or glory, on the head, but a 
large silver crown is suspended immediately above, almost so 
as to touch the headland the last ceremony which a pilgrim 



562 



NOTES TO THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA 



performs is to ascend to the image, which is over the altar, by 
a staircase from the Epistle side, kiss it reverently on tlie 
head, embrace it, and place this crown upon it, and then go 
down on the Gospel side. — Viage de Morales, t. xx. p. 154. 

" Ingens sub templo fornix, et claustra per umbras 
Magna jacent, cceccBque domus, quels magna Jacobi 
Ossa sepulchrali fama est in sede latere. 
JVullifas Jiominum sacratum insistere limen ; 
Est vidisse nefas, nee eundi pervius usus .- 
E longe veniam ezorant atque osculajigunt 
Liminibus, redeuntque domos ; variasque galeris 
Jacobi effigies addunt, humerosque bacillis 
Circundant, conchisque super fulgentibus ornant." 

Paciecis, lib. vii. p. 117. 

The sepulchre was thus closed by the first Archbishop, 
D. Diego Gelmirez, " que ya de ninguna manera sepuede ver, 
ni entenderse coma esta. Y esto hizo con prudentissimo consejo 
aquel gran Principe y valeroso Perlado, y con reverencia devota, 
porque cada uno no quisiese ver y tratar aquel precioso relicario 
comunmente, y sin el debido respete ; que se pierde sin duda 
quando los cuerpos santos y sus sepulturas pueden ser vistas 
vulgarmente de todos.'^ — Morales, 1. ix. c. vii. $ 67. 

A print of the sepulchre, from an illuminated drawing in 
the manuscript of the Historia Compostelana, is given in the 
20th volume of the Espana Sagrada. And in that history 
(pp. 50, 51) is the following characteristic account of the 
enlargement of the altar by D. Diego Gelmirez. 

" Among the other worthinesses, with the which the afore- 
said Bishop in no inactive solicitude hastened to decorate his 
Church, we have been careful to defend from the death of 
oblivion whatsoever his restauratory hand did to the altar of 
the said Church. But, lest in bringing forward all singular 
circumstances we should wander into devious ways, we will 
direct our intention to the straight path, and commit to suc- 
ceeding remembrance so far as our possibility may reveal 
those things which we beheld with our own eyes. For of 
how small dimensions the altar of Santiago formerly was, lest 
we should be supposed to diminish it in our relation, may 
better be collected from the measure of the altarlet itself. But 
as religion increased in the knowledge of the Christian faith, 
that another altarlet, a little larger than the other, was placed 
over it by those who were zealous for their holy faith, our 
ancient fathers have declared unto us as well by faithful 
words, as by the assured testimony of writings. But the 
aforesaid Bishop being vehemently desirous of increasing the 
beauty of his Church, and seeing that this little altar, though 
thus enlarged, was altogether unworthy of so great an Apostle, 
thought it worthy of pious consideration to aggrandize the 
Apostolical altar. Wherefore, being confirmed thereunto by 
the prudent counsel of religious men, although the Canons 
stoutly resisted him in this matter, he declared his deter- 
mination to demolish the habitacle which was made in the 
likeness of the sepulchre below, in which sepulchre we learn, 
without all doubt, that the remains of the most holy Apostle 
are enclosed. They indeed repeatedly asserted that a work 
which, rude and deformed as it was, was nevertheless edified 
in honor to the remains of such holy personages, ought by 
no means to be destroyed, lest they themselves or their lord 
should be stricken with lightning from heaven, and suffer the 
immediate punishment of such audacity. But he, like a 
strenuous soldier, protected with the impenetrable shield of a 
good resolution, forasmuch as, with the eye of his penetration, 
he perceived that they regarded external things more than 
inner ones, trampled upon their fears with the foot of his right 
intention, and levelled to the ground their habitacle, and 
enlarged the altar, which had originally been so small a one, 
now for the third time, with marble placed over and about it 
on all sides, making it as it ought to be. Without delay also 
he marvellously began a silver frontispiece for this egregious 
and excellent work, and more marvellously completed it." 

There used to be interpreters at Compostella for all lan- 
guages ; lenguageros they were called. They had a silver 
wand, with a hand and finger pointed at the top, to show the 
relics with. Among those relics is the head of St. James the 
Less ; a grinder, in a splendid gold reliquary, of one St. James, 
it has not been determined which ; one of St. Christopher's 
arms, of modest dimensions ; and seven heads of the Eleven 



Thousand Virgins. These are from the list which Morales 
gives ; but tliat good and learned man, who often swallowed 
the bull and stuck at the tail, omits some more curious ones, 
which are noticed in an authentic inventory. (Espaiia Sa- 
grada, t. xix. p. 344.) Among these are part of our Lord's 
raiment, of the earth on wliich he stood, of the bread which 
he brake, of his blood, and of the Virgin's milk. 

A late editor of Old Fortunatus is reminded in one of his 
notes of Martinus Scriblerus, by a passage in the play, which, 
as he should have seen, is evidently allusive to such relics as 
those at Compostella. 



there can I show thee 



The ball of gold that set all Troy on fire : 

There shalt thou see the scarf of Cupid's mother, 

Snatch'd from the soft moist ivory of her arm 

To wrap about Adonis' wounded thigh : 

There shalt thou see a wheel of Titan's car, 

Which dropp'd from Heaven when Phaeton fired the world. 

I'll give thee — the fan of Proserpine, 

Which, in reward for a sweet Thracian song, 

The black-brow'd Empress threw to Orpheus, 

Being come to fetch Eurydice from hell." 



all wJio in their mortal stage 

Did not perform this pilgrimage, 
Must make it when they were dead. — p. 555, col. 2. 

" Hue LysioB properant urbes, hue gentes Iberce 
Turbo: adeunt, Oallique omnes, et Flandria cantu 
Insignis, populique Itali, Rhenusque bicornis 
Confluit, et donis altaria sacra frequentant ; 
JVamque ferunt vivi qui non hcec templa patentes 
Invisunt, post fata illuc, etfaneris umbras 
Venturas, munusque istud prcestare beatis 
Lacte viam stellisque albam, qua: node serenk 
Fulgurat, et longo designat tramite caelum.^' 

P. Baktholome Pereira, Paciecidos, lib. vii. p. 117. 

Fray Luys de Escobar has this among the five hundred 
proverbs of his Litany : — 

— el camino a la muerte 
es como el de Santiago. 

Las quatrocientas. Sec. fF. 140. 

It seems to allude to this superstition, meaning, that it is a 
journey which all must take. The particular part of the pil- 
grimage, which must be performed either in ghost or in 
person, is that of crawling through a hole in the rock at 
El Padron, which the Apostle is said to have made with his 
staflT. In allusion to this part of the pilgrimage, which is not 
deemed so indispensable at Compostella as at Padron, they 
have this proverb — Quien va d Santiago, y non va a, Padron, 6 
fat Romeria 6 non. The pilgrim, indeed, must be incurious 
who would not extend his journey thither ; a copious fountain, 
of the coldest and finest water which Morales tasted in Ga- 
licia, rises under the high altar, but on the outside of the 
church ; the pilgrims drink of it, and wash in its waters, as 
the Apostle is said to have done : they ascend the steps in the 
rock upon their knees, and finally perform the passage which 
must be made by all : " y cierto, considerado el sitio, y la her- 
mosa vista que de alii hay a la ciudad, que estaba abaxo en lo 
llano, y a toda la ancha hoya llena de grandes arboledas y fres- 
curas de mas de dos leguas en largo, lugar es aparejado para 
mucha contemplacion." — Viage de Morales, p. 174. 

One of Pantagruel's Questions Encylopediques is, " Utrum 
le noir Scorpion pourroit souffrir solution de continuite en sa 
substance, et par V effusion de son sang obscurcir et embrunir 
la voye lactee, au grand interest et dommage des Lifrelofres 
Jacobipetes." — Rabelais, t. ii. p. 417. 



The 



p. 555, col. 2. 



" The escallops, being denominated by ancient authors the 
Shells of Oales, or Oalicia, plainly apply to this pilgrimage in 
particular." — Fosbrooke, British Monachism, p. 423. 

Fuller is therefore mistaken when, speaking of the Dacres 



NOTES TO THE PILGRIM TO C OJMP O ST ELL A. 



563 



family, (Church Hist. cent, xii, p. 42,) who gave their arms 
gales, three scallop-sliells argent, he says, " which scallop- 
siiells, (I mean the nethermost of them, because most concave 
and capacious,) smooth witliin, and artificially plated without, 
was ofttimcs cup and dish to the pilgrims in Palestine, and 
thereupon their arms often charged therewith." 

That the scallop belonged exclusively to the Compostella 
pilgrim is certain, as the following miracle may show. 

" The ship, in which the body of the Apostle was embarked, 
passed swiftly by a village in Portugal called Bouzas, wherein 
there dwelt a noble and powerful lord, who on that day married 
one of his daughters to the son of another person as consid- 
erable as himself, lord of the land of Amaya. The nuptials 
were celebrated in the village of Bouzas, and many noble 
knights of that province came to the solemnity. One of their 
sports was that of throwing the cane, and in this the bride- 
groom chose to bear a part, commanding a troop, that he might 
display his dexterity. The place for the sport was on the 
coast of the ocean, and the bridegroom's horse, becoming 
ungovernable, plunged into the sea, and sunk under the im- 
mensity of its waters, and, at the moment when the ship was 
passing by, rose again close beside it. There were several 
miracles in this case. The tirst was, that the sea bore upon 
its waves the horse and horseman, as if it had been firin land, 
after not having drowned them when they were so long a time 
under water. The second was, that the wind, which was 
driving the ship in full speed to its port, suddenly fell, and left 
it motionless ; the third, and most remarkable, was, that both 
the garments of the knight, and the trappings of the horse, 
came out of the sea covered with scallop-shells. 

" The knight, astonished at such an unexpected adventure, 
and seeing the disciples of the Apostle, who with equal as- 
tonisiiment were looking at him from the ship, asked them 
what it was that hud brought him where he found himself. 
To which the disciples, being inspired by Heaven, replied, 
'that certes Christ, througii the merit of a certain servant of 
kis, whose body they were transporting in that ship, had 
chosen to manifest his power upon him, for his good, by means 
of this miracle.' The knigiit then humbly requested them to 
tell liim who Christ was, and who was that Servant of his 
of whom they spake, and what was the good which he was to 
derive. The disciples then briefly catechized iiim ; and the 
knight, having thus been instructed, said to them, ' Friends 
and Sirs, you, who have served Christ and his holy Apostle, 
whicii I as yet have not done, ask of him to show you for 
what purpose he has put these scallop-shells upon me, because 
so strange a marvel cannot have been wrought without some 
great mystery.' With that the disciples made their prayer 
accordingly, and, when they had prayed, they heard a voice 
from Heaven, which said thus unto the knight, ' Our Lord 
Christ has tiiought good to show by this act all persons present 
and to come, who may choose to love and serve this his ser- 
vant, and who sliall go to visit him where he shall be interred, 
that they take with them from thence other such scallop- 
shells as these with which thou art covered, as a seal of 
privilege, confirming that they are his, and will be so from 
that time forward : and he promises that afterwards, in the 
Day of the last Judgment, they shall be recognized of God 
for his ; and that, because of the honors which they have 
done to this his servant and friend, in going to visit him and 
to venerate him, he will receive them into his glory and his 
Paradise.' 

" When the knight heard these words, immediately he 
made the disciples baptize him ; and while they were so doing, 
he noticed, with devotion and attention, the ceremonies of the 
sacred ministry, and, when it was done, he took his leave of 
them, commending himself to their grace, and entreating of 
them that they would commend him in their prayers to Christ 
and his Apostle Santiago. At that instant the wind, which 
till then had been still, struck the sails, and the ship began to 
cleave the wide sea. The knight then directed his course 
toward the shore, riding upon the water, in sight of the great 
multitude, which from the shore was watching him ; and 
when he reached the shore, and was surrounded by them, he 
related to them what had happened. The natives, astonished 
at the sight of such stupendous miracles, were converted, and 
the knight, with his own hand, baptized his bride." 

The facts are thus related, to the letter, in the Sanctoral 
Porttigues, from whence the Breviaries of Alcoba^a and St. 



Cucufate copied it, and that of Oviedo in the Hymn for the 
Apostle's Day, — from which authorities the moderns have 
taken it. The Genealogists say that the Vieyras of Portugal 
are descended from this knight, because the scallop is called 
by that name in their tongue, and that family bear it in their 
arms. The Pimenteles make the same pretensions, and also 
bear four scallops in their shield. The Ribadaneyras also ad- 
vance a similar claim, and they bear a cross with five scallops. 
" This is the origin of the shells with which the pilgrims, 
who come to visit the body of our glorious Patron, adorn 
themselves, the custom having, without doubt, been preserved 
by tradition from that time. The circumstances are confirmed 
by pictures representing it, which from ancient times have 
been preserved in various cities. In the Church of St. Maria 
de Aracali at Eome, on the Gospel side, there is a spacious 
chapel, dedicated to our glorious Patron ; it was painted in 
the year 1441, and in one compartment this adventure is rep- 
resented : there is the ship, having the body of the Apostle on 
the poop, and the seven Disciples on board : close to the ship, 
upon the sea, is a knight upon a black horse, with a red saddle 
and trappings, both covered with scallop-shells. The same 
story is painted in the parish church of Santiago at Madrid : 
and it is related in a very ancient manuscript, which is pre- 
served in the library of the Monastery of St. Juiin de los Reyes, 
at Toledo. In the Ancient Breviary of the Holy Church of 
Oviedo, mention is made of this prodigy in these verses, upon 
the vesper of the glorious Saint : — 

' Cunctis mare cernentibus, 
Sed a prof undo ducitur, 
JVatus Regis submerffitur 
Tutus pie nus concliilibus.' 

Finally, the fact is authenticated by their Holinesses Alex- 
ander III., Gregory IX., and Clement V., who in their Bulls 
grant a faculty to the Archbishop of Compostella, that they 
may excommunicate those who sell these shells to pilgrims 
any where except in the city of Santiago, and they assign this 
reason, because the shells are the badge of the Apostle San- 
tiago. And thus in the Church of St. Clement at Rome, 
which is enriched with the body of St. Clement, Pope and 
Martyr, is a picture of the Apostle Santiago, apparently more 
than five hundred years old, which is adorned with scallop- 
shells on the garment and hat, as his jiroper badge." — jlnules 
de Oalicia, vol. i. pp. 95, 96. 

Gwillim, in his account of this bearing, says nothing of its 
origin. But he says, " The Escallop (according to Dioscorides) 
is engendered of the Dew and Air, and hath no blood at all 
in itself, notwithstanding in man's body of any other food it 
turneth soonest into blood. The eating of this fish raw is said 
to cure a surfeit. Such (he adds) is the beautiful shape that 
nature hath bestowed upon this shell, as that the Collar of the 
Order of St. Michel in France, in the first institution thereof, 
was richly garnished with certain pieces of gold artificially 
wrought, as near as the artificer could by imitation express the 
stamp of nature." — Display of Heraldry, p. 171, (first edit.) 

One of the three manners in which Santiago is commonly 
represented, is in the costume of a Compostellan pilgrim, with 
a scallop-shell in his hat. All three are described in a book, 
as rare of occurrence as curious in its subject, thus entitled, 
PicTOR Christianus Eruditus : Sive, de Erroribus, qui pas- 
sim admittmitur circa pingendas atque effingcndas Sacras Ima- 
gines. Libri Octo cum Mppendice. Opus Sacrce Scripturce, atque 
Ecclesiasticce Histories studiosis non inutile. Aathure R. P. 
M. Fr. Joanne Interian de Ayala, Sacri, Regii, ac Militaris 
Ordinis Beatce Maria de Mercede Redemptionis Captivorum, 
Salmanticensis Academim Doctore Thcologo, atque ibidem Sanctce 
ThcologicB cum sacrarum Linguarum inter pretatione Professore 
jampi-idem emerito. Anno D. 1730, Matriti : Ez Typographia 
Conventus prmfati Ordinis. fol. 

One of the Censors of this book says, prodit in lucem Pictor 
Christianus eruditissimi pectoris cruditissimus fatus, obstctri- 
cante JV. RR. P. M. Fr. Joscplio Campaiano de la Vega. The 
work was publishsd by the Master's direction at the cost of 
the Order ; the Master dedicated it to N. SeSora de las Mer- 
cedes as elaboratum cxcultumque quantum potuit, by her assist- 
ance ; and there is a caisJitra prefixed by Ferreras the Historian, 
speaking forcibly of the importfince of the undertaking, and of 
the great ability with which it is executed. 

Instead of perceiving that Santiago is represented in the 



564 



NOTES TO THE PILGRIM TO COMPOSTELLA 



costume of his own pilgrims, this author supposed that the 
Saint is so attired because he had travelled over Spain ! The 
whole passage is curious for its grave and cool credulity. 
" Sanctus Jacobus Zebedei Jilius, Hispanics primarius (quidquid 
alii commenti sint) Patronus atqae Apostolus, hifariam smpiiis a 
Pictnribus describitur. Pingittir enini peregrini habitu, oblongo 
innixus baculo, ex quo eliam bursa pendeat, et circa humeros 
amicalo, quod Hispani Esclavinam vacant ; insuper et cu7n galero 
satis amplo, quern tamen ornant concha:, qua circa littus maris 
passim se offerunt j Totum id ex eo arbitror proficisci, quod 
Hispaniam celerrimi, etutdecebat Tunitru Jilium, peragi-averat ; 
ubi postmodum corpus ejus e Hierosolymis translatum condigno 
honore colitur. Sed ad aliis etiam cum gladio pingitur, cumque 
libro aperto. ' Qum pictura {inquit frequens nobis author) etsi 
rarior sit, priori tamen est prceferenda, quod ex Sacrct, Scripturd, 
desumpta sit, et martyrium ejus explicat. Quod ita habetur, 
Occidit autem Jacobum fratrem Joannis gladio.^* Scepe etiam 
pingitur equo insistens, armatusque gladio, acies Maurorum im- 
pigri perrumpens, eosque ad internecionem usque cmdcns. Quod 
non exigut cum Hispani no minis gloricL rede fit ; cum scepe visus 
sit pro Hispanis in aere pugnans ; de cujus rei fide dubium esse 
non potest iis qui interfuerunt ejus Ecclesiastico officio, ubi 
illud metrice habetur, — 

Tu bello cum nos cingerent, 

Es visus ipso inprcelio, 

Equoque et ense acerrimus 

Mauros furentes sterner e. 

^tque idem alibi solutcL oratione describitur illis verbis ; f ' Ipse 
etiam gloriosus Apostolus in difficillimis prceliis paldm se conspi- 
dendum prcehens, Hispanos adversus Infideles pugnantcs mirifice 
juvit.' " — Lib. vii. c. ii. pp. 320, 321. 



.... the staff was bored and drilled for those 
Who on a flute could play. — p. 555, col. 2. 

Sir John Hawkins says, " that the pilgrims to St. James of 
Compostella excavated a staff, or walking-stick, into a musical 
instrument for recreation on their journey." — History of Music, 
vol. iv. p. 139, quoted in Fosbrooke^s British Monachism, p. 469. 
Mr. Fosbrooke thinks that " this ascription of the invention 
of the Bourdon to these pilgrims in particular is very question- 
able." Sir John probably supposed, with Richelet, that the 
Bourdon was peculiar to these pilgrims, and therefore that 
they had invented it. 

Mr. Fosbrooke more than doubts the Etymon from a musi- 
cal use. " The barbarous Greek BopSovia," he observes, 
" signified a beast of burden, and the Bourdon was a staff of 
support. But the various meanings of the word, as given by 
Cotgrave, make out its history satisfactorily. Bourdon, a 
drone, or dorre-bee, (Richelet says grosse mouche, ennemie des 
abeilles,) also the humming or buzzing of bees ; also the drone 
of a bagpipe ; also a pilgrim's staff 3 also a walking-staff, 
having a sword, &c. within it. 

" It was doubtless applied to the use of pitching the note, or 
accompanying the songs which pilgrims used to recreate them- 
selves on their journeys, and supposed by Menestrier to be 
hymns and canticles." — Fosbrooke, p. 422. 

In Germany, " walking-sticks that serve as tubes for pipes, 
with a compressing pump at one end to make a fire, and a 
machine at the other for impaling insects without destroy- 
ing their beauty, are common." (Hodgkins^s Travels, vol. ii. 
p. 135.) I have seen a telescope and a barometer in a walking- 
stick, if that name may be applied to a staff of copper. 



The twice-born Cock and Hen. — p. 557, col. 1. 

There is another story of abird among the miracles of San- 
tiago ; the poor subject of the miracle was not so fortunate as 
the Cock and Hen of the Alcayde ; but the story is true. It 
occurred in Italy ; and the Spanish fable is not more charac- 
teristic of the fraudulent practices carried on in the Romish 
Church, than the Italian story is of the pitiable superstition 

• Molan. lib. iii. c. 26. 

t In festo Translat, ejusdem. 30 Dec. 



wliich such frauds fostered, and which was, and is to this day, 
encouraged by the dignitaries of that church. 

At the request of St. Atto, Bishop of Pisjota, the Pisjotans 
say that some relics, taken from Santiago's most precious 
head, were given to their church by the Archbishop of Com- 
postella, Diego Gelmirez, a person well known in Spanish 
history. " JSTullus umquam mortalium hoc donum impetrare pos- 
set,^^ he affirmed, when he made the gift ; and the historian 
of the translator adds, " quod veri a Domino factum credimus et 
non dubitamus, sicut manifestis et apertis indiciis manifeste et 
aperte miracula declarabunt.'^ There is a good collection of 
these miracles, but this of the Bird is the most remarkable. 

" In those days," says the writer, " another miracle, as 
pious as it is glorious, was wrought by the Lord, in the which 
he who worthily perpends it will perceive what may pertain 
to the edification of all tliose who visit the shrine of Santiago, 
and of all faithful Christians. About three weeks after the 
consecration of Santiago's altar, a certain girl of the country 
near Pistoja was plucking hemp in a garden, when she ob- 
served a pigeon flying through the air, which came near her, 
and alighted : upon which she put up a prayer to the Lord 
Santiago, saying, ' O Lord Santiago, if the things which are 
related of thee at Pistoja be true, and thou workest miracles, 
as the Pistojans affirm, give me this pigeon, that it may come 
into my hands ! ' Forthwith the pigeon rose from the spot 
where it had alighted, and, as if it were a tame bird, came to 
her, and she took it in her hands, and held it there as if it 
had been lifeless. What then did the girl Ao? She carried 
it home, showed it to her father, and to him and the rest of 
the family related in what manner it had come to her hands. 
Some of them said, ' Let us kill and eat it ; ' others said, ' Do 
not hurt it, but let it go.' So the girl opened her hand, to see 
what it would do. The pigeon, finding itself at liberty, fled 
to the ground, and joined the poultry which were then picking 
up their food, nor did it afterwards go from the liouse, but re- 
mained in their company, as if it belonged to them. 

" All therefore regarding, with no common wonder, the 
remarkable tameness of this pigeon, which indeed was not a 
tame bird, but a wild one, they went to a priest in the adjacent 
city, and acquainted him with the circumstances. The priest, 
giving good counsel to the girl and her father, as he was 
bound to do, said, ' We will go together to our Lord the 
Bishop, on Sunday, and act as he may think proper to direct 
us in this matter.' Accordingly, on the Sunday they went to 
Pistoja, and presented the pigeon to the Bishop, who, with 
his Canons, was then devoutly celebrating mass in honor of 
Santiago, upon the holy altar which had been consecrated to 
his honor. The prelate, when he had listened to their story, 
took the bird, and placed it upon the wall of the chancel, 
which is round about the altar of Santiago, and there it 
remained three weeks, never departing from thence, excepting 
that sometimes, and that very seldom, it flew about the church, 
but always returned without delay to its own station, and 
there mildly, gently, harmlessly, and tamely continued ; and 
rarely did it take food. 

" But people from Lucca, and other strangers, plucked 
feathers from its neck, that they might carry them away for 
devotion, and, moreover, that they might exhibit them to those 
who had not seen the bird itself. From such injuries it never 
attempted to defend itself, though its neck was skinned by this 
plucking, and this the unthinking people continued to do, 
till at length the pigeon paid the debt of nature. And it was 
no wonder that it died ; for how could any creature live that 
scarcely ever ate or slept.? People came thither night and 
day from all parts, and one after another disturbed it ,• and 
every night vigils were kept there, the clergy and the people 
with loud voices singing praises to the Lord, and many lights 
were continually burning there : how, therefore, could it live, 
when it was never allowed to be at rest.' The clergy and 
people, grieving at its death, as indeed it was a thing to be 
lamented, took counsel, and hung up the skin and feathers to 
be seen there by all comers. 

" In such and so great a matter, what could be more grati- 
fying, what more convenient than this wonderful sign which 
the Almighty was pleased to give us ? There is no need to 
relate anything more concerning the aforesaid pigeon; it was 
seen there openly and publicly by all comers, so that not only 
the laity and clergy of that city, but many religious people 



PREFACE TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



565 



from otlier parts, abbots, friars, clergy, and laity, are able to 
attest the truth. And I also add this my testimony as a true 
and faithful witness, for I saw the pigeon myself for a whole 
week, and actually touched it with my own hands." 

There is a postscript to this story, as melancholy as the tale 
itself. The sick, and the crippled, and the lame, had been 
brought to this church, in expectation of obtaining a miraculous 
cure by virtue of the new relics which had arrived. Among 
these was a poor woman in the last stage of disease, who had 
been brought upon lier pallet into the church, and was laid in 
a corner, and left there ; nor was it observed tiiat this poor 
creature was inarticulo mortis, till the pigeon flew to the place, 
and alighted upon her, and so drew the attention of the people 
in the church to the dying woman, quam quidem, prout credi- 
mus, nUi columba monstrasset, nemo moriciitem vidisset. They 



removed her out of the church just before she breathed her 
last ; and, in consequence of this miracle, as it was deemed, 
they gave her an honorable funeral. — Jlcta Sanctorum., Jul. 
t. vi. p. G4. 



WJiat became of the halter, I know not, 
Because the old books show not. — p. 558, col. 1. 

" Antiguedad sagrada, el que se arriedra 
De te, sera su verso falto y manco." 

So Christoval de Mesa observes, when he proceeds to relate 
how the rude stone, upon which the disciples of Santiago laid 
his body, when they landed with it in Spain, formed itself into 
a sepulchre of white marble. — El Patron de Espana, ff. 68. 



STfje (itnvnt of W^tftum^. 



KATAPAI, flS KAI TA AAEKTPYONONEOTTA, OIKON AEI, O^'E KEN, EHANHHAN EEKAeiSOIMENAI. 

ArrOipQ. Av£K. tov FvXitX. tov Mr/r. 

CURSES ARE LIKE YOUNG CHICKENS ; THEY ALAVAYS COME HOME TO ROOST. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF GEBIR, 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, 

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



HrriaaTe [xoi irpcjirrja TroXyrpoTrov, o(ppa (Pavcin 
TioiKiXov Ei6us EX'^^j 0^' noiKiXov Vjxvov apaaaco. 

Nov. Aiov. 

FOR I WILL, FOR NO MAN's PLEASURE, 

change a syllable or measure j 
pedants shall not tie my strains 
to our antique poets' veins; 
being born as free a3 these, 
i will sing as i shall please. 

George Wither. 



PREFACE. 



Several years ago, in the Introduction of my 
" Letters to Mr. Charles Butler, vindicating the 
Book of the Church," I had occasion to state that, 
while a school-boy at Westminster, I had formed 
an intention of exhibiting the most remarkable 
forms of Mythology which have at any time 
obtained among mankind, by making each the 
groundwork of a narrative poem. The perform- 
ance, as might be expected, fell far short of the 
design, and yet it proved something more than a 
dream of juvenile ambition. 

I began with the Mahommedan religion, as 
being that with which I was then best acquainted 



myself, and of which every one who had read the 
Arabian Nights' Entertainments possessed all the 
knowledge necessary for readily understanding and 
entering into the intent and spirit of the poem. 
Mr. Wilberforce tliouglit that I had conveyed in it 
a very false impression of that religion, and that 
tlie moral sublimity which he admired in it was 
owing to this flattering misrepresentation. But 
Thalaba the Destroyer was professedly an Arabian 
Tale. The design required that I should bring 
into view the best features of that system of belief 
and worship which had been developed under the 
Covenant with Ishmael, placing in the most favor- 
able light the morality of the Koran, and what the 
least corrupted of the Mahommedans retain of the 
patriarchal faith. It would have been altogether 
incongruous to have touched upon the abomina- 
tions engrafted upon it ; first by the false Prophet 
himself, who appears to have been far more re- 
markable for audacious profligacy than for any in- 
tellectual endowments, and afterwards by the spirit 
of Oriental despotism which accompanied Mahom- 
medanism wherever it was established. 

Heathen Mythologies have generally been rep- 
resented by Christian poets as the work of the 
Devil and his Angels ; and the machinery derived 
from them was thus rendered credible, according 



566 



PREFACE TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



to what was during many ages a received opinion. 
The plan upon which I proceeded in Madoc was 
to produce the effect of machinery as far as was 
consistent with the character of the poem, by rep- 
resenting the most remarkable religion of the New 
World such as it was, a system of atrocious priest- 
craft. It was not here, as in Thalaba, the foundation 
of the poem, but, as usual in what are called epic 
poems, only incidentally connected with it. 

When I took up, for my next subject, that my- 
thology which Sir William Jones had been the first 
to introduce into English poetry, I soon perceived 
that the best mode of treating it would be to con- 
struct a story altogether mythological. In what 
form to compose it was then to be determined. No 
such question had arisen concerning any of my 
former poems. I should never for a moment have 
thought of any other measure than blank verse for 
Joan of Arc, and for Madoc, and afterwards for 
Roderick. The reason wliy the irregular, rhyme- 
less lyrics of Dr. Sayers were preferred for Thalaba 
Avas, that the freedom and variety of such verse 
were suited to the story. Indeed, of all the laud- 
atory criticisms with which I have been favored 
during a long literary life, none ever gratified me 
more than that of Henry Kirke White upon this 
occasion, when he observed, that if any other known 
measure had been adopted, the poem would have 
been deprived of half its beauty, and all its pro- 
priety. And when he added, that the author never 
seemed to inquire how other men would treat a 
subject, or what might be the fashion of the times, 
but took that course which his own sense of fitness 
pointed out, I could not have desired more appro- 
priate commendation. 

The same sense of fitness which made me choose 
for an Arabian tale the simplest and easiest form 
of verse, induced me to take a different course in an 
Indian poem. It appeared to me, that here neither 
the tone of morals, nor the strain of poetry, could 
be pitched too high ; that nothing but moral sub- 
limity could compensate for the extravagance of 
the fictions, and that all the skill I might possess in 
the art of poetry was required to counterbalance 
the disadvantage of a mythology with which few 
readers were likely to be well acquainted, and 
which would appear monstrous if its deformities 
were not kept out of sight. I endeavored, there- 
fore, to combine the utmost richness of versification 
with the greatest freedom. The spirit of the poem 
was Indian, but there was nothing Oriental in the 
style. I had learnt the language of poetry from 
our own great masters and the great poets of an- 
tiquity. 

No poem could have been more deliberately 
planned, nor more carefully composed. It was 
commenced at Lisbon on the first of May, 1801, 
and recommenced in the summer of the same year 
at Kingsdown, in the same house (endeared to me 
once by many delightful but now mournful recol- 
lections) in which Madoc had been finished, and 
Thalaba begun. A little was added during the 
winter of that year in London. It was resumed at 
Kingsdown in the summer of 1802, and then laid 
uside till 1806, during which interval Madoc was 



reconstructed and published. Resuming it then 
once more, all that had been written was recast at 
Keswick : there I proceeded with it leisurely, and 
finished it on the 25th of November, 1809. It is 
the only one of my long poems of which detached 
parts were written to be afterwards inserted in their 
proper places. Were I to name the persons to 
whom it was communicated during its progress, it 
would be admitted now that I might well be en- 
couraged by their approbation ; and, indeed, when 
it was published, I must have been very unreason- 
able if I had not been satisfied with its reception. 

It was not till the present edition of these Poems 
was in the press, that, eight-and-twenty years after 
Kehama had been published, I first saw the article 
upon it in the Monthly Review, parts of which 
cannot be more appropriately preserved any where 
than here ; it shows the determination with which 
the Reviewer entered upon his task, and the- im- 
portance which he attached to it. 

" Throughout our literary career we cannot rec- 
ollect a more favorable opportunity than the 
present for a full discharge of our critical duty. 
We are indeed bound now to make a firm stand for 
the purity of our poetic taste against this last and 
most desperate assault, conducted as it is by a 
writer of considerable reputation, and unquestion- 
ably of considerable abilities. If this poem were 
to be tolerated, all things after it may demand 
impunity, and it will be in vain to contend hereafter 
for any one established rule of poetry as to design 
and subject, as to character and incident, as to 
language and versification. We may return at 
once to the rude hymn in honor of Bacchus, and 
indite strains adapted to the recitation of rustics in 
the season of the vintage : — 

Qiiffi canerent agcrentque perunctifacibus ora. 

It shall be our plan to establish these points, we 
hope, beyond reasonable controversy, by a complete 
analysis of the twenty-four sections (as they may 
truly be called) of the portentous work, and by 
ample quotations interspersed with remarks, in 
which we shall endeavor to withhold no praise that 
can fairly be claimed, and no censure that is ob- 
viously deserved." 

The reviewer fulfilled his promises, however 
much he failed in his object. He was not more 
liberal of censure than of praise, and he was not 
sparing of quotations. The analysis was suf- 
ficiently complete for the purposes of criticism, 
except that the critic did not always give himself 
the trouble to understand what he was determined 
to ridicule. "It is necessary for us," he said, 
"according to our purpose of deterring future 
writers from the choice of such a stoiy , or for such 
a management of that story, to detail the gross 
follies of the work in question ; and, tedious as the 
operation may be, we trust that, in the judgment 
of all those lovers of literature who duly value the 
preservation of sound principles of composition 
among us, the end will excuse the means." The 
means were ridicule and reprobation, and the end 
at which he aimed was thus stated in the Review 
er's peroration. 



PREFACE TO THE CURSE OF KEHAM'A. 



567 



" We know not that Mr. Southeysmost devoted 
admirers can complain of our having omitted a 
single incident essential to the display of his char- 
acter or the development of his plot. To other 
readers we should apologize for our prolixity, were 
we not desirous, as we hinted before, of giving a 
death-blow to the gross extravagances of the 
author's school of poetry, if we cannot hope to re- 
form so great an offender as himself. In general, 
all that nature and all that art has lavished on him 
is rendered useless by his obstinate adherence to 
his own system of fancied originality, in which 
every thing that is good is old, and every thing 
that is new is good for nothing. Convinced as we 
are that many of the author's faults proceed from 
mere idleness, deserving even less indulgence than 
the erroneous principles of his poetical system, we 
shall conclude by a general exhortation to all 
critics to condemn, and to all writers to avoid, the 
example of combined carelessness and perversity 
which is here afforded by Mr. Southey ; and we 
shall mark this last and worst eccentricity of his 
Muse with the following character : — Here is the 
composition of a poet not more distinguished by 
his genius and knowledge, than by his contempt 
for public opinion and the utter depravity of his 
ta.ste — a depravity which is incorrigible, and, we 
are sorry to add, most unblushingly rejoicing in its 
own hopelessness of amendment." 

The Monthly Review has, I believe, been for 
some years defunct. I never knew to whom I was 
beholden for the good service rendered me in that 
Journal, when such assistance was of most value ; 
nor by whom I was subsequently, during several 
years, favored in the same Journal with such 
flagrant civilities as those of which the reader has 
here seen a sample. 

Keswick, 13th Maij, 1838. 



ORIGINAL PREFACE. 

In the religion of the Hindoos, which of all false 
religions is the most monstrous in its fables, and 
the most fatal in its effects, there is one remarka- 
ble peculiarity. Prayers, penances, and sacrifices, 
are supposed to possess an inherent and actual 
value, in no degree depending upon the disposition 
or motive of the person who performs them. They 
are drafts upon Heaven, for which the Gods can- 
not refuse payment. The worst men, bent upon 
the worst designs, have in this manner obtained 
power which has made them formidable to the 
Supreme Deities themselves, and rendered an 
Avatar^ or Incarnation of Veeshnoo the Preserver, 
necessary. This belief is the foundation of the 
following Poem. The story is original; but, in all 
its parts, consistent with the superstition upon 
which it is built; and however startling the fictions 
may appear, they might almost be called credible 
when compared with the genuine tales of Hindoo 
mythology. 



No figures can be imagined more anti-pictu- 
resque, and less poetical, than the mythological 
personages of the Bramins. This deformity was 
easily kept out of sight: — their hundred hands 
are but a clumsy personification of power ; their 
numerous heads only a gross image of divinity, 
"whose countenance," as the Bhagvat-Geeta 
expresses it, "is turned on every side." To the 
other obvious objection, that the religion of Hin- 
dostan is not generally known enough to supply 
fit machinery for an English poem, 1 can only 
answer, that, if every allusion to it throughout the 
work is not sufficiently self-explained to render 
the passage intelligible, there is a want of skill 
in the poet. Even those readers who should be 
wholly unacquainted with the writings of our 
learned Orientalists, will find all the preliminary 
knowledge that can be needful, in the brief expla- 
nation of mythological names prefixed to the Poem. 



Erama, the Creator. 

Veeshxoo, . . . the Preserver. 

Sezta, the Destroyer. 

These form the Trimoartee, or Trinity, as it has been 
called, of the Bramins. The allegory is obvious, but 
has been made for the Triraourtee,not the Trimourtee 
for the allegory ; and these Deities are regarded by the 
people as three distinct and personal Gods. The two 
latter have at this day their hostile sects of worship- 
pers ; that of Seeva is the most numerous ; and in this 
Poem, Seeva is represented as Supreme among the 
Gods. This is the same God whose uame is variously 
written Seeb, Sieven, and Siva ; Chiven by the 
French ; Xiven by the Portuguese ; and whom Euro- 
pean writers sometimes denominate Eswara, Iswaren, 
Mahadeo, Mahadeva, Rutren, — according to which 
of his thousand and eight names prevailed in the 
coiintry where they obtained their information. 

I:iDRA, God of the Elements. 

TheSwERGA, . . his Paradise, — one of the Hindoo heavena. 

Yamen, Lord of Hell, and Judge of the Dead. 

Padaeo:^, .... Hell, — under the Earth, and, like the Earth, 
of an octagon shape ; its eight gates are guarded by as 
many Gods. 

Marriatalt, . . the Goddess who is chiefly worshipped by 
the lower castes. 

PoLLEAR, or Ganesa, — the Protector of Travellers. 

His statues are placed in the highways, and some- 
times in a small, lonely sanctuary, in the streets and 
in the fields. 

Castapa, the Father of the Immortals. 

Devetas, the Inferior Deities. 

Suras, Good Spirits. 

A3URAS, Evil Spirits, or Devils. 

Glexdoveers, . the most beautiful of the Good Spirits, the 
Grindouvers of Sonnerat. 



THE FUNERAL. 



1. 



MiDxiGHT, and yet no eye 

Through all the Imperial City closed in sleep ! 

Behold her streets a-blaze 

With light that seems to kindle the red sky. 

Her myriads swarming through the crowded Ways \ 



568 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



Master and slave, old age and infancy, 

All, all abroad to gaze ; 

House-top and balcony 

Clustered with women, who throw back their veils 

With unimpeded and insatiate sight 

To view the funeral pomp which passes by, 

As if the mournful rite 

Were but to them a scene of joyance and delight. 

2. 
Vainly, ye blessed twinklers of the night. 
Your feeble beams ye shed, 
Quench'd in the unnatural light which might out- 
stare 
Even the broad eye of day ; 
And thou from thy celestial way 
Pourest, O Moon, an ineffectual ray ! 
For lo ! ten thousand torches flame and flare 
Upon the midnight air, 
Blotting the lights of heaven 
With one portentous glare. 
Behold, the fragrant smoke, in many a fold 
Ascending, floats along the fiery sky. 
And hangeth visible on high, 
A dark and waving canopy. 



Hark ! 'tis the funeral trumpet's breath ! 

'Tis the dirge of death ! 

At once ten thousand drums begin, 

With one long thunder-peal the ear assailing; 

Ten thousand voices then join in, 

And with one deep and general din 

Pour their wild wailing. 

The song of praise is drown'd 

Amid the deafening sound; 

You hear no more the trumpet's tone, 

You hear no more the mourner's moan. 

Though the trumpet's breath, and the dirge of 

death, 

Swell with commingled force the funeral yell. 

But rising over all, in one acclaim. 

Is heard the echoed and reechoed name. 

From all that countless rout — 

Arvalan ! Arvalan! 

Arvalan ! Arvalan ! 

Ten times ten thousand voices in one shout 

Call Arvalan ! the overpowering sound. 

From house to house repeated, rings about, 

From tower to tower rolls round. 



The death-procession moves along ; 

Their bald heads shining to the torches' ray, 

The Bramins lead the way. 

Chanting the funeral song. 

And now at once they shout, 

Arvalan ! Arvalan ! 

With quick rebound of sound. 

All in accordant cry, 

Arvalan ! Arvalan ! 

The universal multitude reply. 

In vain ye thunder on his ear the name ; 

Would ye awake the dead .? 

Borne upright in his palanquin. 



There Arvalan is seen ! 

A glow is on his face, — a lively red ; 

It is the crimson canopy 

Which o'er his cheek a reddening shade hath shed ; 

He moves, — he nods his head, — 

But the motion comes from the bearers' tread, 

As the body, borne aloft in state. 

Sways with the impulse of its own dead weight. 



Close following his dead son, Kehama came, 

Nor joining in the ritual song, 

Nor calling the dear name ; 

With head depress'd, and funeral vest, 

And arms enfolded on his breast. 

Silent and lost in thought he moves along. 

King of the world, his slaves, unenvying now. 

Behold their wretched Lord ; rejoiced they see 

The mighty Rajah's misery; 

That nature in his pride hath dealt the blow, 

And taught the Master of Mankind to know 

Even he himself is man, and not exempt from woe. 



O sight of grief ! the wives of Arvalan, 

Young Azla, young Nealliny, are seen I 

Their widow-robes of white. 

With gold and jewels bright. 

Each like an Eastern queen. 

Woe ! woe ! around their palanquin. 

As on a bridal day. 

With symphony, and dance, and song, 

Their kindred and their friends come on. 

The dance of sacrifice ! the funeral song ! 

And next the victim slaves in long array, 

Richly bedight to grace the fatal day. 

Move onward to their death; 

The clarions' stirring breath 

Lifts their thin robes in every flowing fold. 

And swells the woven gold. 

That on the agitated air 

Flutters and glitters to the torch's glare. 



A man and maid of aspect wan and wild. 

Then, side by side, by bowmen guarded, came ; 

O wretched father ! O unhappy child ! 

Them were all eyes of all the throng exploring — 

Is this the daring man 

Who raised his fatal hand at Arvalan.? 

Is this the wretch condemn'd to feel 

Kehama's dreadful wrath? 

Then were all hearts of all the throng deploring; 

For not in that innumerable throng 

Was one who loved the dead; forAvho could know 

What aggravated wrong 

Provoked the desperate blow ' 



Far, far behind, beyond all reach of sight, 

In order'd files the torches flow along. 

One ever-lengthening line of gliding light: 

Far, far behind. 

Rolls on the undistinguishable clamor 

Of horn, and trump, and tambour; 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



569 



Incessant as the roar 

Of streams which down the wintry mountain pour, 

And louder than the dread commotion 

Of breakers on a rocky shore, 

When the winds rage over the waves, 

And Ocean to the Tempest raves. 

9. 

And now toward the bank they go, 

Where, winding on their way below, 

Deep and strong the waters flow. 

Here doth the funeral pile appear 

With myrrh and ambergris bestrew'd. 

And built of precious sandal wood. 

They cease their music and their outcry here ; 

Gently they rest the bier ; 

They wet the face of Arvalan, — 

No sign of life the sprinkled drops excite; 

They feel his breast, — no motion there ; 

They feel his lips, — no breath ; 

For not with feeble, nor with erring hand. 

The brave avenger dealt the blow of death. 

Then, with a doubling peal and deeper blast. 

The tambours and the trumpets sound on high, 

And with a last and loudest cry 

They call on Arvalan. 

10. 

Woe ! woe ! for Azla takes her seat 

Upon the funeral pile ; 

Calmly she took her seat. 

Calmly the whole terrific pomp survey 'd; 

As on her lap the while 

The lifeless head of Arvalan was laid. 

11. 

Woe ! woe ! Neallmy, 

The young Nealliny, 

They strip her ornaments away. 

Bracelet and anklet, ring, and chain, and zone ; 

Around her neck they leave 

The marriage knot alone, — 

That marriage band, which, when 

Yon waning moon was young, 

Around her virgin neck 

With bridal joy was hung. 

Then with white flowers, the coronal of death. 

Her jetty locks they crown. 

]2. 

O sight of misery ! 

You cannot hear her cries, — their sound 

In that wild dissonance is drown'd; — 

But in her face you see 

The supplication and the agony, — 

See in her swelling throat the desperate strength 

That with vain eflbrt struggles yet for life ; 

Her arms contracted now in fruitless strife, 

Now wildly at full length 

Towards the crowd in vain for pity spread ; — 

They force her on, they bind her to the dead. 

13. 

Then all around retire ; 
Circling the pile, the ministering Bramins stand, 

72 



Each lifting in his hand a torch on fire. 

Alone the Father of the dead advanced 

And lit the funeral pyre. 

14. 

At once on every side 
The circling torches drop ; 

At once on every side 
The fragrant oil is pour'd; 

At once on every side 

The rapid flames rush up. 

Then hand in hand the victim band 

Roll in the dance around the funeral pyre ; 

Their garments' flying folds 

Float inward to the fire ; 

In drunken whirl they wheel around ; 

One drops, — another plunges in ; 

And still with overwhelming dim 

The tambours and the trumpets sound ; 

And clap of hand, and shouts, and cries, 

From all the multitude arise ; 

While round and round, in giddy wheel, 

Intoxicate they roll and reel. 

Till one by one whirl'd in they fall. 

And the devouring flames have swallow'd all. 

15. 

Then all was still ; the drums and clarions ceased : 
The multitude were hush'd in silent awe ; 
Only the roaring of the flames was heard. 



II. 



THE CURSE. 



Alone towards the Table of the Dead 

Kehama moved ; there on the altar-stone 

Honey and rice he spread. 

There, with collected voice and painful tone, 

He call'd upon his son. 

Lo ! Arvalan appears ; 

Only Kehama' s powerful eye beheld 

The thin, ethereal spirit hovering nigh; 

Only the Rajah's ear 

Receiv'd his feeble breath. 

And is this all? the mournful Spirit said, 

This all that thou canst give me after death .'' 

This unavailing pomp, 
These empty pageantries, tliat mock the dead ! 

2. 

In bitterness the Rajah heard. 

And groan' d, and smote his breast, and o'er his face 

Cowl'd the white mourning vest. 



ARVALAK. 

Art thou not powerful, — even like a God.'' 

And must I, through my years of wandering, 

Shivering and naked to the elements, 

In wretchedness await 

The hour of Yamen's wrath.' 



570 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



I thought thou wouldst imbody me anew, 

Undying as I am ; — 

Tea, re-create me ! — Father, is this all ? 

This all ? and thou Almighty ! 



But in that wrongful and upbraiding tone 

Kehama found relief; 
For rising anger half suppress 'd his grief. 

Reproach not me ! he cried, 

Had I not spell-secur'd thee from disease. 

Fire, sword, — all common accidents of man, — 

And thou ! — fool, fool — to perish by a stake ! 

And by a peasant's arm ! — 

Even now, when from reluctant Heaven, 

Forcing new gifts and mightier attributes. 

So soon I should have quell'd the Death-God'i 

power. 



Waste not thy wrath on me, quoth Arvalan ; 

It was my hour of folly ! Fate prevail'd ; 

Nor boots it to reproach me that I fell. 

I am in misery. Father ! Other souls, 

Predoom'd to Indra's Heaven, enjoy the dawn 

Of bliss ; to them the temper'd elements 

Minister joy : genial delight the sun 

Sheds on their happy being, and the stars 

Effuse on them benignant influences ; 

And thus o'er earth and air they roam at will, 

And, when the number of their days is full, 

Go fearlessly before the awful throne. 

But I, — all naked feeling and raw life, — 

What worse than this hath Yamen's hell in store .? 

If ever thou didst love me, mercy, father ! 

Save me, for thou can'st save — the Elements 

Know and obey thy voice. 

6. 

KEHAMA. 

The Elements 

Shall sin no more against thee ; whilst I speak, 

Already dost thou feel their power is gone. 

Fear not ! I cannot call again the past ; 

Fate hath made that its own ; but Fate shall yield 

To me the future ; and thy doom be fix'd 

By mine, not Yamen's will. Meantime all power. 

Whereof thy feeble spirit can be made 

Participant, I give. Is there aught else 

To mitigate thy lot.? 

ARVALAN. 

Only the sight of vengeance. Give me that! 

Vengeance, full, worthy vengeance ! — not the 

stroke 

Of sudden punishment, — no agony 

That spends itself, and leaves the wretch at rest. 

But lasting, long revenge. 

KEHAMA. 

What, boy ? is that cup sweet .? then take thy fill ! 



So, as he spake, a glow of dreadful pride 
Inflamed his cheek ; with quick and angry stride 



He moved toward the pile, 

And raised his hand to hush the crowd, and cried, 

Bring forth the murderer ! At the Rajah's voice, 

Calmly, and like a man whom fear had stunn'd, 

Ladurlad came, obedient to the call ; 

But Kailyal started at the sound. 

And gave a womanly shriek ; and back she drew, 

And eagerly she roll'd her eyes around, 

As if to seek for aid, albeit she knew 

No aid could there be found. 

8. 

It chanced that near her, on the river-brink, 

The sculptured form of Marriataly stood ; 

It was an Idol roughly hewn of wood. 

Artless, and mean, and rude ; 

The Goddess of the poor was she ; 

None else regarded her with piety. 

But when that holy Image Kailyal view'd, 

To that she sprung, to that she clung ; 

On her own Goddess with close-clasping arms. 

For life the maiden hung. 

9. 

They seized the maid; with unrelenting grasp 

They bruised her tender limbs ; 

She, nothing yielding, to this only hope 

Clings with the strength of frenzy and despair ; 

She screams not now, she breathes not now, 

She sends not up one vow. 

She forms not in her soul one secret prayer. 

All thought, all feeling, and all powers of life 

In the one effort centring. Wrathful they 

With tug and strain would force the maid away ; 

Didst thou, O Marriataly, see their strife } 

In pity didst thou see the suffering maid .'' 

Or was thine anger kindled, that rude hands 

Assail'd thy holy Image? — for behold 

The holy image shakes ! 

10. 

Irreverently bold, they deem the maid 

Relax'd her stubborn hold, 

And now with force redoubled drag their prey ; 

And now the rooted Idol to their sway 

Bends, — yields, — and now it falls. But then they 

scream ; 

For lo ! they feel the crumbling bank give way. 
And all are plunged into the stream. 

11. 

She hath escaped my will, Kehama cried ; 

She hath escaped, — but thou art here ; 

I have thee still. 

The worser criminal ! 

And on Ladurlad, while he spake, severe 

He fix'd his dreadful frown. 

The strong reflection of the pile 

Lit his dark lineaments. 

Lit the protruded brow, the gathered front. 

The steady eye of wrath. 

12. 

But while the fearful silence yet endured, 
Ladurlad roused himself; 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



571 



Ere yet the voice of destiny 

Which trembled on the Rajah's lips was loosed, 

Eager he interposed, 

As if despair had waken'd him to hope ; 

Mercy ! oh mercy ! only in defence — 

Only instinctively — 

Only to save my cliild, I smote the Prince ; 

King of the world, be merciful ! 

Crush me — but torture not ! 

13. 

The Man-Almighty deign'd him no reply ; 

Still he stood silent ; in no human mood 

Of mercy, in no hesitating thought 

Of right and justice. At the length he raised 

His brow, yet unrelax'd, — his lips unclosed, 

And, uttered from the heart. 

With the whole feeling of his soul enforced, 

The gathered vengeance came. 

14. 

I charm thy life 

From the weapons of strife. 

From stone and from wood. 

From fire and from flood, 

From the serpent's tooth. 

And the beasts of blood : 

From Sickness I charm thee. 

And Time shall not harm thee ; 

But Earth, which is mine, 

Its fruits shall deny thee ; 

And Water shall hear me. 

And know thee and fly thee ; 

And the Winds shall not touch thee 

When they pass by thee, 

And the Dews shall not wet thee, 

When they fall nigh thee : 

And thou shalt seek Death 

To release thee, in vain ; 

Thou shalt live in thy pain. 

While Kehama shall reign. 

With a fire in thy heart. 

And a fire in thy brain ; 

And Sleep shall obey me, 

And visit thee never, 

And the Curse shall be on thee 

Forever and ever. 

15. 

There where the Curse had stricken him, 

There stood the miserable man. 

There stood Ladurlad, with loose-hanging arms. 

And eyes of idiot wandering. 

Was it a dream ? alas ! 

He heard the river flow ; 

He heard the crumbling of the pile ; 

He heard the wind which shower 'd 

The thin, white ashes round. 

There motionless he stood, 

As if he hoped it were a dream, 

And feared to move, lest he should prove 

The actual misery ; 
And still at times he met Kehama's eye, 
Kehama's eye, that fastened on him still. 



in. 



THE RECOVERY. 



The Rajah turned toward the pile again ; 

Loud rose the song of death from all the crowd ; 

Their din the instruments begin, 

And once again join in 

With overwhelming sound. 

Ladurlad starts, — he looks around ; 

What hast thou here in view, 

O wretched man, in this disastrous scene .'' 

The soldier train, the Bramins who renew 

Their ministry around the funeral pyre, 

The empty palanquins. 

The dimly-fading fire. 



Where, too, is she whom most his heart held dear, 

His best-beloved Kailyal, where is she. 

The solace and the joy of many a year 

Of widowhood? is she then gone. 

And is he left ail-utterly alone. 

To bear his blasting curse, and none 

To succor or deplore him ? 

He staggers from the dreadful spot ; the throng 

Give way in fear before him ; 

Like one who carries pestilence about. 

Shuddering they shun him, where he moves along 

And now he wanders on 

Beyond the noisy rout : 

He cannot fly and leave his Curse behind ; 

Yet doth he seem to find 

A comfort in the change of circumstance. 

Adown the shore he strays. 

Unknowing where his wretched feet shall rest. 

But farthest from the fatal place is best. 

3. 

By this in the orient sky appears the gleam 

Of day. Lo ! what is yonder in the stream, 

Down the slow river floating slow. 

In distance indistinct and dimly seen.'' 

The childless one, with idle eye. 

Followed its motion thoughtlessly ; 

Idly he gazed, unknowing why. 

And half unconscious that he watch' d its way. 

Belike it is a tree 

Which some rude tempest, in its sudden sway, 

Tore from the rock, or from the hollow shore 

The undermining stream hath swept away. 

4. 

But when anon outswelling, by its side, 

A woman's robe he spied. 

Oh then Ladurlad started, 

As one, who in his grave 

Had heard an Angel's call. 

Yea, Marriataly, thou hast deign'd to save ! 

Yea, Goddess ! it is she, 

Kailyal, still clinging senselessly 

To thy dear Image, and in happy hour 



572 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



Upborne amid the wave 
By that preserving power. 



Headlong in hope and in joy 

Ladurlad plunged in the water ; 

The Water knew Kehama's spell ; 

The Water shrunk before him. 

Blind to the miracle, 

He rushes to his daughter, 

And treads the river depths in transport wild, 

And clasps, and saves his child. 



Upon the farther side, a level shore 

Of sand was spread : thither Ladurlad bore 

His daughter, holding still with senseless hand 

The saving Goddess ; there upon the sand 

He laid the livid maid. 

Raised up against his knees her drooping head ; 

Bent to her lips, — her lips as pale as death, — 

If he might feel her breath, 

His own the while in hope and dread suspended ; 

Chafed her cold breast, and ever and anon 

Let his hand rest, upon her heart extended. 

7. 

Soon did his touch perceive, or fancy, there 

The first faint motion of returning life. 

He chafes her feet, and lays them bare 

In the sun ; and now again upon her breast 

Lays his hot hand ; and now her lips he press'd. 

For now the stronger throb of life he knew; 

And her lips tremble too ! 

The breath comes palpably : 

Her quivering lids unclose, 

Feebly and feebly fall. 

Relapsing, as it seem'd, to dead repose. 



So in her father's arms thus languidly, 

While over her with earnest gaze he hung, 

Silent and motionless she lay, 

And painfully and slowly writhed at fits ; 

At fits, to short convulsive starts was stung. 

Till when the struggle and strong agony 

Had left her, quietly she lay reposed ; 

Her eyes now resting on Ladurlad's face, 

Relapsing now, and now again unclosed. 

The look she fix'd upon his face implies 

Nor thought nor feeling 5 senselessly she lies, 

Composed like one who sleeps with open eyes. 

9. 

Long he lean'd over her, 

In silence and in fear. 

Kailyal ! — at length he cried in such a tone 

As a poor mother ventures who draws near, 

With silent footstep, to her child's sick bed. 

My Father ! cried the maid, and raised her head, 

Awakening then to life and thought, — thou here ? 

For when his voice she heard, 

The dreadful past recurr'd. 

Which dimly, like a dream of pain, 

Till now with troubled sense confused her brain. 



10. 

And hath he spared us then ? she cried, 

Half rising as she spake. 

For hope and joy the sudden strength supplied; 

In mercy hath he curb'd his cruel will, 

That still thou livest ? But as thus she said, 

Impatient of that look of hope, her sire 

Shook hastily his head ; 
Oh ! he hath laid a Curse upon my life, 

A clinging curse, quoth he ; 

Hath sent a fire into my heart and brain, 

A burning fire, forever there to be ! 

The Winds of Heaven must never breathe on me ; 

The Rains and Dews must never fall on me ; 

Water must mock my thirst, and shrink from me ; 

The common Earth must yield no fruit to me ; 

Sleep, blessed Sleep ! must never light on me ; 

And Death, who comes to all, must fly from me, 

And never, never, set Ladurlad free. 

11. 

This is a dream ! exclaimed the incredulous maid, 

Yet in her voice the while a fear express'd, 

Which in her larger eye was manifest. 

This is a dream ! she rose, and laid her hand 

Upon her father's brow, to try the charm; 

He could not bear the pressure there ; — he 

shrunk ; 

He warded off her arm, 

As though it were an enemy's blow; he smote 

His daughter's arm aside. 

Her eye glanced down ; his mantle she espied, 

And caught it up. — Oh misery ! Kailyal cried, 

He bore me from the river-depths, and yet 

His garment is not wet ! 



IV. 



THE DEPARTURE. 



Reclined beneath a Cocoa's feathery shade 

Ladurlad lies, 

And Kailyal on his lap her head hath laid, 

To hide her streaming eyes. 

The boatman, sailing on his easy way, 

With envious eye beheld them where they lay ; 

For every herb and flower 

Was fresh and fragrant with the early dew; 

Sweet sung the birds in that delicious hour, 

And the cool gale of morning, as it blew. 

Not yet subdued by day's increasing power, 

Ruffling the surface of the silvery stream, 

Swept o'er the moisten'd sand, and raised no 

shower. 

Telling their tale of love. 

The boatman thought they lay 

At that lone hour, and who so blest as they ! 

2. 

But now the Sun in heaven is high ; 

The little songsters of the sky 

Sit silent in the sultry hour ; 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



573 



They pant and palpitate with heat ; 

Their bills are open languidly 

To catch the passing air ; 

They hear it not, they feel it not, 

It murmurs not, it moves not. 

The boatman, as he looks to land, 

Admires what men so mad to linger there, 

For yonder Cocoa's shade behind them falls, 

A single spot upon the burning sand. 



There all the morning was Ladurlad laid 

Silent and motionless, like one at ease ; 

There motionless upon her father's knees 

Reclined the silent maid. 

The man was still, pondering with steady mind, 

As if it were another's Curse, 

His own portentous lot ; 

Scanning it o'er and o'er in busy thought, 

As though it were a last night's tale of woe, 

Before the cottage door 

By some old beldam sung. 

While young and old, assembled round. 

Listened, as if by witchery bound. 

In fearful pleasure to her wondrous tongue. 



Musing so long he lay, that all things seem 

Unreal to his sense, even like a dream, 

A monstrous dream of things which could not be. 

That beating, burning brow, — why it was now 

The height of noon, and he was lying there 

In the broad sun, all bare ! 

What if he felt no wind ! the air was still. 

That was the general will 

Of Nature, not his own peculiar doom; 

Yon rows of rice erect and silent stand. 

The shadow of the Cocoa's lighest plume 

Is steady on the sand. 

5. 

Is it indeed a dream ? He rose to try ; 

Impatient to the water side he went, 

And down he bent, 

And in the stream he plunged his hasty arm 

To break the visionary charm. 

With fearful eye and fearful heart. 

His daughter watch'd the event ; 

She saw the start and shudder. 

She heard the in-drawn groan. 

For the Water knew Kehama's charm ; 

The Water shrunk before his arm ; 

His dry hand moved about unmoisten'd there j 

As easily might that dry hand avail 

To stop the passing gale. 

Or grasp the impassive air. 

He is Almighty then ! 

Exclaim'd the wretched man in his despair: 

Air knows him ; Water knows him ; Sleep 

His dreadful word will keep ; 

Even in the grave there is no rest for me. 

Cut off from that last hope, — the wretch's joy ; 

And Veeshnoo hath no power to save. 

Nor Seeva to destroy. 



Oh ! wrong not them ! quoth Kailyal ; 

Wrong not the Heavenly Powers ! 

Our hope is all in them. They are not blind ! 

And lighter wrongs than ours, 

And lighter crimes than his. 

Have drawn the Incarnate down among mankind. 

Already have the Immortals heard our cries, 

And in the mercy of their righteousness 

Beheld us in the hour of our distress I 

She spake with streaming eyes. 

Where pious love and ardent feeling beam. 

And turning to the Image threw 

Her grateful arms around it. — It was thou 

Who savedst me from the stream ! 

My Marriataly, it was thou ! 

I had not else been here 

To share my Father's Curse, 

To suffer now, — and yet to thank thee thus ! 



Here then, the maiden cried, dear Father, here 

Raise our own Goddess, our divine Preserver ! 

The mighty of the earth despise her rites ; 

She loves the poor who serve her. 

Set up her Image here ; 

With heart and voice the guardian Goddess bless; 

For jealously would she resent 

Neglect and thanklessness ; — 

Set up her Image here. 

And bless her for her aid with tongue and soul 

sincere. 

8. 

So saying, on her knees the maid 

Began the pious toil. 

Soon their joint labor scoops the easy soil; 

They raise the Image up with reverent hand, 

And round its rooted base they heap the sand. 

O Thou whom we adore, 

O Marriataly, thee do I implore, 

The virgin cried ; my Goddess, pardon thou 

The unwilling wrong, that I no more, 

With dance and song, 

Can do thy daily service, as of yore ! 

The flowers which last I wreathed around thy 

brow. 

Are withering there ; and never now 

Shall I at eve adore thee, 

And swimming round, with arms outspread. 

Poise the full pitcher on my head, 

In dexterous dance before thee. 

While underneath the reedy shed, at rest 

My father sat the evening rites to view, 

And blest thy name, and blest 

His daughter too. 



Then heaving from her heart a heavy sigh, 
O Goddess ! from that happy home, cried she. 

The Almighty Man hath forced us ! 

And homeward with the thought unconsciously 

She turn'd her dizzy eye. — But there on high, 

With many a dome, and pinnacle, and spire, 



574 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



The summits of the Golden Palaces 

Blazed in the dark blue sky, aloft, like fire. 

Father, away ! she cried, away ! 

Why linger we so nigh ? 

For not to him hath Nature given 

The thousand eyes of Deity, 

Always and every where, with open sight, 

To persecute our flight ! 

Away — away ! she said. 

And took her father's hand, and like a child 

He followed where she led. 



V. 



THE SEPARATION. 



Evening comes on : arising from the stream, 
Homeward the tall flamingo wings his flight; 
And where he sails athwart the setting beam, 
His scarlet plumage glows with deeper light. 
The watchman, at the wish'd approach of night, 

Gladly forsakes the field, where he all day. 

To scare the winged plunderers from their prey. 

With shout and sling, on yonder clay -built height, 

Hath borne the sultry ray. 

Hark ! at the Golden Palaces 

The Bramin strikes the hour. 

For leagues and leagues around, the brazen sound 

Rolls through the stillness of departing day, 

Like thunder far awaj. 



Behold them wandering on their hopeless way, 

Unknowing where they stray. 

Yet sure where'er they stop to find no rest. 

The evening gale is blowing ; 

It plays among the trees ; 

Like plumes upon a warrior's crest, 

They see yon cocoas tossing to the breeze. 

Ladurlad views them with impatient mind ; 

Impatiently he hears 

The gale of evening blowing, 

The sound of waters flowing. 

As if all sights and sounds combined 

To mock his irremediable woe ; 

For not for him the blessed waters flow ; 

For not for him the gales of evening blow ; 

A fire is in his heart and brain. 

And Nature hath no healing for his pain. 



The Moon is up, still pale 

Amid the lingering light. 

A cloud, ascending in the eastern sky, 

Sails slowly o'er the vale. 

And darkens round, and closes in the night. 

No hospitable house is nigh. 

No traveller's home, the wanderers to invite ; 

Forlorn, and with long watching overworn. 

The wretched father and the wretched child 

Lie down amid the wild. 



Before them, full in sight, 

A white flag, flapping to the winds of night, 

Marks where the tiger seized a human prey. 

Far, far away, with natural dread 

Shunning the perilous spot. 

At other times abhorrent had they fled ; 

But now they heed it not. 

Nothing they care ; the boding death-flag now 

In vain for them may gleam and flutter there. 

Despair and agony in him 

Prevent all other thought ; 

And Kailyal hath no heart or sense for aught, 

Save her dear father's strange and miserable lot. 



There, in the woodland shade, 

Upon the lap of that unhappy maid, 

His head Ladurlad laid. 

And never word he spake ; 

Nor heaved he one complaining sigh, 

Nor groaned he with his misery, 

But silently, for her dear sake, 

Endured the raging pain. 

And now the moon was hid on high ; 

No stars were glimmering in the sky ; 

She could not see her father's eye, 

How red with burning agony : 

Perhaps he may be cooler now. 

She hoped, and long'd to touch his brow 

With gentle hand, yet did not dare 

To lay the painful pressure there. 

Now forward from the tree she bent. 

And anxiously her head she leant, 

And listened to his breath. 

Ladurlad's breath was short and quick, 

Yet regular it came. 

And like the slumber of the sick, 

In pantings still the same. 

Oh, if he sleeps ! — her lips unclose, 

Intently listening to the sound. 

That equal sound so like repose. 

Still quietly the sufferer lies. 

Bearing his torment now with resolute will ; 

He neither moves, nor groans, nor sighs. 

Doth satiate cruelty bestow 

This little respite to his woe, 

She thought, or are there Gods who look below ? 



Perchance, thought Kailyal, willingly deceived. 

Our Marriataly hath his pain relieved. 

And she hath bade the blessed Sleep assuage 

His agony, despite the Rajah's rage. 

That was a hope which fill'd her gushing eyes, 

And made her heart in silent yearnings rise. 

To bless the power divine in thankfulness. 

And yielding to that joyful thought her mind, 

Backward the maid her aching head reclined 

Against the tree, and to her father's breath 

In fear she hearken'd still with earnest ear. 

But soon forgetful fits the eflbrt broke : 

In starts of recollection then she woke. 

Till now, benignant Nature overcame 

The Virgin's weary and exhausted frame , 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA, 



575 



Nor able more her painful watch to keep, 
She closed her heavy lids, and sunk to sleep. 

7. 

Vain was her hope ! he did not rest from pain ; 

The Curse was burning in his brain ; 

Alas ! the innocent maiden thought he slept ; 

But Sleep the Rajah's dread commandment kept; 

Sleep knev/ Kehama's Curse. 

The dews of night fell round them now ; 

They never bathed Ladurlad's brow; 

They knew Kehama's Curse, 

The night-wind is abroad ; 

Aloft it moves among the stirring trees ; 

He only heard the breeze, — 

No healing aid to him it brought ; 

It play'd around his head, and touch'd him not; 

It knew Kehama's curse. 

8. 

Listening, Ladurlad lay in his despair. 

If Kailyal slept, for wherefore should she share 

Her father's wretchedness, which none could cure ? 

Better alone to suffer ; he must bear 

The burden of his Curse ; but why endure 

The unavailing presence of her grief.'' 

She, too, apart from him, might find relief; 

For dead the Rajah deem'd her, and as thus 

Already she his dread revenge had fled. 

So might she still escape, and live secure. 



Gently he lifts his head. 

And Kailyal does not feel ; 

Gently he rises up, — she slumbers still; 

Gently he steals away with silent tread. 

Anon she started, for she felt him gone ; 

She call'd, and through the stillness of the night, 

His step was heard in flight. 

Mistrustful for a moment of the sound. 

She listens ; till the step is heard no more ; 

But then she knows that he indeed is gone, 

And with a thrilling shriek she rushes on. 

The darkness and the wood impede her speed ; 

She lifts her voice again — 

Ladurlad ! — and again, alike in vain, 

And with a louder cry 

Straining its tone to hoarseness ; — far away, 

Selfish in misery. 

He heard the call, and faster did he fly. 

10. 

She leans against that tree whose jutting bough 

Smote her so rudely. Her poor heart, 

How audibly it panted. 

With sudden stop and start ! 

Her breath, how short and painfully it came ! 

Hark ! all is still around her, — 

And the night so utterly dark. 

She opened her eyes, and she closed them. 

And the blackness and blank were the same. 

11. 

'Twas like a dream of horror, and she stood 
Half doubting whether all indeed were true. 



A Tiger's howl, loud echoing through the wood, 

Roused her; the dreadful sound she knew, 

And turn'd instinctively to what she fear'd. 

Far off' the Tiger's hungry howl was heard ; 

A nearer horror met the maiden's view, 

For right before her a dim form appear'd, 

A human form in that black night, 

Distinctly shaped by its own lurid light. 

Such light as the sickly Moon is seen to shed. 

Through spell-raised fogs, a bloody, baleful red. 

12. 

That Spectre fix'd his eyes upon her full ; 
The light which shone in their accursed orbs 

Was like a light from Hell ; 
And it grew deeper, kindling with the view. 

She could not turn her sight 

From that infernal gaze, which like a spell 

Bound her, and held her rooted to the ground. 

It palsied every power; 

Her limbs avail'd her not in that dread hour ; 

There was no moving thence ; 

Thought, memory, sense were gone : 

She heard not now the Tiger's nearer cry ; 

She thought not on her father now ; 

Her cold heart's-blood ran back ; 

Her hand lay senseless on the bough it clasp'd ; 

Her feet were motionless ; 

Her fascinated eyes 

Like the stone eyeballs of a statue fix'd, 

Yet conscious of the sight that blasted them. 

13. 

The wind is abroad ; 

It opens the clouds ; 

Scattered before the gale, 

They skurry through the sky. 

And the darkness, retiring, rolls over the vale. 

The Stars in their beauty come forth on high, 

And through the dark blue night 

The Moon rides on triumphant, broad and bright. 

Distinct and darkening in her light 

Appears that Spectre foul ; 

The moonbeam gives his face and form to sight, 

The shape of man. 

The living form and face of Arvalan ! — 

His hands are spread to clasp her. 

14. 

But at that sight of dread the Maid awoke ; 

As if a lightning-stroke 

Had burst the spell of fear. 

Away she broke all franticly, and flea. 

There stood a temple near, beside the way, 

An open fane of Pollear, gentle God, 

To whom the travellers for protection pray. 

With elephantine head and eye severe. 

Here stood his image, such as when he seiz'd 

And tore the rebel Giant from the ground, 

With mighty trunk wreathed round 

His impotent bulk, and on his tusks, on high 

Impaled upheld him between earth and sky. 

15. 

Thither the affrighted Maiden sped her flight. 
And she hath reach'd the place of sanctuary ; 



576 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



VI. 



And now within the temple in despite, 

Yea, even before the altar, in his sight. 

Hath Arvalan, with fleshly arm of might. 

Seized her. That instant the insulted God 

Caught him aloft, and from his sinuous grasp, 

As if from some tort catapult let loose, 

Over the forest hurl'd him all abroad. 

16. 

O'ercome with dread. 

She tarried not to see what heavenly Power 

Had saved her in that hour : 

Breathless and faint she fled. 

And now her foot struck on the knotted root 

Of a broad manchineel, and there the Maid 

Fell senselessly beneath the deadly shade. 



VI. 
CASYAPA. 



Shall this, then, be thy fate, O lovely Maid.? 

Thus, Kailyal, must thy sorrows then be ended ? 

Her face upon the ground. 

Her arms at length extended, 

There, like a corpse, behold her laid 

Beneath the deadly shade. 

What if the hungry Tiger, prowling by, 

Should snufi" his banquet nigh ? 

Alas ! Death needs not now his ministry ; 

The baleful boughs hang o'er her, 

The poison-dews descend. 

What Power will now restore her ? 

What God will be her friend ? 

2. 

Bright and so beautiful was that fair night. 

It might have calm'd the gay amid their mirth. 

And given the wretched a delight in tears. 

One of the Glendoveers, 

The loveliest race of all of heavenly birth. 

Hovering with gentle motion o'er the earth. 

Amid the moonlight air. 

In sportive flight was floating round and round. 

Unknowing where his joyous way was tending. 

He saw the Maid where motionless she lay. 

And stoop'd his flight descending. 

And raised her from the ground. 

Her heavy eyelids are half closed; 

Her cheeks are pale and livid like the dead ; 

Down hang her loose arms lifelessly ; 

Down hangs her languid head. 



With timely pity touch'd for one so fair. 

The gentle Glendoveer 

Press'd her, thus pale and senseless, to his breast. 

And springs aloft in air with sinewy wings, 

And bears the Maiden there. 
Where Himakoot, the holy Mount, on high 

From mid-earth rising in mid-heaven. 
Shines in its glory like the throne of Even. 



Soaring with strenuous flight above, 

He bears her to the blessed Grove, 

Where in his ancient and august abodes. 

There dwells old Casyapa, the Sire of Gods. 



The Father of the Immortals sat. 

Where, underneath the Tree of Life, 

The Fountains of the Sacred River sprung ; 

The Father of the Immortals smiled 

Benignant on his son. 

Knowest thou, he said, my child, 

Ereenia, knowest thou whom thou bringest here, 

A mortal to the holy atmosphere ? 

EREENIA. 

I found her in the Groves of Earth, 

Beneath a poison-tree. 

Thus lifeless as thou seest her. 

In pity have I brought her to these bowers, 

Not erring, Father ! by that smile — 

By that benignant eye ! 

CASYAPA. 

What if the Maid be sinful ? if her ways 

Were ways of darkness, and her death predoom'd 

To that black hour of midnight, when the Moon 

Hath turn'd her face away, 

Unwilling to behold 
The unhappy end of guilt.? 

EREENIA. 

Then what a lie, my Sire, were written here, 

In these fair characters ! and she had died, 

Sure proof of purer life and happier doom, 

Now in the moonlight, in the eye of Heaven, 

If I had left so fair a flower to fade. 

But thou, — all knowing as thou art. 

Why askest thou of me ? 

O Father, oldest, holiest, wisest, best, 

To whom all things are plain, 

Why askest thou of me ? 

CASYAPA. 

Knowest thou Kehama ? 

EREENIA 

The Almighty Man ! 

Who knows not him and his tremendous power ? 

The Tyrant of the Earth, 

The Enemy of Heaven ! 

CASYAPA. 

Fearest thou the Rajah ? 

EREENIA. 

He is terrible ! 

CASYAPA. 

Yea, he is terrible ! such power hath he. 

That hope hath entered Hell. 

The Asuras and the spirits of the damn'd 

Acclaim their Hero ; Yamen, with the might 

Of Godhead, scarce can quell 

The rebel race accurs'd : 



VI. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



577 



Half from their beds of torture they uprise, 

\ And half uproot their chains. 

Is there not fear in Heaven ? 

The souls that are in bliss suspend their joy ; 

The danger hath disturb'd 

The calm of Deity, 

And Brama fears, and Veeshnoo turns his face 

In doubt toward Seeva's throne. 

EREENIA. 

I have seen Indra tremble at his prayers. 

And at his dreadful penances turn pale. 

They claim and wrest from Seeva power so vast. 

That even Seeva's self, 

The Highest, cannot grant and be secure. 

CASYAPA. 

And darest thou, Ereenia, brave 
The Almighty Tyrant's power ? 

EREENIA. 

I brave him. Father ! I ? 

CASYAPA. 

Darest thou brave his vengeance ? — For, if not. 

Take her again to earth, 

Cast her before the Tiger in his path. 

Or where the death-dew-dropping tree 

May work Kehama's will. 

EREENIA. 

Never ! 

CASYAPA. 

Then meet his wrath ! for He, even He, 
Hath set upon this worm his wanton foot. 

EREENIA. 

I knew her not, how wretched and how fair. 

When here I wafted her — poor Child of Earth, 

Shall I forsake thee, seeing thee so fair. 

So wretched ? O my Father, let the Maid 

Dwell in the Sacred Grove I 

CASYAPA. 

That must not be. 

For Force and Evil then would enter here ; 

Ganges, the holy stream which cleanseth sin. 

Would flow from hence polluted in its springs, 

And they who gasp upon its banks in death, 

Feel no salvation. Piety, and Peace, 

And Wisdom, these are mine ; but not the power 

Which could protect her from the Almighty Man ; 

Nor when the Spirit of dead Arvalan 

Should persecute her here to glut his rage, 

To heap upon her yet more agony. 

And ripen more damnation for himself. 

EREENIA. 

Dead Arvalan ? 

CASYAPA. 

All power to him, whereof 
The disimbodied spirit in its state 
Of weakness could be made participant, 
73 



Kehama hath assign' d, until his days 
Of wandering shall be number'd. 

EREENIA. 

Look ! she drinks 

The gale of healing from the blessed Groves. 

She stirs, and lo ! her hand 

Hath touch'd the Holy River in its source, 

Who would have shrunk if aught impure were nigh. 

CASYAPA. 

The Maiden, of a truth, is pure from sin. 



The waters of the Holy Spring 

About the hand of Kailyal play ; 

They rise, they sparkle, and they sing, 

Leaping where languidly she lay. 

As if with that rejoicing stir 

The Holy Spring would welcome her. 

The Tree of Life, which o'er her spread, 

Benignant bow'd its sacred head. 

And dropp'd its dews of healing; 

And her heart-blood, at every breath 

Recovering from the strife of death, 

Drew in new strength and feeling. 

Behold her beautiful in her repose, 

A life-bloom reddening now her dark-brown 

cheek ; 

And lo ! her eyes unclose. 

Dark as the depth of Ganges' spring profound, 

When night hangs over it ; 

Bright as the Moon's refulgent beam. 

That quivers on its clear up-sparkling stream. 

6. 

Soon she let fall her lids. 

As one who, from a blissful dream 

Waking to thoughts of pain. 

Fain would return to sleep, and dream again. 

Distrustful of the sight. 

She moves not, fearing to disturb 

The deep and full delight. 

In wonder fix'd, opening again her eye 

She gazes silently. 

Thinking her mortal pilgrimage was past. 

That she had reach'd her heavenly home of rest, 

And these were Gods before her, 

Or spirits of the blest. 



Lo ! at Ereenia's voice, 

A Ship of Heaven comes sailing down the skies. 

Where wouldst thou bear her .'' cries 

The ancient Sire of Gods. 

Straight to the Swerga, to my bower of bliss, 

The Glendoveer replies, 

To Indra's own abodes. 

Foe of her foe, were it alone for this 

Indra should guard her from his vengeance there ; 

But if the God forbear, 

Unwilling yet the perilous strife to try. 

Or shrinking from the dreadful Rajah's might, — 

Weak as I am, O Father, even I 

Stand forth in Seeva's sight. 



578 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



Trust thou in him whate'er betide, 

And stand forth fearlessly ! 

The Sire of Gods replied : 

All that He wills is right ; and doubt not thou, 

Howe'er our feeble scope of sight 

May fail us now. 

His righteous will in all things must be done. 

My blessing be upon thee, O my son ! 



vn. 



THE SWERGA 



Then in the Ship of Heaven, Ereenia laid 

The waking, wondering Maid ; 

The Ship of Heaven, instinct with thought, 

display'd 

Its living sail, and glides along the sky 

On either side, in wavy tide. 

The clouds of morn along its path divide ; 

The Winds, who swept in wild career on high. 

Before its presence check their charmed force ; 

The Winds, that loitering lagg'd along their course. 

Around the living Bark enamor'd play, 
Swell underneath the sail, and sing before its way. 

2. 

That Barkj in shape, was like the furrow'd shell 

Wherein the Sea-Nymphs to their parent-King, 

On festal day, their duteous offerings bring. 

Its hue .'' — Go watch the last green light 

Ere Evening yields the western sky to Night ; 

Or fix upon the Sun thy strenuous sight 

Till thou hast reach'd its orb of chrysolite. 

The sail, from end to end display'd, 

Bent, like a rainbow, o'er the Maid. 

An Angel's head, with visual eye. 

Through trackless space, directs its chosen way ; 

Nor aid of wing, nor foot, nor fin, 

Requires to voyage o'er the obedient sky. 

Smooth as the swan, when not a breeze at even 

Disturbs the surface of the silver stream, 

Through air and sunshine sails the Ship of Heaven. 



Recumbent there the Maiden glides along 

On her aerial way. 

How swift she feels not, though the swiftest 

wind 

Had flagg'd in flight behind. 

Motionless as a sleeping babe she lay, 

And all serene in mind. 

Feeling no fear; for that ethereal air 

With such new life and joyance fill'd her heart. 

Fear could not enter there ; 

For sure she deem'd her mortal part was o'er. 

And she was sailing to the heavenly shore ; 

And that angelic form, who moved beside, 

Was some good Spirit sent to be her guide. 



Daughter of Earth ! therein thou deem'st aright; 

And never yet did form more beautiful, 

In dreams of night descending from on high, 

Bless the religious Virgin's gifted sight, 

Nor, like a vision of delight, 

Rise on the raptured Poet's inward eye. 

Of human form divine was he, 

The immortal Youth of Heaven who floated by, 

Even such as that divine st form shall be 

In those blest stages of our onward race, 

When no infirmity. 

Low thought, nor base desire, nor wasting care, 

Deface the semblance of our heavenly sire. 



The wings of Eagle or of Cherubim 

Had seem'd unworthy him ; 

Angelic power, and dignity, and grace. 

Were in his glorious pennons ; from the neck 

Down to the ankle reach'd their swelling web. 

Richer than robes of Tyrian dye, that deck 

Imperial Majesty ; 
Their color like the winter's moonless sky. 
When all the stars of midnight's canopy 
Shine forth ; or like the azure deep at noon, 
Reflecting back to heaven a brighter blue. 
Such was their tint when closed ; but when out- 
spread, 
The permeating light 
Shed through their substance thin a varying hue ; 
Now bright as when the rose. 
Beauteous as fragrant, gives to scent and sight 
A like delight ; now like the juice that flows 
From Douro's generous vine ; 
Or ruby when with deepest red it glows; 
Or as the morning clouds refulgent shine, 
When, at forthcoming of the Lord of Day, 
The Orient, like a shrine. 
Kindles as it receives the rising ray. 
And heralding his way. 
Proclaims the presence of the Power divine. 

6. 

Thus glorious were the wings 

Of that celestial Spirit, as he went 

Disporting through his native element. 

Nor these alone 

The gorgeous beauties that they gave to view ; 

Through the broad membrane branched a pliant 

bone. 

Spreading like fibres from their parent stem ; 

Its veins like interwoven silver shone, 

Or as the chaster hue 

Of pearls that grace some Sultan's diadem. 

Now with slow stroke and strong behold him 

smite 

The buoyant air, and now in gentler flight, 

On motionless wing expanded, shoot along. 

7. ,j, 

Through air and sunshine sails the Ship of Heaven ;{|| 
Far, far beneath them lies "' 

The gross and heavy atmosphere of earth ; 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



579 



And with the Swerga gales, 

The Maid of mortiil birth 

At every breatli a new delight inhales. 

And now toward its port the Ship of Heaven, 

Swift as a falling meteor, shapes its flight, 

Yet gently as the dews of night that gem, 

And do not bend the hare-bell's slenderest stem. 

Daughter of Earth, Ereenia cried, alight; 

This is thy place of rest, the Swerga this ; 

Lo, here my Bower of Bliss ! 



He furl'd his azure wings, which round him fold 

Graceful as robes of Grecian chief of old. 

The happy Kailyal knew not where to gaze ; 

Her eyes around in joyful wonder roam. 

Now turn'd upon the lovely Glendoveer, 

Now on his heavenly home. 

EREENIA. 

Here, Maiden, rest in peace, 

And I will guard thee, feeble as I am. 

The Almighty Rajah shall not harm thee here. 

While Indra keeps his throne, 

KAILYAL. 

Alas, thou fearest him ! 

Immortal as thou art, thou fearest him ! 

I thought that death had saved me from his power ; 

Not even the dead are safe. 

EREENIA. 

Long years of life and happiness, 

O Child of Earth, be thine ! 

From death I sav'd thee, and from all thy foes 

Will save thee, while the Swerga is secure. 

KAILYAL. 

Not me alone, O gentle Deveta ! 

I have a Father suffering upon earth, 

A persecuted, wretched, poor, good man, 

For whose strange misery 

There is no human help ; 

And none but I dare comfort him 

Beneath Kehama's Curse ; 
O gentle Deveta, protect him too ! 

EREENIA. 

Come, plead thyself to Indra ! Words like thine 

May win their purpose, rouse his slumbering 

heart, 

And make him yet put forth his arm to wield 

The thunder, while the thunder is his own. 



Then to the Garden of the Deity 

Ereenia led the Maid. 

In the mid garden tower'd a giant Tree; 

Rock-rooted on a mountain-top, it grew, 

Rear'd its unrivall'd head on high, 

And stretch'd a thousand branches o'er the sky, 

Drinking with all its leaves celestial dew. 

Lo ! where from thence, as from a living well, 

A thousand torrents flow ! 

For still in one perpetual shower, 



Like diamond drops, ethereal waters fell 

From every leaf of all its ample bower. 

Rolling adown the steep 

From that aerial height. 

Through the deep shade of aromatic trees, 

Half seen, the cataracts shoot their gleams of light, 

And pour upon the breeze 

Their thousand voices ; far away the roar, 

In modulations of delightful sound, 

Half heard and ever varying, floats around. 

Below, an ample Lake expanded lies, 

Blue as the o'er-arching skies ; 

Forth issuing from that lovely Lake 

A thousand rivers water Paradise. 

Full to the brink, yet never overflowing. 

They cool the amorous gales, which, ever blowing, 

O'er their melodious surface love to stray ; 

Then, winging back their way, 

Their vapors to the parent Tree repay ; 

And ending thus where they began. 

And feeding thus the source from whence they 

came, 

The eternal rivers of the Swerga ran, 

Forever renovate, yet still the same. 

10. 

On that ethereal lake, whose waters lie 

Blue and transpicuous, like another sky, 

The Elements had rear'd their King's abode. 

A strong, controlling power their strife suspended. 

And there their hostile essences they blended, 

To form a Palace worthy of the God. 

Built on the Lake, the waters were its floor ; 

And here its walls were water arcli'd with fire ; 

And here were fire with water vaulted o'er ; 

And spires and pinnacles of fire 

Round watery cupolas aspire. 

And domes of rainbow rest on fiery towers, 

And roofs of flame are turreted around 

With cloud, and shafts of cloud with flame are 

bound. 

Here, too, the Elements forever veer, 

Ranging around with endless interchanging; 

Pursued in love, and so in love pursuing, 

In endless revolutions here they roll ; 

Forever their mysterious work renewing ; 

The parts all shifting, still unchanged the whole. 

Even we on earth at intervals descry 

Gleams of the glory, streaks of flowing light, 

Openings of heaven, and streams that flash at 

night. 

In fitful splendor, through the northern sky. 

11. 

Impatient of delay, Ereenia caught 

The Maid aloft, and spread his wings abroad, 

And bore her to the presence of the God. 

There Indra sat upon his throne reclined, 

Where Devetas adore him ; 

The lute of Nared, warbling on the wind, 

All tones of magic harmony combined 

To soothe his troubled mind. 

While the dark-eyed Apsaras danced before him. 

In vain the God-musician play'd. 
In vain the dark-eyed Nymphs of Heaven essay'd 



580 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA, 



To charm him with their beauties in the dance ; 

And when he saw the mortal Maid appear, 

Led by the heroic Glendoveer, 

A deeper trouble fill'd his countenance. 

What hast thou done, Ereenia, said the God, 

Bringing a mortal here ? 

And while he spake, his eye was on the Maid ; 

The look he gave was solemn, not severe j 

No hope to Kailyal it convey'd. 

And yet it struck no fear; 

There was a sad displeasure in his air. 

But pity too was there. 



Hear me, O Indra ! On the lower earth 

I found this child of man, by what mishap 

I know not, lying in the lap of death. 

Aloft I bore her to our Father's grove, 

Not having other thought, than when the gales 

Of bliss had heal'd her, upon earth again 
To leave its lovely daughter. Other thoughts 

Arose, when Casyapa declared her fate } 

For she is one who groans beneath the power 

Of the dread Rajah, terrible alike 

To men and Gods. His son, dead Arvalan, 

Arm'd with a portion, Indra, of thy power, 

Already wrested from thee, persecutes 

The Maid, the helpless one, the innocent. 

What, then, behoved me but to waft her here 

To my own Bower of Bliss ? what other choice .'' 

The spirit of foul Arvalan not yet 

Hath power to enter here ; here thou art yet 

Supreme, and yet the Swerga is thine own. 



No child of man, Ereenia, in the Bowers 
Of Bliss may sojourn, till he hath put off 

His mortal part ; for on mortality 

Time, and Infirmity, and Death attend, 

Close followers they, and in their mournful train 

Sorrow, and Fain, and Mutability. 
Did these find entrance here, we should behold 

Our joys, like earthly summers, pass away. 

Those joys perchance may pass ; a stronger hand 

May wrest my sceptre, and unparadise 

The Swerga ; — but, Ereenia, if we fall, 

Let it be Fate's own arm that casts us down; 

We will not rashly hasten and provoke 

The blow, nor bring ourselves the ruin on. 

EREEjriA. 

Fear courts the blow, Fear brings the ruin on. 

Needs must the chariot- wheels of Destiny 

Crush him who throws himself before their track. 

Patient and prostrate. 

INDRA. 

All may yet be well. 

Who knows but Veesnnoo will descend and save, 

Once more incarnate ? 

EREENIA. 

Look not there for help. 

Nor build on unsubstantial hope thy trust. 

Our Father Casyapa hath said he turns 



His doubtful eye to Seeva, even as thou 

Dost look to him for aid. But thine own strength 

Should for thine own salvation be put forth ; 

Then might the higher Powers approving see 

And bless the brave resolve. — Oh that my arm 

Could wield yon lightnings which play idly there, 

In inoffensive radiance, round thy head ! 

The Swerga should not need a champion now, 

Nor Earth implore deliverance still in vain ! 



Thinkest thou I want the will .'' rash Son of Heaven, 
What if my arm be feeble as thine own 
Against the dread Kehama ? He went on 

Conquering in irresistible career. 

Till his triumphant car had measured o'er 

The insufficient earth, and all the Kings 

Of men received his yoke ; then had he won 

His will, to ride upon their necks elate, 

And crown his conquests with the sacrifice 

That should, to men and gods, proclaim him Lord 

And Sovereign Master of the vassal World, 

Sole Rajah, the Omnipotent below. 

The steam of that portentous sacrifice 

Arose to Heaven. Then was the hour to strike; 

Then, in the consummation of his pride, 

His height of glory, then the thunderbolt 

Should have gone forth, and hurl'd him from his 

throne 

Down to the fiery floor of Padalon, 

To everlasting burnings, agony 

Eternal, and remorse which knows no end. 

That hour went by : grown impious in success, | 

By prayer and penances he wrested now 1 

Such power from Fate, that soon, if Seeva turn not 

His eyes on earth, and no Avatar save. 

Soon will he seize the Swerga for his own, 

Roll on through Padalon his chariot wheels, 

Tear up the adamantine bolts which lock 

The accurs'd Asuras to its burning floor, 

And force the drink of Immortality 

From Yamen's charge. Vain were it now to strive ; 

My thunder cannot pierce the sphere of power 

Wherewith, as with a girdle, he is bound. 

KAILYAL. 

Take me to earth, O gentle Deveta ! 

Take me again to earth ! This is no place 

Of rest for me ! — My Father still must bear 

His Curse, — he shall not bear it all alone ; 

Take me to earth, that I may follow him ! — 

I do not fear the Almighty Man ! the Gods 

Are feeble here ; but there are higher Powers, 

Who will not turn their eyes from wrongs like 

ours; 

Take me to earth, O gentle Deveta ! — 

12. 

Saying thus, she knelt, and to his knees she clung, 
And bow'd her head, in tears and silence praying. 

Rising anon, around his neck she flung 

Her arms, and there with folded hands she hung, 

And fixing on the guardian Glendoveer 

Her eyes, more eloquent than Angel's tongue. 

Again she cried. There is no comfort here ! 



VIII. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



581 



I must be with my Father in his pain. — 
Take me to earth, O Deveta, again ! 

13. 

Indra with admiration heard the Maid. 

O Child of Earth, he cried. 

Already in thy spirit thus divine, 

Whatever weal or woe betide. 

Be that high sense of duty still thy guide. 

And all good Powers will aid a soul like thine. 

Then turning to Ereenia, thus he said — 

Take her where Ganges hath its second birth. 

Below our sphere, and yet above the earth; 

There may Ladurlad rest beyond the power 

Of the dread Rajah, till the fated hour. 



VIII. 



THE SACRIFICE. 



Dost thou tremble, O Indra, O God of the sky, 
Why slumber those thunders of thine .'' 

Dost thou tremble on high, — 

Wilt thou tamely the Swerga resign, — 

Art thou smitten, O Indra, with dread ? 

Or seest thou not, seest thou not, Monarch divine, 

I How many a day to Seeva's shrine 

I Kehama his victim hath led .'' 

Nine and ninety days are fled. 

Nine and ninety steeds have bled ; 

One more, the rite will be complete — 

One victim more, and this the dreadful day. 

Then will the impious Rajah seize thy seat. 

And wrest the thunder-sceptre from thy sway. 

Along the mead the hallow'd Steed 

Yet bends at liberty his way ; 

At noon his consummating blood will flow. 

O day of woe ! above, below. 

That blood confirms the Almighty Tyrant's reign ! 

I Thou tremblest, O Indra, O God of the Sky, 
i| Thy thunder is vain ; 

II Thou tremblest on high for thy power ! 
But where is Veeshnoo at this hour ? 

But where is Seeva's eye .'' 

Is the Destroyer blind ? 

Is the Preserver careless for mankind ? 



Along the mead the hallow'd Steed 

Still wanders whereso'er he will, 

O'er hill, or dale, or plain ; 

No human hand hath trick'd that mane 

From which he shakes the morning dew ; 

His mouth has never felt the rein ; 

His lips have never froth'd the chain j 

For pure of blemish and of stain, 

His neck unbroke to mortal yoke, 

Like Nature free the Steed must be. 

Fit offering for the Immortals he. 

A year and day the Steed must stray 

Wherever chance may guide his way, 

Before he fall at Seeva's shrine ; 



The year and day have pass'd away. 
Nor touch of man hath marr'd the rite divine 

And now at noon the Steed must bleed. 
The perfect rite to-day must force the meed 
Which Fate reluctant shudders to bestow ; 

Then must the Swerga-God 

Yield to the Tyrant of the World below ; 

Then must the Devetas obey 

The Rajah's rod, and groan beneath his hateful 

sway. 



The Sun rides high ; the hour is nigh ; 

The multitude, who long 

Lest aught should mar the rite, 

In circle wide on every side, 

Have kept the Steed in sight. 

Contract their circle now, and drive him on. 

Drawn in long files before the Temple-court, 

The Rajah's archers flank an ample space ; 

Here, moving onward still, they drive him near, 

Then, opening, give him way to enter here. 

4. 

Behold him ; how he starts and flings his head ! 

On either side in glittering order spread. 

The archers ranged in narrowing lines appear ; 

The multitude behind close up the rear 

With moon-like bend, and silently await 

The awful end. 

The rite that shall from Indra wrest his power. 

In front, with far-stretched walls, and many a 

tower. 

Turret, and dome, and pinnacle elate, 

The huge Pagoda seems to load the land : 

And there before the gate 

The Bramin band expectant stand ; 

The axe is ready for Kehama's hand. 



Hark ! at the Golden Palaces 

The Bramin strikes the time ! 

One, two, three, four, a thrice-told chime. 

And then again, one, two. 

The bowl that in its vessel floats, anew 

Must fill and sink again ; 

Then will the final stroke be due. 

The Sun rides high, the noon is nigh. 

And silently, as if spell-bound, 

The multitude expect the sound. 



Lo ! how the Steed, with sudden start. 

Turns his quick head to every part ! 

Long files of men on every side appear. 

The sight might well his heart affright ; 

And yet the silence that is here 

Inspires a stranger fear ; 

For not a murmur, not a sound 

Of breath or motion rises round ; 

No stir is heard in all that mighty crowd ; 

He neighs, and from the temple-wall 

The voice reechoes loud, 

Loud and distinct, as from a hill 

Across a lonely vale, when all is still. 



582 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA, 



IX, 



Within the temple, on his golden throne 

Reclined, Kehama lies, 

Watching with steady eyes 

The perfumed light that, burning bright, 

Metes out the passing hours. 

On either hand his eunuchs stand. 

Freshening with fans of peacock-plumes the air. 

Which, redolent of all rich gums and flowers, 

Seems, overcharged with sweets, to stagnate there. 

Lo ! the time-taper's flame, ascending slow, 

Creeps up its coil toward the fated line; 

Kehama rises and goes forth. 

And from the altar, ready where it lies, 

He takes the axe of sacrifice. 



That instant, from the crowd, with sudden shout, 

A Man sprang out 

To lay upon the Steed his hand profane. 

A thousand archers, with unerring eye, 

At once let fly, 

And with their hurtling arrows fill the sky. 

In vain they fall upon him fast as rain ; 

He bears a charmed life, which may defy 

All weapons, — and the darts that whizz around, 

As from an adamantine panoply 

Repell'd, fall idly to the ground. 

Kehama clasp 'd his hands in agony, 

And saw him grasp the hallow'd courser's mane, 

Spring up with sudden bound, 

And with a frantic cry. 

And madman's gesture, gallop round and round. 



They seize, they drag him to the Rajah's feet. 

What doom will now be his, — what vengeance 

meet 

Will he, who knows no mercy, now require .'' 

The obsequious guards around, with blood-hound 

eye, 

Look for the word, in slow-consuming fire. 

By piecemeal death, to make the Avretch expire, 

Or hoist his living carcass, hook'd on high, 

To feed the fowls and insects of the sky ; 

Or if aught worse inventive cruelty 

To that remorseless heart of royalty 

Might prompt, accursed instruments they stand 

To work the wicked will with wicked hand. 

Far other thoiights were in the multitude ; 

Pity, and human feelings, held them still ; 

And stifled sighs and groans suppress'd were there. 

And many a secret curse and inward prayer 

Call'd on the insulted Gods to save mankind. 

Expecting some new crime, in fear they stood, 

Some horror which would make the natural blood 

Start, with cold shudderings thrill the sinking heart, 

Whiten the lip, and make the abhorrent eye 

Roll back and close, press'd in for agony. 

10. 

How then fared he for whom the mighty crowd 
Suffer'd in spirit thus, — how then fared he? 
A ghastly smile was on his lip, his eye 
Glared with a ghastly hope, as he drew nigh, 



And cried aloud. Yes, Rajali ! it is I ! 

And wilt thou kill me now .'' 

The countenance of the Almighty Man 

Fell when he knew Ladurlad, and his brow 

Was clouded with despite, as one ashamed. 

That wretch again ! indignant he exclaim'd, 

And smote his forehead, and stood silently 

Awhile in wrath : then, with ferocious smile, 

And eyes which seem'd to darken his dark cheek, 

Let him go free ! he cried ; he hath his Curse, 

And vengeance upon him can wreak no worse — 

But ye who did not stop him — tremble ye ! 

11. 

He bade the archers pile their weapons there : 

No manly courage fill'd the slavish band. 

No sweetening vengeance roused a brave despair. 

He call'd his horsemen then, and gave command 

To hem the offenders in, and hew them down. 

Ten thousand cimeters, at once uprear'd, 

Flash up, like waters sparkling to the sun ; 

A second time the fatal brands appear'd 

Lifted aloft, — they glitter'd then no more ; 

Their light was gone, their splendor quench'd in 

gore. 

At noon the massacre begun. 

And night closed in before the work of death was 

done. 



IX. 



THE HOME-SCENE. 



The steam of slaughter from that place of blood 

Spread o'er the tainted sky. 

Vultures, for whom the Rajah's tyranny 

So oft had furnish' d food, from far and nigh 

Sped to the lure : aloft, with joyful cry, 

Wheeling around, they hover'd overhead ; 

Or, on the temple perch'd with greedy eye. 

Impatient watch'd the dead. 

Far off" the Tigers, in the inmost wood. 

Heard the death shriek, and snuffed the scent of 

blood ; 

They rose, and through the covert went their way, 

Couch'd at the forest edge, and waited for their 

prey. 



He who had sought for death went wandermg on; 

The hope which had inspired his heart was gone ; 

Yet a wild joyance still inflamed his face, 

A smile of vengeance, a triumphant glow. 

Where goes he ? — Whither should Ladurlad go ! 

Unwittingly the wretch's footsteps trace 

Their wonted path toward his dwelling-place ; 

And wandering on, unknowing where, 

He starts like one surprised at finding he is there. 



Behold his lowly home. 
By yonder broad-bough'd plane o'ershaded ; 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



583 



There Marriataly's Image stands, 

And there the garland twined by Kailyal's hands 

Around its brow hath faded. 

The peacocks, at their master's sight, 

Quick from the leafy thatch alight, 

And hurry round, and search the ground, 

And veer their glancing necks from side to side, 

Expecting from his hand 

Their daily dole which erst the Maid supplied, 

Now all too long denied. 



But, as he gazed around. 

How strange did all accustom' d sights appear ! 

How differently did each familiar sound 

Assail his alter'd ear ! 

Here stood the marriage bower, 

Rear'd in that happy hour 

When he, with festal joy and youthful pride, 

Ho,d brought Yedillian home, his beauteous bride. 

Leaves not its own, and many a borrow'd flower. 

Had then bedeck'd it, withering ere the night; 

But he who look'd from that auspicious day 

For years of long dehght. 

And would not see the marriage bower decay, 

There planted and nurs'd up, with daily care. 

The sweetest herbs that scent the ambient air. 

And train' d them round to live and flourish there. 

Nor when dread Yamen's will 

Had call'd Yedillian from his arms away. 

Ceased he to tend the marriage-bower, but still. 

Sorrowing, had dress'd it like a pious rite 

Due to the monument of past delight. 



He took his wonted seat before the door, — 

Even as of yore, 
When he was wont to view, with placid eyes, 
His daughter at her evening sacrifice. 
Here were the flowers which she so carefully 
Did love to rear for Marriataly's brow ; 
Neglected now. 
Their heavy heads were drooping, over-blown ; 
All else appear'd the same as heretofore, 
All — save himself alone ; 
How happy then, — and now a wretch for ever- 
more ! 

6. 

The market-flag, which, hoisted high, 

From far and nigh, 

Above yon cocoa grove is seen. 

Hangs motionless amid the sultry sky. 

Loud sounds the village drum ; a happy crowd 

Is there ; Ladurlad hears their distant voices, 

But with their joy no more his heart rejoices ; 

And how their old companion now may fare 

Little they know, and less they care ; 

The torment he is doom'd to bear 

Was but to them the wonder of a day, 

A burden of sad thoughts soon put away. 



They knew not that the wretched man was near : 
And yet it seem'd, to his distemper'd ear. 



As if they wrong'd him with their merriment. 

Resentfully he turn'd away his eyes, 

Yet turn'd them but to find 

Sights that enraged his mind 

With envious grief more wild and overpowering. 

The tank which fed his fields was there, and there 

The large-leaved lotus on the waters flowering. 

There, from the intolerable heat 

The buffaloes retreat; 

Only their nostrils raised to meet the air, 

Amid the sheltering element they rest. 

Impatient of the sight, he closed his eyes, 

Andbow'd his burning head, and in despair 

Calling on Indra, — Thunder- God ! he said. 

Thou owest to me alone this day thy throne ; 

Be grateful, and in mercy strike me dead. 

8. 

Despair had roused him to that hopeless prayer ; 

Yet thinking on the heavenly Powers, his mind 

Drew comfort; and he rose and gather'd flowers, 

And twined a crown for Marriataly's brow ; 

And taking then her wither'd garland down, 

Replaced it with the blooming coronal. 

Not for myself, the unhappy Father cried, 

Not for myself, O Mighty One ! I pray, 

Accursed as I am beyond thy aid ! 

But, oh ! be gracious still to that dear Maid 

Who crown'd thee with these garlands day by day, 

And danced before thee aye at even-tide 

In beauty and in pride. 

O Marriataly, whereso'er she stray 

Forlorn and wretched, still be thou her guide ! 



A loud and fiendish laugh replied, 

Scoffing his prayer. Aloft, as from the air. 

The sound of insult came : he look'd, and there 

The visage of dead Arvalan came forth, 

Only his face amid the clear blue sky. 

With long-drawn lips of insolent mockery, 

And eyes whose lurid glare 

Was like a sulphur fire. 

Mingling with darkness ere its flames expire. 

10. 

Ladurlad knew him well : enraged to see 

The cause of all his misery. 

He stoop'd and lifted from the ground 

A stake, whose fatal point was black with blood ; 

The same wherewith his hand had dealt the wound, 

When Arvalan, in hour with evil fraught. 

For violation seized the shrieking Maid. 

Thus arm'd, in act again to strike he stood, 

And twice with inefficient wrath essay'd 

To smite the impassive shade. 

The lips of scorn their mockery-laugh renew'd, 

And Arvalan put forth a hand, and caught 

The sunbeam, and condensing there its light, 

Upon Ladurlad turn'd the burning stream. 

Vain cruelty ! the stake 

Fell in white ashes from his hold, but he 

Endured no added pain ; his agony 

Was full, and at the height ; 

The burning stream of radiance nothing harm'd 

him; 



584 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



A fire was in his heart and brain, 

And from all other flame 
Kehama s Curse had charm'd him. 

11. 

Anon the Spirit waved a second hand ; 

Down rush'd the obedient whirlwind from the sky, 

Scoop'd up the sand like smoke, and from on high 

Shed the hot shower upon Ladurlad's head. 

Where'er he turns, the accursed Hand is there ; 

East, West, and North, and South, on every side 

The hand accursed waves in air to guide 
The dizzying storm ; ears, nostrils, eyes, and mouth 

It fdls and chokes, and clogging every pore, 

Taught him new torments might be yet in store. 

Where shall he turn to fly ? behold his house 

In flames ! uprooted lies the marriage-bower, 

The Goddess buried by the sandy shower. 

Blindly, with staggering step, he reels about. 

And still the accursed Hand pursued, 

And still the lips of scorn their mockery-laugh 

renew'd. 

12. 

What, Arvalan ! hast thou so soon forgot 

The grasp of Pollear .=" Wilt thou still defy 

The righteous Powers of heaven.' or know'st thou 

not 

That there are yet superior Powers on high, 

Son of the Wicked.' — Lo, in rapid flight, 

Ereenia hastens from the ethereal height ; 

Bright is the sword celestial in his hand ; 

Like lightning in its path athwart the sky, 

He comes and drives, v/ith angel-arm, the blow. 

Oft have the Asuras, in the wars of Heaven, 

Felt that keen sword by arm angelic driven. 

And fled before it from the fields of light. 

Thrice through the vulnerable shade 

The Glendoveer impels the griding blade ; 

The wicked Shade flies howling from his foe. 

So let that Spirit foul 

Fly, and, for impotence of anger, howl, 

Writhing with anguish, and his wounds deplore ; 

Worse punishment hath Arvalan deserved, 
And righteous Fate hath heavier doom in store. 

13. 

Not now the Glendoveer pursues his flight; 

He bade the Ship of Heaven alight. 

And gently there he laid 

The astonish 'd Father by the happy Maid, 

The Maid now shedding tears of deep delight. 

Beholding all things with incredulous eyes. 

Still dizzy with the sand-storm, there he lay. 

While, sailing up the skies, the living Bark 

Through air and sunshine held its heavenly way. 



MOUNT MERU. 



Swift through the sky the vessel of the Suras 
Sails up the fields of ether like an Angel. 



Rich is the freight, O Vessel, that thou bearest ! 

Beauty and Virtue, 

Fatherly cares and filial veneration. 

Hearts which are proved and strengthen'd by 

affliction. 

Manly resentment, fortitude, and action, 

Womanly goodness ; 

All with which Nature halloweth her daughters. 

Tenderness, truth, and purity, and meekness. 

Piety, patience, faith, and resignation. 

Love and devotement. 

Ship of the Gods, how richly art thou laden ! 

Proud of the charge, thou voyagest rejoicing; 

Clouds float around to honor thee, and Evening 

Lingers in heaven. 

2. 

A Stream descends on Meru Mountain ; 

None hath seen its secret fountain; 

It had its birth, so Sages say. 

Upon the memorable day 

When Parvati presumed to lay. 

In wanton play. 

Her hands, too venturous Goddess, in her mirth, 

On Seeva's eyes, the light and life of Earth. 

Thereat the heart of the Universe stood still ; 

The Elements ceased their influences ; the Hours 

Stopp'd on the eternal round ; Motion, and Breath, 

Time, Change, and Life, and Death, 

In sudden trance oppress'd, forgot their powers. 

A moment and the dread eclipse was ended; 
But, at the thought of Nature thus suspended. 

The sweat on Seeva's forehead stood. 

And Ganges thence upon the world descended. 

The Holy River, the Redeeming Flood. 



None hath seen its secret fountain ; 
But on the top of Meru Mountain, 
Which rises o'er the hills of earth. 
In light and clouds, it hath its mortal birth. 
Earth seems that pinnacle to rear 
Sublime above this worldly sphere. 
Its cradle, and its altar, and its throne ; 
And there the new-born River lies 
Outspread beneath its native skies, 
As if it there would love to dwell 

Alone and unapproachable. 

Soon flowing forward, and resign'd 

To the will of the Creating Mind, 

It springs at once, with sudden leap, 

Down from the immeasurable steep. 

From rock to rock, with shivering force rebounding, 

The mighty cataract rushes ; Heaven around, 
Like thunder, with the incessant roar resounding, 

And Meru's summit shaking with the sound. 

Wide spreads the snowy foam, the sparkling 

spray 

Dances aloft; and ever there, at morning. 

The earliest sunbeams haste to wing their way, 

With rainbow wreaths the holy stream adorning; 

And duly the adoring Moon at night 

Sheds her white glory there. 

And in the watery air 

Suspends her halo-crowns of silver light. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



585 



A mountain-valley in its blessed breast 

Receives the stream, which there delights to lie, 

Untroubled and at rest, 

Beneath the untainted sky. 

There, in a lovely lake, it seems to sleep, 

And thence, through many a channel dark and deep. 

Their secret way the holy Waters wind, 

Till, rising underneath the root 

Of the Tree of Life on Hemakoot, 

Majestic forth they flow to purify mankind. 



Towards this Lake, above the nether sphere. 

The living Bark, with angel eye, 

Directs its course along the obedient sky. 

Kehama hath not yet dominion here ; 

And till the dreaded hour. 

When Indra by the Rajah shall be driven 

Dethroned from Heaven, 
Here may Ladurlad rest beyond his power. 



The living Bark alights ; the Glendoveer 

Then lays Ladurlad by the blessed Lake ; — 

O happy Sire, and yet more happy Daughter ! 

The ethereal gales his agony aslake. 

His daughter's tears are on his cheek. 

His hand is in the water ; 

The innocent man, the man oppress'd, — 

Oh joy ! — hath found a place of rest 

Beyond Kehama's sway ; [away. 

The Curse extends not here ; his pains have past 

7. 

O happy Sire, and happy Daughter ! 

Ye on the banks of that celestial water 

Your resting-place and sanctuary have found. 

What ! hath not then their mortal taint defiled 

The sacred, solitary ground .'' 

Vain thought ! the Holy Valley smiled, 

Receiving such a Sire and Child; 

Ganges, who seem'd asleep to lie, 

Beheld them with benignant eye, 

And rippled round melodiously. 

And roll'd her little waves, to meet 

And Avelcome their beloved feet. 

The gales of Swerga thither fled, 

And heavenly odors there were shed 

About, below, and overhead ; 

And Earth, rejoicing in their tread. 

Hath built them up a blooming Bower, 

Where every amaranthine flower 

Its deathless blossom interweaves 

With bright and undecaying leaves. 

8. 

Three happy beings are there here — 

The Sire, the Maid, the Glendoveer. 

A fourth approaches, — who is tliis 

That enters in the Bower of Bliss .? 

No form so fair might painter find 

Among the daughters of mankind ; 

For death her beauties hath refined. 

And unto her a form hath given 

74 



Framed of the elements of Heaven ; 

Pure dwelling-place for perfect mind. 

She stood and gazed on Sire and Child ; 

Her tongue not yet had power to speak ; 

The tears were streaming down her cheek 

And when those tears her sight beguiled, 

And still her faltering accents fail'd, 

The Spirit, mute and motionless. 

Spread out her arms for the caress. 

Made still and silent with excess 

Of love and painful happiness. 



The Maid that lovely form survey'd; 
Wistful she gazed, and knew her not, 

But Nature to her heart convey'd 
A sudden thrill, a startling thought, 

A feeling many a year forgot. 

Now like a dream anew recurring, 

As if again in every vein 

Her mother's milk was stirring. 

With straining neck and earnest eye 

She stretch'd her hands imploringly, 

As if she fain would have her nigh, 

Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace, 

At once with love and awe oppress'd. 

Not so Ladurlad ; he could trace. 

Though brighten'd with angelic grace. 

His own Yedillian's earthly face ; 

He ran and held her to his breast ' 

Oh joy above all joys of Heaven, 

By Death alone to others given. 

This moment hath to him restored 

The early-lost, the long-deplored. 

10. 

They sin who tell us Love can die. 

With life all other passions fly, 

All others are but vanity. 

In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, 

Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell ; 

Earthly these passions of the Earth, 

They perish where they have their birth ; 

But Love is indestructible. 

Its holy flame forever burneth ; 

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth ; 

Too oft on Earth a troubled guest. 

At times deceived, at times oppress'd, 

It here is tried and purified. 

Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest : 

It soweth here with toil and care. 
But the harvest-time of Love is there. 

11. 

Oh ! when a Mother meets on high 

The Babe she lost in infancy. 

Hath she not then, for pains and fears. 

The day of woe, the watchful night, 

For all her sorrow, all her tears, 

An over-payment of delight .? 

12. 

A blessed family is this. 

Assembled in the Bower of Bliss ! 

Strange woe, Ladurlad, hath been thine, 



586 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



And pangs beyond all human measure, 

And thy reward is now divine, 

A foretaste of eternal pleasure. 

He knew indeed there was a day 

When all these joys would pass away, 

And he must quit this blest abode, 

And, taking- up again the spell. 

Groan underneath the baleful load, 

And wander o'er the world again. 

Most wretched of the sons of men : 

Yet was this brief repose, as when 

A traveller in the Arabian sands, 

Half fainting on his sultry road. 

Hath reach'd the water-place at last; 

And resting there beside the well. 

Thinks of the perils he has past, 

And gazes o'er the unbounded plain, 

The plain which must be traversed still. 

And drinks, — yet cannot drink his fill ; 

Then ghds his patient loins again. 

So to Ladurlad now was given 

New strength, and confidence in Heaven, 

And hope, and faith invincible. 

13. 

For often would Ereenia tell 

Of what in elder days befell. 

When other Tyrants, in their might, 

Usurp'd dominion o'er the earth; 

And Veeshnoo took a human birth. 

Deliverer of the Sons of men. 

And slew the huge Ermaccasen, 

And piecemeal rent, with lion force, 

Errenen's accursed corse, 

And humbled Baly in his pride ; 

And when the Giant Ravanen 

Had borne triumphant from his side 

Sita, the earth-born God's beloved bride. 

Then from his island-kingdom, laugh'd to scorn 

The insulted husband, and his power defied ; 

How, to revenge the wrong, in wrath he hied. 

Bridging the sea before his dreadful way, 

And met the hundred-headed foe. 

And dealt him the unerring blow ; 

By Brama's hand the righteous lance was given. 

And by that arm immortal driven, 

It laid the mighty Tyrant low ; 

And Earth, and Ocean, and high Heaven, 

Rejoiced to see his overthrow. 

Oh ! doubt not thou, Yedillian cried, 

Such fate Kehama will betide ; 

For there are Gods who look below, — 

Seeva, the Avenger, is not blind. 

Nor Veeshnoo careless for mankind. 

14. 

Thus was Ladurlad's soul imbued 

With hope and holy fortitude ; 

And Child and Sire, with pious mind. 

Alike resolved, alike resign'd, 

Look'd onward to the evil day : 

Faith was their comfort, Faith their stay ; 

They trusted Woe would pass away. 

And Tyranny would sinlt subdued, 

And Evil yield to Good. 



15. 

Lovely wert thou, O Flower of Earth ' 

Above all flowers of mortal birth ; 

But foster'd in this Blissful Bower, 

From day to day, and hour to hour. 

Lovelier grew the lovely flower. 

O blessed, blessed company ! 

When men and heavenly spirits greet, 

And they whom Death had sever' d meet, 

And hold again communion sweet; — 

O blessed, blessed company ! 

16. 

The Sun, careering round the sky, 

Beheld them with rejoicing eye, 

And bade his willing Charioteer 

Relax his speed as they drew near ; 

Arounin check' d the rainbow reins, 

The seven green coursers shook their manes, 

And brighter rays around them threw ; 

The Car of Glory in their view 
More radiant, more resplendent grew ; 
And Surya, through his veil of light. 
Beheld the Bower, and blest the sight. 

17. 

The Lord of Night, as he sail'd by, 

Stay'd his pearly boat on high ; 

And while around the Blissful Bower, 

He bade the softest moonlight flow, 

Linger'd to see that earthly flower. 

Forgetful of his Dragon foe, 

Who, mindful of their ancient feud, 

With open jaws of rage pursued. 

18. 
There all good Spirits of the air, 

Suras and Devetas, repair ; 

Aloft they love to hover there. 

And view the flower of mortal birth, 

Here for her innocence and worth. 

Transplanted from the fields of earth; 

And him, who, on the dreadful day 

When Heaven was fill'd with consternation 

And Indra trembled with dismay. 

And for the sounds of joy and mirth. 

Woe was heard and lamentation. 

Defied the Rajah in his pride. 

Though all in Heaven and Earth beside 

Stood mute in dolorous expectation ; 

And, rushing forward in that hour. 

Saved the Swerga from his power. 

Grateful for this they hover nigh. 

And bless that blessed Company. 

19. 

One God alone, with wanton eye. 

Beheld them in their Bower ; 

O ye, he cried, who have defied 

The Rajah, will ye mock my power ? 

'Twas Camdeo riding on his lory, 

'Twas the immortal Youth of Love ; 

If men below and Gods above, 

Subject alike, quoth he, have felt these darts. 

Shall ye alone, of all in story. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



587 



Boast impenetrable hearts ? 

Hover liere, my gentle lory, 

Gently hover, while I see 

To whom hath Fate decreed the glory, 

To the Glendoveer or me. 

20. 

Then, in the dewy evening sky, 

The bird of gorgeous plumery 

Poised his wings, and hover'd nigh. 

It chanced at that delightful hour 

Kailyal sat before the Bov>7^er, 

On the green bank with amaranth sweet, 

Where Ganges warbled at her feet. 

Ereenia there, before the M^id, 

His sails of ocean blue display 'dj 

And sportive in her sight 

Moved slowly o'er the lake with gliding flight; 

Anon, with sudden stroke and strong. 

In rapid course careering, swept along ; 

Now shooting downward from his heavenly height, 

Plunged in the deep below. 

Then rising, soar'd again, 

And shook the sparkling waters off like rain. 

And hovering o'er the silver surface hung. 

At him young Camdeo bent the bow ; 

With living bees the bow was strung. 

The fatal bow of sugar-cane, 

And flowers which would inflame the heart 

With their petals barb'd the dart. 

21. 

The shaft, unerringly address'd. 

Unerring flew, and smote Ereenia's breast. 

Ah, Wanton I cried the Glendoveer, 

Go aim at idler hearts } 

Thy skill is baflled here ! 

A deeper love I bear that Maid divine, 

A love that springeth from a higher will, 

A holier power than thine ! 

22. 

A second shaft, while thus Ereenia cried. 

Had Camdeo aim'd at Kailyal's side ; 

But, lo ! the Bees which strung his bow 

Broke off", and took their flight. 

To that sweet Flower of earth they wing their way. 

Around her raven tresses play, 

And buzz about her with delight. 

As if with that melodious sound 

They strove to pay their willing duty 

To mortal purity and beauty. 

23. 

Ah ! Wanton ! cried the Glendoveer, 

No power hast thou for mischief here ! 

Choose thou some idler breast. 

For these are proof, by nobler thoughts possess'd. 

Go, to thy plains of Matra go, 

And string again thy broken bow ! 

24. 

Rightly Ereenia spake ; and ill had thoughts 

Of earthly love beseem'd the sanctuary 
Where Kailyal had been wafted, that the Soul 



Of her dead Mother there might strengthen her, 

Feeding her with the milk of heavenly lore, 

And influxes of Heaven imbue her heart 

With hope, and faith, and holy fortitude, 

Against the evil day. Here rest a while 

In peace, O fatlaer ! mark'd for misery 

Above all sons of men; O daughter! doom'd 

For sufferings and for trials above all 

Of women ; — yet both favor'd, both beloved 

By all good Powers, rest here a while in peace. 



XI. 

THE ENCHANTRESS. 

1. 

When from the sword, by arm angelic driven, 

Foul Arvalan fled howling, wild in pain. 

His thin, essential spirit, rent and riven 

With wounds, united soon and heal'd again ; 

Backward the accursed turn'd his eye in flight, 

Remindful of revengeful thoughts even then. 

And saw where, gliding through the evening light. 

The Ship of Heaven sail'd upward through the sky, 

Then, like a meteor, vanish'd from his sight. 

Where should he follow? vainly might he try 

To trace through trackless air its rapid course ; 

Nor dared he that angelic arm defy, 
Still sore and writhing from its dreaded force. 

2. 

Should he the lust of vengeance lay aside ? 

Too long had Arvalan in ill been train'd ; 
Nurs'd up in power, and tyranny, and pride, 
His soul the ignominious thought disdain'd. 

Or to his mighty Father should he go. 

Complaining of defeature twice sustain'd, 

And ask new powers to meet the immortal foe ^ — 

Repulse he fear'd not, but he fear'd rebuke. 

And shamed to tell him of his overthrow. 
There dwelt a dread Enchantress in a nook 
Obscure ; old helpmate she to him had been, 

Lending her aid in many a secret sin ; 
And there, for counsel, now his way he took. 



She was a woman whose unlovely youth. 

Even like a canker'd rose which none will cull, 

Had wither'd on the stalk ; her heart was full 

Of passions which had found no natural scope. 

Feelings which there had grown, but ripen'd not. 

Desires unsatisfied, abortive hope, 

Repinings which provoked vindictive thought: 

These restless elements forever wrought, 

Fermenting in her with perpetual stir, 

And thus, her spirit to all evil moved. 

She hated men because they loved not her, 

And hated women because they were lov'd. 

And thus, in wrath, and hatred, and despair, 

She tempted Hell to tempt her, and resign'd 

Her body to the Demons of the Air, 

Wicked and wanton fiends, who where they will 

Wander abroad, still seeking to do ill, 



588 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



XI. 



And take whatever vacant form they find, 

Carcass of man or beast that life hath left, 

Foul instrument for them of fouler mind. 

To these the Witch her wretched body gave, 

So they would wreak her vengeance on mankind ; 

She thus at once their mistress and their slave ; 

And they, to do such service nothing loath, 
Obey'd her bidding, slaves and masters both. 

4. 

So from this cursed intercourse she caught 

Contagious power of mischief, and was taught 

Such secrets as are damnable to guess. 

Is there a child whose little lovely ways 

Might win all hearts, — on whom his parents gaze 

Till they shed tears of joy and tenderness.? 

Oh ! hide him from that Witch's withering sight ! 

Oh ! hide him from the eye of Lorrinite ! 

Her look hath crippling in it, and her curse 

All plagues which on mortality can light ; 

Death is his doom if she behold, — or worse, — 

Diseases loathsome and incurable. 
And inward sufferings that no tongue can tell. 



Woe was to him on whom that eye of hate 

Was bent; for, certain as the stroke of Fate, 

It did its mortal work, nor human arts 

Could save the unhappy wretch, her chosen prey ; 

For gazing, she consumed his vital parts, 

Eating his very core of life away. 

The wine which from yon wounded palm on high 

Fills yonder gourd, as slowly it distils, 

Grows sour at once if Lorrinite pass by. 

The deadliest worm from which all creatures fly. 

Fled from the deadlier venom of her eye ; 

The babe unborn, within its mother's womb, 

Started and trembled when the Witch came nigh; 

And in the silent chambers of the tomb. 

Death shudder'd her unholy tread to hear. 

And from the dry and mouldering bones did fear 

Force a cold sweat, when Lorrinite was near. 



Power made her haughty : by ambition fired, 
Erelong to mightier mischiefs she aspired. 

The Calis, who o'er cities rule unseen, 

Each in her own domain a Demon Queen, 

And there adored with blood and human life, 

They knew her, and in their accurs'd employ 

She stirr'd up neighboring states to mortal strife. 

Sani, the dreadful God, who rides abroad 

Upon the King of the Ravens, to destroy 

The offending sons of men, when his four hands 

Were weary with their toil, would let her do 

His work of vengeance upon guilty lands; 

And Lorrinite, at his commandment, knew 

When the ripe earthquake should be loosed, and 

where 

To point its course. And in the baneful air 

The pregnant seeds of death he bade her strew. 

All deadly plagues and pestilence to brew. 

The Locusts were her army, and their bands. 

Where'er she turn'd her skinny finger, flew. 

The floods in ruin roll'd at her commands ; 



And when, m time of drought, the husbandman 

Beheld the gathered rain about to fall. 

Her breath would drive it to the desert sands, 

While in the marshes' parch'd and gaping soil 

The rice-roots by the searching Sun were dried, 

And in lean groups, assembled at the side 

Of the empty tank, the cattle dropp'd and died; 

And Famine, at her bidding, wasted wide 

The wretched land, till, in the public way, 

Promiscuous where the dead and dying lay, 

Dogs fed on human bones in the open light of day. 



Her secret cell the accursed Arvalan, 
In quest of vengeance, sought, and thus began ; 
Mighty mother ! mother wise ! 
Revenge me on my enemies. 

LORRINITE. 

Comest thou, son, for aid to me ? 

Tell me who have injured thee. 

Where they are, and who they be ; 

Of the Earth, or of the Sea, 

Or of the aerial company ? 

Earth, nor Sea, nor Air is free 

From the powers who wait on me, 

And my tremendous witchery. 

ARVALAN. 

She for whom so ill I sped. 
Whom my father deemeth dead, 

Lives, for Marriataly's aid 

From the water saved the Maid. 

In hatred I desire her still. 

And in revenge would have my will. 

A Deveta with wings of blue, 

And sword whose edge even now I rue, 

In a Ship of Heaven on high, 

Pilots her along the sky. 

Where they voyage thou canst tell, 

Mistress of the mighty spell. 



At this the Witch, through shrivell'd lips and thin, 

Sent forth a sound half whistle and half hiss. 

Two winged Hands came in. 

Armless and bodiless. 

Bearing a globe of liquid crystal, set 

In frame as diamond bright, yet black as jet. 

A thousand eyes were quench'd in endless night 

To form that magic globe ; for Lorrinite 

Had, from their sockets, drawn the liquid sight. 

And kneaded it, with re-creating skill. 

Into this organ of her mighty will. 

Look in yonder orb, she cried ; 

Tell me what is there descried. 



ARVALAN. 

A mountain top, in clouds of light 

Enveloped, rises on my sight; 

Thence a cataract rushes down. 

Hung with many a rainbow crown ; 

Light and clouds conceal its head ; 

Below, a silver lake is spread; 



XI. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



589 



Upon its shores a Bower I see 

Fit home for blessed company. 

See, they come forward, — on^, two, three, — 

The last a Maiden, — it is she ! 

The foremost shakes his wings of blue; 

'Tis he whose sword even yet I rue ; 

And in that other one I know 

The visage of my deadliest foe. 

Mother, let thy magic might 

Arm me for the mortal fight ; 

Helm, and shield, and mail afford, 

Proof against his dreaded sword. 

Then will I invade their seat; 

Then shall vengeance be complete. 

10. 

LORRINITE. 

Spirits, who obey my will, 
Hear him, and his wish fulfil ! 

So spake the mighty Witch, nor further spell 

Needed ; anon a sound, like smother'd thunder, 

Was heard, slow rolling under; 

The solid pavement of the cell 

Quaked, heaved, and cleft asunder, 

And at the feet of Arvalan display 'd, 

Helmet and mail, and shield and cimeter, were 

laid. 

[ 
11. 

The Asuras, often put to flight 

And scatter'd in the fields of light 

By their foes' celestial might. 

Forged this enchanted armor for the fight. 

'Mid fires intense did they anneal, 

In mountain furnaces, the quivering steel. 

Till, trembling through each deepening hue, 

It settled in a midnight blue ; 

Last they cast it, to aslake. 

In the penal icy lake. 

Then they consigned it to the Giant brood ; 

And while they forged the impenetrable arms, 

The Evil Powers, to oversee them, stood. 

And there imbued 

The work of Giant strength with magic charms. 

Foul Arvalan, with joy, survey 'd 

The crescent sabre's cloudy blade, 

AVith deeper joy the impervious mail, 

The shield and helmet of avail. 

Soon did he himself array. 

And bade her speed him on his way. 

]2. 

Then she led him to the den. 

Where her chariot, night and day, 

Stood harness'd ready for the way. 

Two Dragons, yoked in adamant, convey 

The magic car ; from either collar sprung 

An adamantine rib, which met in air, 

O'erarch'd, and cross' d, and bent, diverging there. 

And firmly in its arc upbore. 

Upon their brazen necks, the seat of power. 

Arvalan mounts the car, and in his hand 

Receives the magic reins from Lorrinite ; 

The Dragons, long obedient to command, 



Their ample sails expand ; 
Like steeds well-broken to fair lady's hand 

They feel the reins of might. 
And up the northern sky begin their flight. 

13. 

Son of the Wicked, doth thy soul delight 

To think its hour of vengeance now is nigh.'' 

Lo ! where the far-off" light 

Of Indra's palace flashes on his sight. 

And Meru's heavenly summit shines on high, 

With clouds of glory bright. 

Amid the dark-blue sky. 

Already, in his hope, doth he espy, 

Himself secure in mail of tenfold charms, 

Ereenia writhing from the magic blade. 

The Father sent to bear his Curse, — the Maid 

Resisting vainly in his impious arms. 

14.' 

Ah, Sinner I whose anticipating soul 

Incurs the guilt even when the crime is spared ! 

Joyous toward Meru's summit on he fared, 

While the twin Dragons, rising as he guides, 

With steady flight, steer northward for the pole. 

Anon, with irresistible control, 

Force mightier far than his arrests their course ; 

It wrought as though a Power unseen had caught 

Their adamantine yokes to drag them on. 

Straight on they bend their way, and now, in vain, 

Upward doth Arvalan direct the rein ; 

The rein of magic might avails no more ; 

Bootless its strength against that unseen Power, 

That, in their mid career. 

Hath seized the Chariot and the Charioteer. 

With hands resisting, and down-pressing feet 

Upon their hold insisting, 

He struggles to maintain his difficult seat. 

Seeking in vain with that strange Power to vie, 

Their doubled speed the aflfrighted Dragons try. 

Forced in a stream from whence was no retreat. 

Strong as they are, behold them whirled along, 

Headlong, with useless pennons, through the sky. 

15. 

What Power was that, which, with resistless might, 

Foil'd the dread magic thus of Lorrinite ? 

'Twas all commanding Nature. — They were here 

Within the sphere of the adamantine rocks 

Which gird Mount Meru round, as far below 

That heavenly height where Ganges hath its birth 

Involv'd in clouds and light. 

So far above its roots of ice and snow. 



16. 



On 



on they roll, — rapt headlong they roll on ; — 

The lost canoe, less rapidly than this, 

Down the precipitous stream is whirl'd along 

To the brink of Niagara's dread abyss. 

On — on they roll, and now, with shivering shock, 

Are dash'd against the rock that girds the Pole. 

Down from his shatter'd mail the unhappy Soul 

Is dropp'd, — ten thousand thousand fathoms 

down, — 

Till in an ice-rift, 'mid the eternal snow, 



590 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



Foul Arvalan is stopp'd. There let him howl, 

Groan there, — and there, with unavailing moan, 

For aid on his Almighty Father call. 

17. 

All human sounds are lost 

Amid those deserts of perpetual frost, 

Old Winter's drear domain. 
Beyond the limits of the living World, 

Beyond Kehama's reign. 

Of utterance and of motion soon bereft. 

Frozen to the ice-rock, there behold him lie, 

Only the painful sense of Being left, 

A Spirit who must feel, and cannot die. 

Bitching and bare beneath the polar sky. 



XII. 
THE SACRIFICE COMPLETED. 

1. 

O YE who, by the Lake 

On Meru Mount, partake 

The joys which Heaven hath destin'd for the blest, 

Swift, swift the moments fly. 

The silent hours go by. 

And ye must leave your dear abode of rest. 

O wretched Man, prepare 

Again thy Curse to bear ! 

Prepare, O wretched Maid, for further woe ! 

The fatal hour draws near. 

When Indra's heavenly sphere 

Must own the Tyrant of the World below. 

To-day the hundredth Steed 

At Seeva's shrine must bleed; 

The dreadful sacrifice is full to-day ; 

Nor man nor God hath power. 

At this momentous hour, 

Again to save the Swerga from his sway. 

Fresh woes, O Maid divine, 

Fresh trials must be thine : 

And what must thou, Ladurlad, yet endure ! 

But let your hearts be strong, 

A.nd rise against all wrong. 

For Providence is just, and virtue is secure. 



They, little deeming that the fatal day 

Was come, beheld, where through the morning s' 

A Ship of Heaven drew nigh. 

Onward they watch it steer its steady flight ; 

Till, wondering, they espy 

Old Casyapa, the Sire of Gods, alight. 

But when Ereenia saw the Sire appear. 

At that unwonted and unwelcome sight 

His heart received a sudden shock of fear. 

Thy presence doth its doleful tidings tell, 

O Father ! cried the startled Glendoveer ! 

The dreadful hour is near ! I know it well ! 

Not for less import would the Sire of Gods 

Forsake his ancient and august abodes. 



Even so, serene the immortal Sire replies ; 
Soon like an earthquake will ye feel the blow 
Which consummates the mighty sacrifice : 
And this World, and its Heaven, and all therein, 
Are then Kehama's. To the second ring 
Of these seven Spheres, the Swerga King, 

Even now, prepares for flight. 

Beyond the circle of the conquer 'd world, 

Beyond the Rajah's might. 

Ocean, that clips this inmost of the Spheres, 

And girds it round with everlasting roar, 

Set like a gem appears 

Within that bending shore. 

Thither fly all the Sons of heavenly race : 

I, too, forsake mine ancient dwelling-place. 

And now, O Child and Father, ye must go • 

Take up the burden of your woe, 

And wander once again below. 

With patient heart hold onward to the end : 

Be true unto yourselves, and bear in mind 

That every God is still the good Man's friend ; 

And when the Wicked have their day assign'd, 

Then they who sufier bravely save mankind. 

4. 

Oh, tell me, cried Ereenia, — for from thee 

Nought can be hidden, — when the end will be. 

Seek not to know, old Casyapa replied, 

What pleaseth Heaven to hide. 

Dark is the abyss of Time, 

But light enough to guide your steps is given; 

Whatever weal or woe betide. 

Turn never from the way of truth aside. 

And leave the event, in holy hope, to Heaven 

The moment is at hand ; no more delay ; 

Ascend the ethereal bark, and go your way ; 

And Ye, of heavenly nature, follow me. 



The will of Heaven be done, Ladurlad cried; 

Nor more the man replied. 

But placed his daughter in the ethereal bark. 

Then took his seat beside. 

There was no word at parting, no adieu. 

Down from that empyreal height they flew : 

One groan Ladurlad breathed, yet utter'd not. 

When, to his heart and brain. 

The fiery Curse again like lightning shot. 

And now on earth the Sire and Child alight; 

Up soar'd the Ship of Heaven, and sail'd away 

from sight. 



O ye immortal Bowers, 

Where hitherto the Hours 

Have led their dance of happiness for aye. 

With what a sense of woe 

Do ye expect the blow. 

And see your heavenly dwellers driven away ! 

Lo ! where the aunnay-birds of graceful mien. 

Whose milk-white forms were seen. 
Lovely as Nymphs, your ancient trees between, 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



591 



And by your silent springs, 

Witli melancholy cry, 

Now spread unwilling wings ; 

Their stately necks reluctant they protend. 

And through the sullen sky, 

To other worlds, their mournful progress bend. 



The affrighted gales to-day 

O'er their beloved streams no longer play ; 

The streams of Paradise have ceased to flow ; 

The Fountain-Tree withholds its diamond-shower 

In this portentous hour, — 

This dolorous hour, — this universal woe. 

Where is the Palace, whose far-flashing beams. 

With streaks and streams of ever-varying light, 

Brighten'd the polar night 

Around the frozen North's extremest shore ? 

Gone like a morning rainbow, — like a dream, — 

A star that shoots and falls, and then is seen no more. 



Now ! now ! — Before the Golden Palaces, 

The Bramin strikes the inevitable hour. 

The fatal blow is given, 

That over Earth and Heaven 

Confirms the Almighty Rajah in his power. 

All evil Spirits then. 

That roam the World about. 

Or wander through the sky. 

Set up a joyful shout. 

The Asuras and the Giants join the cry; 

The damn'd in Padalon acclaim 

Their hoped Deliverer's name ; 

Heaven trembles with the thunder-drowning 

sound ; 

Back starts affrighted Ocean from the shore, 

And the adamantine vaults and brazen floor 

Of Hell are shaken with the roar. 

Up rose the Rajah through the conquer 'd sky. 

To seize the Swerga for his proud abode ; 

Myriads of evil Genii round him fly, 

As royally on wings of winds he rode. 

And scaled high Heaven, triumphant like a God. 



XHI. 
THE RETREAT. 



Around her Father's neck the Maiden lock'd 
Her arms, when that portentous blow was given; 

Clinging to him she heard the dread uproar, 

And felt the shviddering shock which ran through 

Heaven ; 

Earth underneath them rock'd. 

Her strong foundations heaving in commotion. 

Such as wild winds upraise in raving Ocean, 

As though the solid base were rent asunder. 

And lo ! where, storming the astonish'd sky, 

Kehama and his evil host ascend ! 

Before them rolls the thunder ; 

Ten thousand thousand lightnings round them fly ; 



Upward the lengthening pageantries aspire, 

Leaving from Earth to Heaven a widening wake 

of fire. 

2. 

When the wild uproar was at length allay 'd, 

And Earth, recovering from the shock, was still, 

Thus to her Father spake the imploring Maid : — 

Oh ! by the love which we so long have borne 

Each other, and we ne'er shall cease to bear, — 

Oh ! by the sufferings we have shared, 

And must not cease to share, — 

One boon I supplicate in this dread hour, 

One consolation in this hour of woe ! 

Father, thou hast it in thy power ; 

Thou wilt not, Father, sure refuse me now 

The only comfort my poor heart can know. 



O dearest, dearest Kailyal ! with a smile 

Of tenderness and anguish, he replied, 

O best beloved, and to be loved the best. 

Best worthy, — set thy duteous heart at rest. 

I know thy wish, and let what will betide. 

Ne'er will I leave thee wilfully again. 

My soul is strengthen'd to endure its pain; 

Be thou, in all my wanderings, still my guide : 

Be thou, in all my sufferings, at my side. 



The Maiden, at those welcome words, impress 'd 

A passionate kiss upon her Father's cheek: 

They look'd around them then, as if to seek 

Where they should turn, North, South, or East, or 

West, 

Wherever to their vagrant feet seem'd best. 

But, turning from the view her mournful eyes, 

Oh, whither should we wander? Kailyal cries, 

Or wherefore seek in vain a place of rest .'' 

Have we not here the Earth beneath our tread, 

Heaven overhead, 

A brook that winds through this sequester'd glade, 

And yonder woods, to yield us fruit and shade ? 

The little all our wants require is nigh ; 

Hope we have none ; — why travel on in fear .'' 

We cannot fly from Fate, and Fate will find us here. 



'Twas a fair scene wherein they stood, 

A green and sunny glade amid the wood. 

And in the midst an aged Bannian grew. 

It was a goodly sight to see 

That venerable tree. 

For o'er the lawn, irregularly spread. 

Fifty straight columns propp'd its lofty head ; 

And many a long, depending shoot. 

Seeking to strike its root. 

Straight like a plummet, grew towards the ground. 

Some on the lower boughs which cross'd their way, 

Fixing their bearded fibres, round and round, 

With many a ring and wild contortion wound ; 

Some to the passing wind, at times, with sway 

Of gentle motion swung ; 

Others, of younger growth, immoved, were hung 

Like stone-drops from the cavern's fretted height; 



592 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



xiir. 



Beneath was smooth and fair to sight, 

Nor weeds nor briers deform'd the natural floor, 

And through the leafy cope which bower'd it o'er 

Came gleams of checker'd light. 

So like a temple did it seem, that there 

A pious heart's first impulse would be prayer. 



A brook, with easy current, murmur'd near ; 

Water so cool and clear 

The peasants drink not from the humble well. 

Which they, with sacrifice of rural pride. 

Have wedded to the cocoa-grove beside ; 

Nor tanks of costliest masonry dispense 

To those in towns who dwell. 

The work of Kings, in their beneficence. 

Fed by perpetual springs, a small lagoon, 

Pellacid, deep, and still, in silence join'd. 

And swell'd the passing stream. Like burnish'd 

steel 

Glowing, it lay beneath the eye of noon; 

And when the breezes, in their play, 

Ruffled the darkening surface, then, with gleam 

Of sudden light, around the lotus stem 

It rippled, and the sacred flowers, that crown 

The lakelet with their roseate beauty, ride, 

In easy waving rock'd, from side to side ; 

And as the wind upheaves 

Their broad and buoyant weight, the glossy leaves 

Flap on the twinkling waters, up and down. 



They built them here a bower, of jointed cane. 

Strong for the needful use ; and light and long 

Was the slight framework rear'd, with little pain ; 

Lithe creepers, then, the wicker sides supply, 

And the tall jungle-grass fit roofing gave 

Beneath the genial sky. 

And here did Kailyal, each returning day. 

Pour forth libations from the brook to pay 

The Spirits of her Sires their grateful rite ; 

In such libations pour'd in open glades. 

Beside clear streams and solitary shades. 

The Spirits of the virtuous dead delight. 

And duly here, to Marriataly's praise, 

The Maid, as with an angel's voice of song, 

Pour'd her melodious lays 

Upon the gales of even, 

And gliding in religious dance along. 

Moved graceful as the dark-eyed Nymphs of 

Heaven ; 

Such harmony to all her steps was given. 



Thus ever, in her Father's doting eye, 

Kailyal perform'd the customary rite ; 

He, patient of his burning pain the while, 

Beheld her, and approved her pious toil ; 

And sometimes, at the sight, 

A melancholy smile 

Would gleam upon his awful countenance. 

He, too, by day and night, and every hour. 

Paid to a higher Power his sacrifice ; 

An offering, not of ghee, or fruit, and rice. 

Flower-crown, or blood; but of a heart subdued. 



A resolute, unconquer'd fortitude. 

An agony repress'd, a will resigned. 

To her, who, on her secret throne reclin'd, 

Amid the Sea of Milk, by Veeshnoo's side, 

Looks with an eye of mercy on mankind. 

By the Preserver, with his power endued, 

There Voomdavee beholds this lower clime, 

And 3Taarks the silent sufferings of the good. 

To recompense them in her own good time. 



O force of faith ! O strength of virtuous will ! 

Behold him in his endless martyrdom, 

Triumphant still ! 

The Curse still burning in his heart and brain ; 

And yet doth he remain 

Patient the while, and tranquil, and content ! 

The pious soul hath framed unto itself 

A second nature, to exist in pain 

As in its own allotted element. 

10. 

Such strength the will reveal'd had given 

This holy pair, such influxes of grace, 

That to their solitary resting-place 

They brought the peace of Heaven. 

Yea, all around was hallow'd ! Danger, Fear, 

Nor thought of evil ever enter'd here. 

A charm was on the Leopard when he came 

Within the circle of that mystic glade ; 

Submiss he crouch' d before the heavenly Maid, 

And offer'd to her touch his speckled side ; 

Or, with arch'd back erect, and bending head, 

And eyes half-closed for pleasure, would he stand, 

Courting the pressure of her gentle hand. 

11. 

Trampling his path through wood and brake, 

And canes which crackling fall before his way, 

And tassel-grass, whose silvery feathers play. 

O'er topping the young trees, 

On comes the Elephant, to slake 

His thirst at noon in yon pellucid springs. 

Lo ! from his trunk upturn'd, aloft he flings 

The grateful shower ; and now 

Plucking the broad-leaved bough 

Of yonder plane, with wavy motion slow, 

Fanning the languid air, 

He moves it to and fro. 

But when that form of beauty meets his sight. 

The trunk its undulating motion stops. 

From his forgetful hold the plane-branch drops. 

Reverent he kneels, and lifts his rational eyes 

To her as if in prayer ; 

And when she pours her angel voice in song, 

Intranced he listens to the thrilling notes, 

Till his strong temples, bathed with sudden dews, 

Their fragrance of dehght and love diffuse. 

12. 

Lo ! as the voice melodious floats around, 

The Antelope draws near. 

The Tigress leaves her toothless cubs to hear ; 

The Snake comes gliding from the secret brake, 

Himself in fascination forced along 



XIII. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



593 



By that enchanting song ; 

The antic Monkeys, whose wild gambols late, 

When not a breeze waved the tall jungle-grass. 

Shook the whole wood, are hush'd, and silently 

Hang on the cluster'd tree. 

All things in wonder and delight are still; 

Only at times the Nightingale is heard, 

i Not that in emulous skill that sweetest bird 

Her rival strain Avould try, 

A mighty songster, with the Maid to vie ; 

She only bore her part in powerful sympathy. 

13. 

Well might they thus adore that heavenly Maid ! 

j For never Nymph of Mountain, 

Or Grove, or Lake, or Fountain, 

With a diviner presence fill'd the shade. 

No idle ornaments deface 

Her natural grace, 

Musk-spot, nor sandal-streak, nor scarlet stain, 

Ear-drop nor chain, nor arm nor ankle-ring, 

Nor trinketry on front, or neck, or breast. 

Marring the perfect form : she seem'd a thing 

Of Heaven's prime uncorrupted work, a child 

Of early nature undefiled, 

A daughter of the years of innocence. 

And therefore all things loved her. When she 

stood 

Beside the glassy pool, the fish, that flies 

Quick as an arrow from all other eyes, 

Hover'd to gaze on her. The mother bird. 

When Kailyal's step she heard, 

Sought not to tempt her from her secret nest, 

But, hastening to the dear retreat, would fly 

To meet and welcome her benignant eye. 

14. 

Hope we have none, said Kailyal to her Sire. 
Said she aright? and had the mortal Maid 

No thoughts of heavenly aid, — 

No secret hopes her inmost heart to move 

With longings of such deep and pure desire, 

As Vestal Maids, whose piety is love. 

Feel in their ecstasies, when, rapp'd above, 

Their souls unto their heavenly Spouse aspire .' 

Why else so often doth that searching eye 

Roam through the scope of sky ? 

Why, if she sees a distant speck on high. 

Starts there that quick suff"usion to her cheek ? 

'Tis but the Eagle in his heavenly height ; 

Reluctant to believe, she hears his cry, 

And marks his wheeling flight, 

Then pensively averts her mournful sight. 

Why ever else, at morn, that waking sigh. 

Because the lovely form no more is nigh 

Which hath been present to her soul all night ; 

And that injurious fear 

Which ever, as it riseth, is repress'd. 

Yet riseth still within her troubled breast. 

That she no more shall see the Glendoveer ! 

15. 

Hath he forgotten me ? The wrongful thought 

Would stir within her, and, though still repell'd 

With shame and self-reproaches, would recur. 

75 



Days after days unvarying come and go, 

And neither friend nor foe 

Approaches them in their sequester'd bower. 

Maid of strange destiny ! but think not thou 

Thou art forgotten now. 
And hast no cause for further hope or fear; 

High-fated Maid, thou dost not know 

What eyes watch over thee for weal and woe ! 

Even at this hour, 

Searching the dark decrees divine, 

Kehama, in the fulness of his power. 

Perceives his thread of fate entwine with thine. 

The Glendoveer, from his far sphere. 

With love that never sleeps, beholds thee here, 

And in the hour permitted will be near. 

Dark Lorrinite on thee hath fixed her sight, 

And laid her wiles, to aid 

Foul Arvalan when he shall next appear ; 

For well she ween'd his Spirit would renew 

Old vengeance now, with unremitting hate ; 

The Enchantress well that evil nature knew; 

The accursed Spirit hath his prey in view; 

And thus, while all their separate hopes pursue, 

All work, unconsciously, the will of Fate. 

16. 

Fate work'd its own the while. A band 

Of Yoguees, as they roam'd the land. 

Seeking a spouse for Jaga-Naut, their God, 

Stray 'd to this solitary glade. 

And reach'd the bower wherein the Maid abode. 

Wondering at form so fair, they deem'd the Power 

Divine had led them to his chosen bride, 

And seized and bore her from her Father's side. 



XIV. 



JAGA-NAUT. 



Joy in the City of great Jaga-Naut ! 

Joy in the seven-headed Idol's shrine ! 

A Virgin-bride his ministers have brought, 

A mortal Maid, in form and face divine, 

Peerless among all daughters of mankind ; 

Search'd they the world again from East to West, 

In endless quest. 

Seeking the fairest and the best, 

No maid so lovely might they hope to find ; — 

For she hath breathed celestial air. 

And heavenly food hath been her fare, 

And heavenly thoughts and feelings give her face 

That heavenly grace. 

Joy in the City of great Jaga-Naut, 

Joy in the seven-headed Idol's shrine ! 

The fairest Maid his Yoguees sought; 

A fairer than the fairest have they brought, 

A Maid of charms surpassing human thought, 

A Maid divine. 



Now bring ye forth the Chariot of the God ! 
Bring him abroad. 



594 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



That through the swarming City he may ride ; 

And by his side 

Place ye the Maid of more than mortal grace, 

The Maid of perfect form and heavenly face; 

Set her aloft in triumph, like a bride 

Upon the Bridal Car, 

And spread the joyful tidings wide and far, — 

Spread it with trump and voice, 

That all may hear, and all who hear rejoice, — 

Great Jaga-Naut hath found his mate ! the God 

Will ride abroad ! 

To-night will he go forth from his abode ! 

Ye myriads who adore him, 

Prepare the way before him ! 

3. 

Uprear'd on twenty wheels elate. 

Huge as a Ship, the Bridal Car appear'd ; 

Loud creak its ponderous wheels, as through the 

gate 

A thousand Bramins drag the enormous load. 

There throned aloft in state, 

The Image of the seven-headed God 

Came forth from his abode ; and at his side 

Sat Kailyal like a bride. 

A bridal statue rather might she seem. 

For she regarded all things like a dream. 

Having no thought, nor fear, nor will, nor aught 

Save hope and faith, that lived within her still. 

4. 

O silent Night, how have they startled thee 

With the brazen trumpet's blare ! 

And thou, O Moon ! whose quiet light serene 

Filleth wide heaven, and bathing hill and wood, 

Spreads o'er the peaceful valley like a flood. 
How have they dimm'd thee with the torches' 

glare. 

Which round yon moving pageant flame and flare, 

As the wild rout, with deafening song and shout, 

Fling their long flashes out. 

That, like infernal lightnings, fire the air. 



A thousand pilgrims strain 

Arm, shoulder, breast, and thigh, with might and 

main, 

To drag that sacred wain, 

And scarce can draw along the enormous load. 

Prone fall the frantic votaries in its road. 

And calling on the God, 

Their self-devoted bodies there they lay 

To pave his chariot-way. 

On Jaga-Naut they call ; 

The ponderous Car rolls on, and crushes all. 

Through flesh and bones it ploughs its dreadful path. 

Groans rise unheard ; the dying cry, 

And death and agony 

Are trodden under foot by yon mad throng. 

Who follow close, and thrust the deadly wheels 

along. 

6. 

Pale grows the Maid at this accursed sight; 
The yells which round her rise 
Have roused her with affriffht. 



And fear hath given to her dilated eyes 

A wilder light. 

Where shall those eyes be turn'd ? she knows not 

where ! 

Downward they dare not look, for there 

Is deatn, and horror, and despair ; 

Nor can her patient looks to Heaven repair, 

For the huge Idol over her, in air. 

Spreads his seven hideous heads, and wide 

Extends their snaky necks on every side ; 

And all around, behind, before 

The Bridal Car, is the raging rout, 

With frantic shout and deafening roar, 

Tossing the torches' flames about. 

And the double double peals of the drum are there, 

And the startling burst of the trumpet's blare ; 

And the gong, that seems, with its thunders dread, 

To astound the living, and waken the dead. 

The ear-strings throb as if they were rent, 

And the eyelids drop as stunned and spent. 

Fain would the Maid have kept them fast ; 

But open they start at the crack of the blast. 



Where art thou. Son of Heaven, Ereenia ! where, 

In this dread hour of horror and despair .'' 

Thinking on him, she strove her fear to quell — 

If he be near me, then will all be well; 

And, if he reck not for my misery, 

Let come the worst ; it matters not to me. 

Repel that wrongful thought, 

O Maid ! thou feelest, but believ'st it not; 

It is thine own imperfect nature's fault 

That lets one doubt of him arise within; 

And this the Virgin knew ; and like a sin 

Repell'd the thought, and still believed him true, 

And summon' d up her spirit to endure 

All forms of fear, in that firm trust secure. 

8. 

She needs that faith, she needs that consolation, 

For now the Car hath measured back its track 

Of death, and hath retintered now its station. 

There, in the Temple-court, with song and dance, 

A harlot-band, to meet the Maid, advance. 

The drum hath ceas'd its peals ; the trump and gong . 

Are still ; the frantic crowd forbear their yells ; 

And sweet it was to hear the voice of song, 

And the sweet music of their girdle-bells. 

Armlets and anklets, that, with cheerful sound, 

Symphonious tmkled as they wheel'd around, i 

9. 

They sung a bridal measure, 

A song of pleasure, 

A hymn of joyance and of gratulation. 

Go, chosen One, they cried. 

Go, happy bride I 

For thee the God descends in expectation ! 

For thy dear sake 

He leaves his Heaven, O Maid of matchless 

charms ! 

Go, happy One, the bed divine partake, 

And fill his longing arms [ 

Thus to the inner fane. 

With circling dance and hymeneal strain, 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



595 



The astonish'd Maid they led, 

And there they laid her on the bridal bed. 

Then forth they go, and close the Temple-gate, 

And leave the wretched Kailyal to her fate. 

10. 

Where art thou. Son of Heaven, Ereenia, where ? 

From the loathed bed she starts, and in the air 

Looks up, as if she thought to find him there ; 

Then, in despair, 

Anguish, and agony, and hopeless prayer, 

Prostrate she laid herself upon the floor. 

There trembling as she lay. 

The Bramin of the fane advanced, 

And came to seize his prey. 

But as the abominable Priest drew nigh, 

A power invisible opposed his way ) 

Starting, he utter'd wildly a death-cry, 

And fell. At that the Maid all eagerly 

Lifted in hope her head ; 

She thought her own deliverer had been near ; 

When lo ! with other life reanimate. 

She saw the dead arise. 

And in the fiendish joy within his eyes. 

She knew the hateful Spirit who look'd through 

Their specular orbs, — clothed in the flesh of man, 

She knew the accursed soul of Arvalan. 

11. 

Where art thou, Son of Heaven, Ereenia, where ? 

But not in vain, with sudden shriek of fear, 

She calls Ereenia now ; the Glendoveer 

Is here ! Upon the guilty sight he burst 

Like lightning from a cloud, and caught the 

accurs'd. 

Bore him to the roof aloft, and on the floor 

With vengeance dash'd him, quivering there in 

gore. 

Lo ! from the pregnant air — heart-withering 

sight — 

There issued forth the dreadful Lorrinite. 

Seize him ! the Enchantress cried ; 

A host of Demons at her word appear. 

And, like tornado winds, from every side 

At once they rush upon the Glendoveer. 

Alone against a legion, little here 

Avails his single might, 

Nor that celestial falchion, which in fight 

So oft had put the rebel race to flight. 

There are no Gods on earth to give him aid ; 

Hemm'd round, he is overpower'd, beat down, and 

bound, 

And at the feet of Lorrinite is laid. 

12. 

Meantime the scatter'd members of the slain. 

Obedient to her mighty voice, assumed 

Their vital form again. 

And that foul Spirit, upon vengeance bent. 

Fled to the fleshly tenement. 

Lo ! here, quoth Lorrinite, thou seest thy foe ! 

Him in the Ancient Sepulchres, below 

The billows of the Ocean, will I lay ; 

Gods are there none to help him now, and there 

For Man there is no way. 

To that dread scene of durance and despair. 



Asuras, bear your enemy ! I go 

To chain him in the Tombs. Meantime do thou, 

Freed from thy foe, and now secure from fear, 

Son of Kehama, take thy pleasure here. 

13. 

Her words the accursed race obey'd; 

Forth with a sound like rushing winds they fled ; 

And of all aid from Earth or Heaven bereft, 

Alone with Arvalan the Maid was left. 

But in that hour of agony, the Maid 

Deserted not herself; her very dread 

Had calm'd her ; and her heart 

Knew the whole horror, and its only part. 

Yamen, receive me undefiled ! she said, 

And seized a torch, and fired the bridal bed. 

Up ran the rapid flames ; on every side 

They find their fuel wheresoe'er they spread; 

Thin hangings, fragrant gums, and odorous wood, 

That piled like sacrificial altars stood. 

Around they run, and upward they aspire, 

And, lo ! the huge Pagoda lined with fire. 

14. 

The wicked Soul, who had assumed again 

A form of sensible flesh for his foul will, 

Still bent on base revenge, and baffled still, 

Felt that corporeal shape alike to pain 

Obnoxious as to pleasure : forth he flew, 

Howling and scorch'd by the devouring flame; 

Accursed Spirit ! Still condemn'd to rue, 

The act of sin and punishment the same. 

Freed from his loathsome touch, a natural dread 

Came on the self-devoted, and she drew 

Back from the flames, which now toward her spread, 

And, like a living monster, seem'd to dart 
Their hungry tongues toward their shrinking prey. 

Soon she subdued her heart; 

" O Father ! " she exclaim'd, " there was no way 

But this ! And thou, Ereenia, who for me 

Sufferest, my soul shall bear thee company." 

15. 

So having said, she knit 

Her body up to work her soul's desire, 

And rush at once among the thickest fire. 

A sudden cry withheld her, — " Kailyal, stay ! 

Child ! daughter ! I am here ! " the voice exclaims, 

And from the gate, unharm'd, through smoke and 

flames, 

Like as a God, Ladurlad made his way ; 

Wrapp'd his preserving arms around, and bore 

His Child, uninjured, o'er the burning floor. 



XV. 

THE CITY OF BALY. 

1. 

KAILYAL. 

Ereenia ! 

LADURLAD. 

Nay, let no reproachful thought 
Wrong his heroic heart ! The Evil Powers 



596 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



Have the dominion o'er this wretched World, 
And no good Spirit now can venture here. 

KAILYAL. 

Alas, my Father ! he hath ventured here, 

And saved me from one horror. But the Powers 

Of Evil beat him down, and bore away 

To some dread scene of durance and despair ; 

The Ancient Tombs, methought their mistress 

said. 

Beneath the ocean waves ; no way for Man 

Is there ; and Gods, she boasted, there are none 

On Earth to help him now. 

LADURLAD. 

Is that her boast ? 

And hath she laid him in the Ancient Tombs, 

Relying that the Waves will guard him there ? 

Short-sighted are the eyes of Wickedness, 

And all its craft but folly. Oh my child ! 

The Curses of the Wicked are upon me. 

And the immortal Deities, who see 

And suffer all things for their own wise end. 

Have made them blessings to us ! 

KAILYAL. 

Then thou knowest 
Where they have borne him ? 

LADURLAD. 

To the Sepulchres 
Of the Ancient Kings, which Baly, in his power. 
Made in primeval times ; and built above them 

A City, like the Cities of the Gods, 
Being like a God himself For many an age 

Hath Ocean warr'd against his Palaces, 
Till, overwhelm'd, they lie beneath the waves. 

Not overthrown, so well the awful Chief 

Had laid their deep foundations. Rightly said 

The Accursed, that no way for man was there ; 

But not like man am I ! 



Up from the ground the Maid exultant sprung. 

And clapp'd her happy hands in attitude 

Of thanks to Heaven, and flung 

Her arms around her Father's neck, and stood 

Struggling awhile for utterance, with excess 

Of hope and pious thankfulness. 

Come — come I she cried. Oh let us not delay,— 

He is in torments there, — away ! — away ! 



Long time they travell'd on ; at dawn of day 

Still setting forward with the earliest light. 

Nor ceasing from their way 

Till darkness closed the night. 

Short refuge from the noontide heat. 

Reluctantly compell'd, the Maiden took, 

And ill her indefatigable feet 

Could that brief respite brook. 

Hope kept her up, and her intense desire 

Supports that heart which ne'er at danger quails, 

Those feet which never tire. 

That frame which never fails. 



4. 

Their talk was of the City of the days 

Of old, Earth's wonder once, and of the fame 

Of Baly, its great founder, — he whose name, 

In ancient story and in poet's praise, 

Liveth and flourisheth for endless glory, 

Because his might 

Put down the wrong, and aye upheld the right. 

Till for ambition, as old sages tell. 

At length the universal Monarch fell : 

For he too, having made the World his own. 

Then in his pride, had driven 

The Devetas from Heaven, 

And seized triumphantly the Swerga throne. 

The Incarnate came before the Mighty One, 

In dwarfish stature, and in mien obscure; 

The sacred cord he bore, 

And ask'd, for Brama's sake, a little boon. 

Three steps of Baly's ample reign, no more. 

Poor was the boon required, and poor was he 

Who begg'd, — a little wretch it seem'd to be; 

But Baly ne'er refused a suppliant's prayer. 

He on the Dwarf cast down 

A glance of pity in contemptuous mood. 

And bade him take the boon. 

And measure where he would. 



Lo, Son of giant birth, 

I take my grant ! the Incarnate Power replies. 

With his first step he measured o'er the Earth ; 

The second spann'd the skies. 

Three paces thou hast granted ; 

Twice have I set my footstep, Veeshnoo cries, 

Where shall the third be planted ? 

6. 

Then Baly knew the God, and at his feet, 

In homage due, he laid his humbled head. 

Mighty art thou, O Lord of Earth and Heaven, 

Mighty art thou ! he said ; 

Be merciful, and let me be forgiven. 

He ask'd for mercy of the Merciful, 

And mercy for his virtue's sake was shown. 

For though he was cast down to Padalon, 

Yet there, by Yamen's throne. 

Doth Baly sit in majesty and might, 

To judge the dead, and sentence them aright. 

And forasmuch as he was still the friend 

Of righteousness, it is permitted him. 

Yearly, from those drear regions to ascend 

And walk the Earth, that he may hear his 

name 

Still hymn'd and honor'd by the grateful voice 

Of human-kind, and in his fame rejoice. 



Such was the talk they held upon their way, 

Of him to whose old City they were bound ; 

And now, upon their journey, many a day 

Had risen and closed, and many a week gone 

round. 

And many a realm and region had they pass'd, 

When now the Ancient Towers appear'd at 

last. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



597 



8. 

Their golden summits, in the noon-day light, 

Shone o'er the dark-green deep that roll'd between ; 

For domes, and pinnacles, and spires were seen 

Peering above the sea — a mournful sight ! 
Well might the sad beholder ween from thence 

What works of wonder the devouring wave 

Had swallow'd there, when monuments so brave 

Bore record of their old magnificence. 

And on the sandy shore, beside the verge 

Of Ocean, here and there, a rock-hewn fane 

Resisted in its strength the surf and surge 

That on their deep foundations beat in vain. 

In solitude the Ancient Temples stood. 

Once resonant with instrument and song, 

And solemn dance of festive multitude; 

Now, as the weary ages pass along, 

Hearing no voice save of the Ocean flood. 

Which roars forever on the restless shores ; 

Or visiting their solitary caves. 

The lonely sound of winds, that moan around 

Accordant to the melancholy waves. 



With reverence did the travellers see 

The works of ancient days, and silently 

Approach the shore. Now on the yellow sand. 

Where round their feet the rising surges part, 

They stand. Ladurlad's heart 

Exulted in his wondrous destiny. 

To Heaven he raised his hand 

In attitude of stern, heroic pride ; 

Oh what a Power, he cried. 

Thou dreadful Rajah, doth thy curse impart ! 

I thank thee now ! — Then turning to the Maid, 

Thou seest how far and wide 

Yon Towers extend, he said ; 

My search must needs be long. Meantime the 

flood 

Will cast thee up thy food, — 

And in the Chambers of the Rock, by night, 

Take thou thy safe abode. 

No prowling beast to harm thee, or affright. 

Can enter there ; but wrap thyself with care 

From the foul Birds obscene that thirst for blood ; 

For in such caverns doth the Bat delight 

To have its haunts. Do thou, with stone and 

shout. 

Ere thou liest down at evening, scare them out. 

And in this robe of mine involve thy feet. 

Duly commend us both to Heaven in prayer ; 

Be of good heart, and may thy sleep be sweet ! 

10. 

So saying, he put back his arm, and gave 

The cloth which girt his loins, and press'd her 

hand 

With fervent love, then from the sand 

Advanced into the sea ; the coming Wave 

Which knew Kehama's curse, before his way 

Started, and on he went as on dry land ; 

And still around his path the waters parted. 

She stands upon the shore, where sea-weeds play, 

Lashing her polish'd ankles, and the spray 

Which off her Father, like a rainbow, fled. 



Falls on her like a shower ; there Kailyal stands, 

And sees the billows rise above his head. 

She, at the startling sight, forgot the power 

The Curse had given him, and held forth her hands 

Imploringly, — her voice was on the wind, 

And the deaf Ocean o'er Ladurlad closed. 

Soon she recall'd his destiny to mind, 

And, shaking otf that natural fear, composed 

Her soul with prayer, to wait the event resign'd. 

11. 

Alone, upon the solitary strand. 

The lovely one is left ; behold her go. 

Pacing with patient footsteps, to and fro, 

Along the bending sand. 

Save her, ye Gods ! from Evil Powers, and here 

From man she need not fear : 

For never Traveller comes near 

These awful ruins of the days of yore, 

Nor fisher's bark, nor venturous mariner. 

Approach the sacred shore. 

All day she walk'd the beach ; at night she sought 

The chamber of the Rock ; with stone and shout 

Assail'd the Bats obscene, and scared them out; 

Then in her Father's robe involved her feet. 

And wrapp'd her mantle round to guard her head, 

And laid her down : the rock was Kailyal's bed ; 

Her chamber-lamps were in the starry sky ; 

The winds and waters were her lullaby. 

12. 

Be of good heart, and may thy sleep be sweet, 

Ladurlad said. — Alas ! that cannot be 

To one whose days are days of misery. 

How often did she stretch her hands to greet 

Ereenia, rescued in the dreams of night ! 

How oft, amid the vision of delight. 

Fear in her heart all is not as it seems ! 

Then from unsettled slumber start, and hear 

The Winds that moan above, the Waves below ! 

Thou hast been call'd, O Sleep ! the friend of 

Woe; 

But 'tis the happy who have call'd thee so. 

13. 

Another day, another night are gone ; 
A second passes, and a third wanes on. 

So long she paced the shore. 

So often on the beach she took her stand, 

That the wild Sea-Birds knew her, and no more 

Fled, when she past beside them on the strand. 

Bright shine the golden summits in the light 

Of the noon-sun, and lovelier far by night 

Their moonlight glories o'er the sea they shed : 

Fair is the dark-green deep : by night and day, 

Unvex'd with storms, the peaceful billows play, 

As when they closed upon Ladurlad's head; 

The firmament above is bright and clear ; 

The sea-fowl, lords of water, air, and land, 

Joyous alike upon the wing appear, 

Or when they ride the waves, or walk the sand ; 

Beauty, and light, and joy are every where ; 

There is no sadness and no sorrow here. 

Save what that single human breast contains ; 

But oh ! what hopes, and fears, and pains are there ' 



598 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



14. 

Seven miserable days the expectant Maid, 

From earliest dawn till evening, watch'd the shore : 

Hope left her then ; and in her heart she said. 

Never should she behold her Father more. 



XVI. 



THE ANCIENT SEPULCHRES. 



When the broad Ocean on Ladurlad's head 

Had closed and arch'd him o'er, 

With steady tread he held his way 

Adown the sloping shore. 

The dark-green waves with emerald hue 

Imbue the beams of day, 

And on the wrinkled sand below, 

Rolling their mazy network to and fro, 

Light shadows shift and play. 

The hungry Shark, at scent of prey. 

Toward Ladurlad darted ; 

Beholding then that human form erect, 

How like a God the depths he trod. 

Appall' d the monster started, 

And in his fear departed. 

Onward Ladurlad went with heart elate, 

And now hath reach'd the Ancient City's gate. 



Wondering he stood awhile to gaze 

Upon the works of elder days. 

The brazen portals open stood. 

Even as the fearful multitude 

Had left them, when they fled 

Before the rising flood. 

High overhead, sublime. 

The mighty gateway's storied roof was spread. 

Dwarfing the puny piles of younger time. 

With the deeds of days of yore 

That ample roof was sculptured o'er, 

And many a godlike form there met his eye. 

And many an emblem dark of mystery. 

Through these wide portals oft had Baly rode 

Triumphant from his proud abode, 

When, in his greatness, he bestrode 

The Aullay, hugest of four-footed kind, 

The Aullay -Horse, that in his force, 

With elephantine trunk, could bind 

And lift the elephant, and on the wind 

Whirl him away, with sway and swing. 

Even like a pebble from the practis'd sling. 



Those streets which never, since the days of yore, 

By human footstep had been visited. 

Those streets which never more 

A human foot shall tread, 

Ladurlad trod. In sun-light and sea-green. 

The thousand Palaces were seen 

Of that proud City, whose superb abodes 

Seem'd rear'd by Giants for the immortal Gods. 

How silent and how beautiful they stand, 



Like things of Nature ! the eternal rocks 

Themselves not firmer. Neither hath the sand 

Drifted within their gates and chok'd their doors, 

Nor slime defiled their pavements and their floors. 

Did then the Ocean wage 

His war for love and envy, not in rage, 

O thou fair City, that he spared thee thus ? 

Art thou Varounin's capital and court, 
Where all the Sea Gods for delight resort, 

A place too godlike to be held by us. 

The poor degenerate children of the earth ? 

So thought Ladurlad, as he look'd around, 

Weening to hear the sound 

Of Mermaid's shell, and song, 

Of choral throng from some imperial hall, 

Wherein the Immortal Powers, at festival, 

Their high carousals keep ; 

But all is silence dread. 

Silence profound and dead. 

The everlasting stillness of the Deep. 

4. 

Through many a solitary street. 

And silent market-place, and lonely square, 

Arm'd with the mighty Curse, behold him fare. 

And now his feet attain that royal fane 

Where Baly held of old his awful reign. 

What once had been the Gardens spread around. 

Fair Gardens, once which wore perpetual green. 

Where all sweet flowers through all the year were 

found. 

And all fair fruits were through all seasons seen ; 

A place of Paradise, where each device 

Of emulous Art with Nature strove to vie ; 

And Nature, on her part, 

Call'd forth new powers wherewith to vanquish 

Art. 

The Swerga-God himself, with envious eye, 

Survey'd those peerless gardens in their prime ; 

Nor ever did the Lord of Light, 

Who circles Earth and Pleaven upon his way, 

Behold from eldest time a goodlier sight 

Than were the groves which Baly, in his might, 

Made for his chosen place of solace and delight. 

5. 

It was a Garden still beyond all price ; 

Even yet it was a place of Paradise ; 

For where the mighty Ocean could not spare, 

There had he, with his own creation. 

Sought to repair his work of devastation. 

And here were coral bowers. 

And grots of madrepores, 

And banks of sponge, as soft and fair to eye 

As e'er was mossy bed 

Whereon the Wood Nymphs lie, 

With languid limbs, in summer's sultry hours. 

Here, too, were living flowers 

Which, like a bud compacted. 

Their purple cups contracted. 

And now, in open blossom spread. 

Stretch 'd like green anthers many a seeking head. 

And arborets of jointed stone were there. 

And plants of fibres fine, as silkworm's thread ; 

Yea, beautiful as Mermaid's golden hair 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



599 



Upon the waves dispread. 

Others that, like the broad banana growing, 

Raised their long, wrinkled leaves of purple hue, 

Like streamers wide outflowing. 

And whatsoe'er the depths of Ocean hide 

From human eyes, Ladurlad there espied, — 

Trees of the deep, and shrubs, and fruits, and 

flowers. 

As fair as ours. 

Wherewith the Sea Nymphs love their locks to 

braid, 

When to their father's hall, at festival 

Repairing, they, in emulous array, 

Their charms display, 

To grace the banquet and the solemn day. 

6. 

The golden fountains had not ceased to flow ; 

And where they mingled with the briny Sea, 

There was a sight of wonder and delight, 

To see the fish, like birds in air, 

Above Ladurlad flying. 

Round those strange waters they repair, 

Their scarlet fins outspread and plying ; 

They float with gentle hovering there ; 

And now, upon those little wings. 

As if to dare forbidden things, 

With wilful purpose bent, 

Swift as an arrow from a bow, 

They shoot across, and to and fro, 

In rapid glance, like lightning go 

Through that unwonted element. 



Almost in scenes so wondrous fair, 

Ladurlad had forgot 

The mighty cause which led him there ; 

His busy eye was every where ; 

His mind had lost all thought j 

His heart, surrender'd to the joys 

Of sight, was happy as a boy's. 

But soon the awakening thought recurs 

Of him who in tlie Sepulchres, 

Hopeless of human aid, in chains is laid ; 

And her who, on the solitary shore. 

By night and day, her weary watch will keep. 

Till she shall see them issuing from the deep. 



Now hath Ladurlad reach'd the Court 
Of the great Palace of the King : its floor 
Was of the marble rock : and there, before 

The imperial door, 

A mighty Image on the steps was seen. 

Of stature huge, of countenance serene. 

A crown and sceptre at his feet were laid ; 

One hand a scroll display 'd ; 

The other pointed there, that all might see ; 

My name is Death, it said ; 

In mercy have the Gods appointed me. 

Two brazen gates beneath him, night and day. 

Stood open ; and within them you behold 

Descending steps, which in the living stone 

Were hewn, a spacious way 
Down to the Chambers of the Kings of old. 



9. 
Trembling with hope, the adventurous man de- 
scended. 
The sea-green light of day 
Not far along the vault extended ; 
But where the slant reflection ended, 
Another light was seen 
Of red and fiery hue. 
That with the water blended, 
And gave the secrets of the Tombs to view. 

10. 

Deep in the marble rock, the Hall 

Of Death was hollow'd out, a chamber wide, 

Low-roof 'd, and long; on either side, 

Each in his own alcove, and on his throne, 

The Kings of old were seated : in his hand 

Each held the sceptre of command. 

From whence, across that scene of endless night, 

A carbuncle diffused its everlasting light. 

11. 

So well had the embalmers done their part 

With spice and precious unguents to imbue 

The perfect corpse, that each had still the hue 

Of living man, and every limb was still 

Supple, and firm, and full, as when of yore 

Its motion answered to the moving will. 

The robes of royalty, which once they wore, 

Long since had mouldered ofl", and left them 

bare : 

Naked upon their thrones behold them there, 

Statues of actual flesh — a fearful sight ! 

Their large and rayless eyes. 

Dimly reflecting to that gem-born light. 

Glazed, fix'd, and meaningless, — yet, open wide, 

Their ghastly balls belied 

The mockery of life in all beside. 

12. 

But if, amid these chambers drear, 

Death were a sight of shuddering and of fear, 

Life was a thing of stranger horror here. 

For at the farther end, in yon alcove, 

Where Baly should have lain, had he obey'd 

Man's common lot, behold Ereenia laid. 

Strong fetters link him to the rock ; his eye 

Now rolls and widens, as with effort vain 

He strives to break the chain. 

Now seems to brood upon his misery. 

Before him couch'd there lay 

One of the mighty monsters of the deep. 

Whom Lorrinite, encountering on the way, 

There station'd, his perpetual guard to keep; 

In the sport of wanton power, she charm'd hun 

there. 

As if to mock the Glendoveer's despair. 

13. 

Upward his form was human, save that here 

The skin was cover'd o'er with scale on scale 

Compact, a panoply of natural mail. 

His mouth, from ear to ear, 

Weapon'd with triple teeth, extended wide, 

And tusks on either side; 



600 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



XVI. 



A double snake below, he roll'd 
His supple length behind in many a sinuous fold. 

14. 

With red and kindling eye, the Beast beholds 

A living man draw nigh, 

And rising on his folds, 

In hungry joy awaits the expected feast. 

His mouth half open, and his teeth unsheath'd. 

Then on he sprung, and in his scaly arms 

Seized him, and fasten'd on his neck, to suck. 

With greedy lips, the warm life-blood : and sure 

But for the mighty power of magic charms, 

As easily as, in the blithesome hour 

Of spring, a child doth crop the meadow-flower, 

Piecemeal those claws 

Had rent their victim, and those armed jaws 

Snapp'd him in twain. Naked Ladurlad stood, 

Yet fearless and unharm'd in this dread strife. 

So well Kehama's Curse had charm'd his fated life. 

15. 

He too, — for anger, rising at the sight 

Of him he sought, in such strange thrall confined, 

With desperate courage fired Ladurlad's mind, — 

He too unto the fight himself address'd, 

And grappling breast to breast, 

With foot firm-planted stands. 

And seized the monster's throat with both his hands. 

Vainly, with throttling grasp, he press'd 

The impenetrable scales ; 

And lo ! the Guard rose up, and round his foe, 

With gliding motion, wreath'd his lengthening 

coils. 

Then tighten'd all their folds with stress and strain. 

Nought would the raging Tiger's strength avail. 

If once involved within those mighty toils; 

The arm'd Rhinoceros, so clasp'd, in vain 

Had trusted to his hide of rugged mail. 

His bones all broken, and the breath of life 

Crush'd from the lungs, in that unequal strife. 

Again, and yet again, he sought to break 

The impassive limbs ; but when the Monster found 

His utmost power was vain, 

A moment he relax'd in every round, 

Then knit his coils again with closer strain. 

And, bearing forward, forced him to the ground. 

16. 

Ereenia groan'd in anguish at the sight 
Of this dread fight : once more the Glendoveer 

Essay'd to break his bonds, and fear 

For that brave father who had sought him here. 

Stung him to wilder stragglings. From the rock 

He raised himself half up, with might and main, 

Pluck'd at the adamantine chain, 

And now, with long and unrelaxing strain. 

In obstinate effort of indignant strength, 

Labor'd and strove in vain ; 

Till his immortal sinews fail'd at length; 

And yielding, with an inward groan, to fate. 

Despairingly, he let himself again 

Fall prostrate on his prison-bed of stone. 

Body and chain alike with lifeless weight. 



17. 

Struggling they lay in mortal fray 

All day, while day was in our upper sphere ; 

For light of day 

And natural darkness never entered here ; 

All night, with unabated might, 

They waged the unremitting fight. 

A second day, a second night. 

With furious will they wrestled still. 

The third came on, the fourth is gone ; 

Another comes, another goes; 

And yet no respite, no repose ! 

But day and night, and night and day, 

Involv'd in mortal strife they lay ; 
Six days and nights have pass'd away, 
And still they wage, with mutual rage, 

The unremitting fray. 

With mutual rage their war they wage, 

But not with mutual will ; 

For when the seventh morning came, 

The monster's worn and wearied frame 

In this strange contest fails ; 

And weaker, weaker, every hour. 

He yields beneath strong Nature's power, 

For now the Curse prevails. 

18. 

Sometimes the Beast sprung up to bear 

His foe aloft ; and trusting there 

To shake him from his hold, 

Relax'd the rings that wreath'd him round; 

But on his throat Ladurlad hung, 

And weigh'd him to the ground; 

And if they sink, or if they float. 

Alike with stubborn clasp he clung, 

Tenacious of his grasp ; 

For well he knew with what a power, 

Exempt from Nature's laws, 

The Curse had arm'd him for this hour; 

And in the monster's gasping jaws, 

And in his hollow eye, 

Well could Ladurlad now descry 

The certain signs of victory. 

19. 

And now the Beast no more can keep 

His painful watch; his eyes, oppress'd, 

Are fainting for their natural sleep ; 

His living flesh and blood must rest; 

The Beast must sleep or die. 

Then he, full faint and languidly, 

Unwreathes his rings and strives to fly, 

And still retreating, slowly trails 

His stiff" and heavy length of scales. 

But that unweariable foe. 

With will relentless follows still ; 

No breathing-time, no pause of fight 

He gives, but presses on his flight ; 

Along the vaulted chambers, and the ascent 

Up to the emerald-tinted light of day, 

He harasses his way. 

Till lifeless, underneath his grasp, 

The huge Sea Monster lay. 



XVII. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA, 



601 



20. 

That obstinate work is done ; Ladurlad cried, 

One labor yet remains ! 

And thoughtfully he eyed 

Ereenia's ponderous chains ; 

And with faint effort, half-despairing, tried 

The rivets deep in-driven. Instinctively, 

As if in search of aid, he look'd around : 

Oh, then how gladly, in the near alcove, 

Fallen on the ground its lifeless Lord beside, 

The crescent cimeter he spied. 

Whose cloudy blade, with potent spells imbued, 

Had Iain so many an age unhurt in solitude 1 

21. 

Joyfully springing there. 

He seized the weapon, and with eager stroke 

Hew'd at the chain j the force was dealt in vain. 

For not as if through yielding air 

Pass'd the descending cimeter. 

Its deaden 'd way the heavy water broke ; 

Yet it bit deep. Again, with both his hands, 

He wields the blade, and dealt a surer blow. 

The baser metal yields 

To that fine edge, and lo ! the Glendoveer 

Rises and snaps the half-sever'd links, and stands 

Freed from his broken bands. 



XVII. 



BALY. 



This is the appointed night. 

The night of joy and consecrated mirth. 

When from his judgment-seat in Padalon, 

By Yamen's throne, 

Baly goes forth, that he may walk the Earth 

Unseen, and hear his name 

Still hymn'd and honor'd by the grateful voice 

Of human-kind, and in his fame rejoice. 

Therefore, from door to door, and street to street 

With willing feet. 
Shaking their firebands, the glad children run : 

Baly ! great Baly ! tliey acclaim ; 
Where'er they run they bear the mighty name ; 

Where'er they meet, 
Baly ! great Baly ! still their choral tongues repeat. 

Therefore at every door the votive flame 

Through pendent lanterns sheds its painted light, 

And rockets, hissing upward through the sky. 

Fall like a shower of stars 

From Heaven's black canopy. 

jTherefore, on yonder mountain's templed height, 

The brazen caldron blazes through the night. 

Huge as a Ship that travels the main sea 

Is that capacious brass ; its wick as tall 

As is the mast of some great admiral. 

Ten thousand votaries bring 

Camphor and ghee to feed the sacred flame ; 

nd while, through regions round, the nations see 

Its fiery pillar curling high in heaven, 

Baly ! great Baly ! they exclaim, 

76 



Forever hallowed be his blessed name ! 
Honor and praise to him for evermore be given I 

2. 

Why art not thou among the festive throng, 

Baly, O righteous Judge ! to hear thy fame ? 

Still, as of yore, with pageantry and song, 

The glowing streets along. 

They celebrate thy name ; 

Baly ! great Baly ! still 

The grateful habitants of Earth acclaim, 

Baly ! great Baly ! still 

The ringing walls and echoing towers proclaim. 

From yonder mountain the portentous flame 

Still blazes to the nations, as before ; 
All things appear to human eyes the same, 

As perfect as of yore,; 

To human eyes, — but how unlike to thine 1 

Thine, which were wont to see 

The Company divine. 

That with their presence came to honor thee ! 

For all the blessed ones of mortal birth 

Who have been clothed with immortality, 

From the eight corners of the Earth, 

From the Seven Worlds assembling, all 

Wont to attend thy solemn festival. 

Then did thine eyes behold 

The wide air peopled with that glorious train ; 

Now mayst thou seek the blessed ones in vain, 

For Earth and Air are now beneath the Rajah' 

reign. 



Therefore the righteous Judge hath walk'd the 

Earth 

In sorrow and in solitude to-night 

The sound of human mirth 

To him is no delight ; 

He turns away from that ungrateful sight, 

Hallowed not now by visitants divine. 

And there he bends his melancholy way, 

Where, in yon full-orb'd Moon's refulgent light, 

The Golden Towers of his old City shine 

Above the silver sea. The ancient Chief 

There bent his way in grief. 

As if sad thoughts indulged would work their own 

relief. 



There he beholds, upon the sand, 

A lovely Maiden in the moonlight stand. 

The land-breeze lifts her locks of jet ; 

The waves around her polish'd ankles play ; 

Her bosom with the salt sea-spray is wet ; 

Her arms are cross'd, unconsciously, to fold 

That bosom from the cold. 

While, statue-like, she seems her watch to keep, 

Gazing intently on the restless deep. 



Seven miserable days had Kailyal there, 

From earliest dawn till evening, watch'd the deep ; 

Six nights, within the chamber of the rock, 

Had laid her down, and found in prayer 

That comfort which she sought in vain from sleep. 

But when the seventh night came. 



602 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



Never should she behold her father more, 
The wretched Maiden said, in her despair ; 

Yet would not quit the shore. 

Nor turn her eyes one moment from the sea : 

Never before 

Had Kailyal watch'd it so impatiently, 

Never so eagerly had hoped before, 

As now, when she believed, and said, all hope w 



Beholding her, how beautiful she stood. 

In that wild solitude, 

Baly from his invisibility 

Had issued then, to know her cause of woe ; 

But that in the air beside her, he espied 

Two Powers of Evil for her hurt allied, 

Foul Arvalan and dreadful Lorrinite. 

Walking in darkness him they could not see, 

And marking with what demon-like delight 

They kept their innocent prey in sight. 
He waits, expecting what the end may be. 

7. 
She starts ; for lo ! where, floating many a rood, 

A Monster, hugest of the Ocean brood. 

Weltering and lifeless, drifts toward the shore. 

Backward she starts in fear before the flood, 

And, when the waves retreat, 
They leave their hideous burden at her feet. 

8. 

She ventures to approach with timid tread ; 

She starts, and half draws back in fear, 

Then stops, and stretches out her head, 

To see if that huge Beast indeed be dead. 

Now, growing bold, the Maid advances near, 

Even to the margin of the ocean-flood. 

Rightly she reads her Father's victory. 

And lifts her joyous hands exultingly 

To Heaven in gratitude. 

Then, spreading them toward the Sea, 

While pious tears bedim her streaming eyes, 

Come ! come ! my Father, come to me ; 

Ereenia, come ! she cries ; 

Lo ! from the opening deep they rise. 

And to Ladurlad's arms the happy Kailyal flies. 



She turn'd from him, to meet, with beating heart. 

The Glendoveer's embrace. 

Now turn to me, for mine thou art ! 

Foul Arvalan exclaim'd; his loathsome face 

Came forth, and from the air, 

In fleshly form, he burst. 

Always in horror and despair. 

Had Kailyal seen that form and face accurs'd } 

But yet so sharp a pang had ne'er 

Shot with a thrill like death through all her frame. 

As now when on her hour of joy the Spectre came. 

10. 

Vain is resistance now ; 

The fiendish laugh of Lorrinite is heard ; 

And at her dreadful word. 



The A suras once again appear. 
And seize Ladurlad and the Glendoveer. 

11. 

Hold your accursed hands ! 

A voice exclaim'd, whose dread commands 

Were fear'd through all the vaults of Padalon; 

And there among them, in the midnight air, 

The presence of the mighty Baly shone. 

He, making manifest his mightiness. 

Put forth on every side a hundred arms. 

And seized the Sorceress ; maugre all her charms, 

Her and her fiendish ministers he caught 

With force as uncontrollable as fate. 

And that unhappy Soul, to whom 

The Almighty Rajah's power availeth not 

Living to avert, nor dead to mitigate, 

His righteous doom. 

12. 

Help, help, Kehama ! Father, help ! he cried ; 

But Baly tarried not to abide 

That mightier Power ; with irresistible feet 

He stamp'd and cleft the Earth ; it open'd wide. 

And gave him way to his own Judgment-seat. 

Down, like a plummet, to the World below 

He sunk, and bore his prey 
To punishment deserved, and endless woe. 



XVIIL 



KEHAMA'S DESCENT. 



The Earth, by Baly's feet divided. 

Closed o'er his way as to the Judgment-seat 

He plunged and bore his prey. 

Scarce had the shock subsided. 

When, darting from the Swerga's heavenly heights, 

Kehama, like a thunderbolt, alights. 

In wrath he came ; a bickering flame 

Flash'd from his eyes, which made the moonlight! 

dim. 

And passion forcing way from every limb. 

Like furnace-smoke, with terrors wrapt him round.l 

Furious he smote the ground ; 

Earth trembled underneath the dreadful stroke, 

Again in sunder riven ; 

He hurl'd in rage his whirling weapon down. 

But lo ! the fiery sheckra to his feet 

Return'd, as if by equal force re-driven. 

And from the abyss the voice of Baly came ; 

Not yet, O Rajah, hast thou won 

The realms of Padalon ! 

Earth and the Swerga are thine own ; 

But, till Kehama shall subdue the throne 

Of Hell, in torments Yamen holds his son. 



Fool that he is ! — in torments let him lie 1 

Kehama, wrathful at his son, replied. 

But what am I, 



XVIII. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



603 



That thou shouldst brave me? — kindling in his 

pride 

The dreadful Rajah cried. 

Ho! Yamen ! hear me. God of Padalon, 

Prepare thy throne, 

And let the Amreeta cup 

Be ready for my lips, when I anon 

Triumphantly shall take my seat thereon, 

And plant upon thy neck my royal feet. 

3. 

In voice like thunder thus the Rajah cried. 

Impending o'er the abyss, with menacing hand 

Put forth, as in the action of command. 

And eyes that darted their red anger down. 

Then, drawing back, he let the earth subside, 

And, as his wrath relax'd, survey 'd, 

Thoughtfully and silently, the mortal Maid. 

Her eye the while was on the farthest sky, 

Where up the ethereal height 

Ereenia rose and pass'd away from sight. 

Never had she so joyfully 

Beheld the coming of the Glendoveer, 

Dear as he was and he deserved to be. 

As now she saw him rise and disappear. 

Come now what will, within her heart said she ; 

For thou art safe, and what have I to fear f 



Meantime the Almighty Rajah, late 

In power, and majesty, and wrath array'd, 

Had laid his terrors by, 

And gazed upon the Maid. 

Pride could not quit his eye. 

Nor that remorseless nature from his front 

Depart; yet whoso had beheld him then, 

Had felt some admiration mix'd with dread. 

And might have said, 

That sure he seem'd to be the King of Men ! 

Less than the greatest that he could not be. 

Who carried in his port such might and majesty. 

5. 

In fear no longer for the Glendoveer, 

Now toward the Rajah Kailyal turn'd her eyes, 

As if to ask what doom awaited her. 

But then surprise, 

Even as with fascination, held them there ; 

I So strange a thing it seem'd to see the change 

I Of purport in that all-commanding brow. 

Which thoughtfully was bent upon her now. 

Wondering she gazed, the while her Father's eye 

Was fixed upon Kehama haughtily ; 

It spake defiance to him, high disdain, 

Stern patience unsubduable by pain, 

And pride triumphant over agony. 

6. 

Ladurlad, said the Rajah, thou and I 

Alike have done the work of Destiny, 

Unknowing each to what the impulse tended ; 

But now that over Earth and Heaven my reign 

Is stablish'd, and the ways of Fate are plain 

Before me, here our enmity is ended. 
. I take away thy Curse. — As thus he said, 



The fire which in Ladurlad's heart and brain 

Was burning, fled, and left him free from pain. 

So rapidly his torments were departed, 

That at the sudden ease he started, 

As with a shock, and to his head 

His hands up-fled. 

As if he felt through every failing limb 

The power and sense of life forsaking him. 

7. 

Then turning to the Maid, the Rajah cried, 

O Virgin, above all of mortal birth 

Favor'd alike in beauty and in worth, 

And in the glories of thy destiny. 

Now let thy happy heart exult with pride, 

For Fate hath chosen thee 

To be Kehama's bride. 

To be the Queen of Heaven and Earth, 

And of whatever Worlds beside 

Infinity may hide ; for I can see 

The writing which, at thy nativity, 

All-knowing Nature wrought upon thy brain, 

In branching veins, which to the gifted eye 

Map out the mazes of futurity. 

There is it written, Maid, that thou and I, 

Alone of human kind a deathless pair, 

Are doom'd to share 

The Amreeta-drink divine 

Of immortality. Come, Maiden mine ! 

High-fated One, ascend the subject sky. 

And by Kehama's side 
Sit on the Swerga throne, his equal bride. 



Oh never, — never, — Father ! Kailyal cried ; 

It is not as he saith, — it cannot be ! 

1 ! — I his bride ! 

Nature is never false ; he wrongeth her ! 

My heart belies such lines of destiny. 

There is no other true interpreter ! 



At that reply, Kehama's darkening brow 

Bewray'd the anger which he yet suppress'd ; 

Counsel thy daughter ! tell her thou art now 

Free from thy Curse, he said, and bid her bow 

In thankfulness to Fate's benign behest. 

Bid her her stubborn will restrain, — 

For Destiny at last must be obey'd, — 

And tell her, while obedience is delay 'd. 

Thy Curse will burn again. 

10. 
She needeth not my counsel, he replied, 
And idly. Rajah, dost thou reason thus 
Of Destiny ! for though all other things 
Were subject to the starry influencings. 
And bow'd submissive to thy tyranny. 
The virtuous heart and resolute mind are free. 

Thus in their wisdom did the Gods decree 

When they created man. Let come what will 

This is our rock of strength ; in every ill. 

Sorrow, oppression, pain, and agony. 

The spirit of the good is unsubdued, 

And, suffer as they may, they triumph still. 



604 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



11 



Obstinate fools ! exclaim'd the Mighty One ; 

Fate and my pleasure must be done, 

And ye resist in vain ! 

Take your fit guerdon till we meet again ! 

So saying, his vindictive hand he flung 

Towards them, fill'd with curses; then on high 

Aloft he sprung, and vanish'd through the Sky. 



XIX. 
MOUNT CALASAY. 

1. 

The Rajah, scattering curses as he rose, 

Soar'd to the Swerga, and resumed his throne. 

Not for his own redoubled agony. 

Which now, through heart and brain, 

With renovated pain, 

Rush'd to its seat, Ladurlad breathes that groan. 

That groan is for his child ; he groan'd to see 

That she was stricken now with leprosy, 

Which, as the enemy vindictive fled. 

O'er all her frame with quick contagion spread. 

She, wondering at events so passing strange, 

And fill'd with hope and fear. 

And joy to see the Tyrant disappear. 

And glad expectance of her Glendoveer, 

Perceived not in herself the hideous change. 

His burning pain, she thought, had forced the 

groan 

Her father breathed ; his agonies alone 

Were present to her mind ; she clasp'd his knees. 

Wept for his Curse, and did not feel her own. 



Nor, when she saw her plague, did her good heart, 

True to itself, even for a moment fail. 

Ha, Rajah ! with disdainful smile she cries, 

Mighty, and wise, and wicked as thou art, 

Still thy blind vengeance acts a friendly part. 

Shall I not thank thee for this scurf and scale 

Of dire deformity, whose loathsomeness, 

Surer than panoply of strongest mail. 

Arms me against all foes ? Oh, better so, 

Better such foul disgrace. 

Than that this innocent face 

Should tempt thy wooing ! That I need not dread 

Nor ever impious foe 

Will ofibr outrage now, nor further woe 

Will beauty draw on my unhappy head ; 

Safe through the unholy world may Kailyal go. 



Her face, in virtuous pride. 

Was lifted to the skies, 

As him and his poor vengeance she defied ; 

But earthward,when she ceased, she turn'd her eyes. 

As if she sought to hide 

The tear which in her own despite would rise. 

Did then the thought of her own Glendoveer 

Call forth that natural tear ? 

Was it a woman's fear, 



A thought of earthly love which troubled her .? 

Like yon thin cloud, amid the moonlight sky, 

That flits before the wind. 

And leaves no trace behind. 

The womanly pang pass'd over Kailyal's mind. 

This is a loathsome sight to human eye. 

Half shrinking at herself, the maiden thought ; 

Will it be so to him .? Oh, surely not ! 

The immortal Powers, who see 

Through the poor wrappings of mortality. 

Behold the soul, the beautiful soul, within, 

Exempt from age and wasting maladies. 

And undeform'd, while pure and free from sin. 

This is a loathsome sight to human eyes, 

But not to eyes divine, 
Ereenia, Son of Heaven, oh, not to thine ! 

4. 

The wrongful thought of fear, the womanly pain 

Had pass'd away ; her heart was calm again. 

She raised her head, expecting now to see 

The Glendoveer appear ; 

Where hath he fled, quoth she, 

That he should tarry now ^ Oh ! had she known 

Whither the adventurous Son of Heaven was 

flown. 

Strong as her spirit was, it had not borne 

The appalling thought, nor dared to hope for his 

return. 



For he in search of Seeva's throne was gone, 

To tell his tale of wrong ', 

In search of Seeva's own abode 

The Glendoveer began his heavenly road. 

O wild emprise ! above the farthest skies J 

He hoped to rise ! * 

Him who is throned beyond the reach of thought, 

The Alone, the Inaccessible, he sought. 

O wild emprise ! for when, in days of yore, 

For proud preeminence of power, 

Brama and Veeshnoo, wild with rage, contended,! 

And Seeva, in his might, 

Their dread contention ended, 

Before their sight 

In form a fiery column did he tower. 

Whose head above the highest height extended, 

Whose base below the deepest depth descended. 

Downward, its depth to sound, 

Veeshnoo a thousand years explored 

The fathomless profound. 

And yet no base he found : 

Upward, to reach its head. 

Ten myriad years the aspiring Brama soar'd. 

And still, as up he fled. 

Above him still the Immeasurable spread. 

The rivals own'd their Lord, 

And trembled and adored. 

How shall the Glendoveer attain 

What Brama and what Veeshnoo sought in vain | 

6. 

Ne'er did such thought of lofty daring enter 

Celestial Spirit's mind. O wild adventure 

That throne to find, for he must leave behind 



XIX. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



605 



This World, that in the centre, 

Within its salt-sea girdle, lies confined ; 

Yea, the Seven Earths that, each with its own 

ocean. 

Ring clasping ring, compose the mighty round. 

What power of motion, 
In less than endless years shall bear him there, 

Along the limitless extent. 

To the utmost bound of the remotest spheres ? 

What strength of wing 

Suffice to pierce the Golden Firmament 

That closes all within ? 

Yet he hath pass'd the measureless extent, 

And pierced the Golden Firmament ; 

For Faith hath given him power, and Space and 

Time 

Vanish before that energy sublime. 

Nor doth eternal Night 

And outer Darkness check his resolute flight ; 

By strong desire through all he makes his way, 

Till Seeva's Seat appears, — behold Mount 

Calasay ! 

7. 

Behold the Silver Mountain ! round about 

Seven ladders stand, so high, the aching eye, 

Seeking their tops in vain amid the sky, 

Might deem they led from earth to highest Heaven. 

Ages would pass away. 

And worlds with age decay, 

Ere one, whose patient feet, from ring to ring. 

Must win their upward way. 

Could reach the summit of Mount Calasay. 

But that strong power that nerved his wing. 

That all-surmounting will. 

Intensity of faith and holiest love, 

Sustain'd Ereenia still ; 

And he hath gain'd the plain, the sanctuary above. 



Lo, there the Silver Bell, 

That, self-sustain'd, hangs buoyant in the air ! 

Lo [ the broad Table there, too bright 

For mortal sight. 

From whose four sides the bordering gems unite 

Their harmonizing rays. 

In one mid fount of many-color'd light. 

The stream of splendor, flashing as it flows. 

Plays round, and feeds the stem of yon celestial 

Rose! 

Where is the Sage whose wisdom can declare 

The hidden things of that mysterious flower. 

That flower which serves all mysteries to bear .? 

The sacred Triangle is there. 

Holding the Emblem which no tongue may tell ; 

[s this the Heaven of Heavens, where Seeva's self 

doth dwell .? 

9. 

Here first the Glendoveer 

Felt his wing flag, and paused upon his flight. 

Was it that fear came over him, when here 

He saw the imagined throne appear .? 

Not so, for his immortal sight 

Endured the Table's light; 



Distinctly he beheld all things around, 

And doubt and wonder rose within his mind 

That this was all he found. 

Howbeit he lifted up his voice, and spake. 

There is oppression in the World below ; 

Earth groans beneath the yoke ; yea, in her woe, 

She asks if the Avenger's eye is blind.? 

Awake, O Lord, awake ! 

Too long thy vengeance sleepeth. Holiest One ! 

Put thou thy terrors on for mercy's sake, 

And strike the blow, in justice to mankind ! 

]0. 

So, as he pray'd, intenser faith he felt; 

His spirit seem'd to melt 

With ardent yearnings of increasing love ; 

Upward he turn'd his eyes. 

As if there should be something yet above ; 

Let me not, Seeva ! seek in vain ! he cries ; 

Thou art not here, — for how should these contain 

thee .? 

Thou art not here, — for how should I sustain thee .'* 

But thou, where'er thou art, 

Canst hear the voice of prayer, 

Canst read the righteous heart. 

Thy dwelling who can tell .'' 

Or who, O Lord, hath seen thy secret throne ^ 

But Thou art not alone, 

Not unapproachable ! 

O all-containing Mind, 

Thou who art every where. 

Whom all who seek shall find, 

Hear me, O Seeva ! hear the suppliant's prayer ! 

n. 

So saying, up he sprung, 

And struck the Bell, which self-suspended hung 

Before the mystic Rose. 

From side to side the silver tongue 

Melodious swung, and far and wide 

Soul-thrilling tones of heavenly music rung. 

Abash'd, confounded 

It left the Glendoveer ; yea, all astounded 

In overpowering fear and deep dismay ; 

For when that Bell had sounded, 

The Rose, with all the mysteries it surrounded, 

The Bell, the Table, and Mount Calasay, 

The holy Hill itself, with all thereon. 

Even as a morning dream, before the day, 

Dissolves away, they faded and were gone. 

12. 

Where shall he rest his wing ? where turn for flight r* 

For all around is Light, 

Primal, essential, all-pervading Light ! 

Heart cannot think, nor tongue declare. 

Nor eyes of Angel bear 

That Glory unimaginably bright ; 

The Sun himself had seem'd 

A speck of darkness there, 

Amid that Light of Light ! 

13. 

Down fell the Glendoveer ; 
Down through all regions, to our mundane sphere 



^06 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



XX. 



He fell ; but in his ear 

A Voice, which from within him came, was heard. 

The indubitable word 

Of Him to whom all secret things are known : 

Go, ye who suffer, go to Yamen's throne. 

He hath the remedy for every woe ; 
He setteth right whate'er is wrong below. 



XX. 

THE EMBARKATION. 



Down from the Heaven of Heavens Ereenia fell 

Precipitate, yet imperceptible 

His fall ; nor had he cause nor thought of fear ; 

And when he came within this mundane sphere, 

And felt that Earth was near, 

The Glendoveer his azure wings expanded, 

And, sloping down the sky 

Toward the spot from whence he sprung on high, 

There on the shore he landed, 

2. 

Kailyal advanced to meet him, 

Not moving now as she was wont to greet him, 

Joy in her eye and in her eager pace ; 

With a calm smile of melancholy pride 

She met him now, and, turning half aside, 

Her warning hand repell'd the dear embrace. 



Strange things, Ereenia, have befallen us here, 

The Virgin said ; the Almighty Man hath read 

The lines which, traced by Nature on my brain, 

There to the gifted eye 

Make all my fortunes plain. 

Mapping the mazes of futurity. 

He sued for peace, for it is written there 

That I with him the Amreeta cup must share ; 

Wherefore he bade me come, and by his side 

Sit on the Swerga-throne, his equal bride. 

I need not tell thee what reply was given ; 

My heart, the sure interpreter of Heaven, 

His impious words belied. 

Thou seest his poor revenge ! So having said, 

One look she glanced upon her leprous stain 

Indignantly, and shook 

Her head in calm disdain 



O Maid of soul divine ! 

O more than ever dear, 

And more than ever mine. 

Replied the Glendoveer; 

He hath not read, be sure, the mystic ways 

Of Fate ; almighty as he is, that maze 

Hath mock'd his fallible sight. 

Said he the Amreeta cup ? So far aright 

The Evil One may see ; for Fate displays 

Her hidden things in part, and part conceals, 

Baffling the wicked eye 
Alike with what she hides, and what reveals. 



When with unholy purpose it would pry 

Into the secrets of futurity. 

So may it be permitted him to see 

Dimly the inscrutable decree ; 

For to the World below, 

Where Yamen guards the Amreeta, we must go ; 

Thus Seeva hath express'd his will ; even he, 

The Holiest, hath ordain'd it; there, he saith, 

All wrongs shall be redress'd 
By Yamen, by the righteous Power of Death. 

5. 

Forthwith the Father and the fated Maid, 

And that heroic Spirit, who for them 

Such flight had late essay'd, 

The will of Heaven obey'd. 

They went their way along the road 

That leads to Yamen's dread abode. 

6. 

Many a day hath pass'd away 

Since they began their arduous way, 

Their way of toil and pain ; 

And now their weary feet attain 

The Earth's remotest bound, 

Where outer Ocean girds it round. 

But not like other Oceans this ; 

Rather it seem'd a drear abyss, 

Upon whose brink they stood. 

Oh ! scene of fear ! the travellers hear 

The raging of the flood ; 

They hear how fearfully it roars, 

But clouds of darker shade than night 

Forever hovering round those shores. 

Hide all things from their sight ; 

The Sun upon that darkness pours 

His unavailing light. 

Nor ever Moon nor Stars display, 

Through the thick shade, one guiding ray 

To show the perils of the way. 



There, in a creek, a vessel lay ; 

Just on the confines of the day, 

It rode at anchor in its bay. 

These venturous pilgrims to convey 

Across that outer Sea. 

Strange vessel sure it seem'd to be. 

And all unfit for such wild sea ! 

For through its yawning side the wave 

Was oozing in ; the mast was frail, 

And old and torn its only sail. 

How may that crazy vessel brave 

The billows that in wild commotion 

Forever roar and rave ? 

How hope to cross the dreadful Ocean 

O'er which eternal shadows dwell, 

Whose secrets none return to tell ! 



Well might the travellers fear to enter ! 

But summon'd once on that adventure. 

For them was no retreat. 

Nor boots it with reluctant feet 

To linger on the strand ; 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



607 



Aboard ! aboard ! 

An awful voice, that left no choice, 

Sent forth its stern command. 

Aboard ! aboard ! 

The travellers hear tnat voice in fear. 

And breathe to Heaven an inward prayer, 

And take their seats in silence there. 

9. 

Self-hoisted then, behold the sail 

Expands itself before the gale ; 

Hands which they cannot see, let slip 

The cable of that fated Ship ; 

The land breeze sends her on her way, 

And lo ! they leave the living light of day ! 



XXI. 



THE WORLD'S END. 



Swift as an arrow in its flight 

The Ship shot through the incumbent night; 

And they have left behind 

The raging billows and the roaring wind. 

The storm, the darkness, and all mortal fears ; 

And lo ! another light 

To guide their way appears, 

The light of other spheres. 



That instant from Ladurlad's heart and brain 

The Curse was gone ; he feels again 

Fresh as in youth's fair morning, and the Maid 

Hath lost her leprous stain. 

The Tyrant then hath no dominion here, 

Starting, she cried ; O happy, happy hour ! 

We are beyond his power ! 

Then, raising to the Glendoveer, 

With heavenly beauty bright, her angel face, 

Turn'd not reluctant now, and met his dear 

embrace. 

3. 

Swift glides the Ship with gentle motion 

Across that calm and quiet ocean, 

That glassy sea, which seem'd to be 

The mirror of tranquillity. 

Their pleasant passage soon was o'er ; 

The Ship hath reach 'd its destined shore — 

A level belt of ice, which bound. 

As with an adamantine mound. 

The waters of the sleeping Ocean round. 

Strange forms were on the strand 

, Of earth-born spirits slain before their time ; 

Who, wandering over sea, and sky, and land, 

■ Had so fulfill'd their term ; and now were met 

Upon this icy belt, a motley band. 

Waiting their summons at the appointed hour. 

When each before the Judgment-seat must 

stand, 

And hear his doom from Baly's righteous power. 



Foul with habitual crimes, a hideous crew 

Were there, the race of rapine and of blood. 

Now, having overpass 'd the mortal flood, 

Their own deformity they knew. 

And knew the meed that to their deeds was due. 

Therefore in fear and agony they stood. 

Expecting when the Evil Messenger 

Among them should appear. But with their fear 

A hope was mingled now ; 

O'er the dark shade of guilt a deeper hue 

It threw, and gave a fiercer character 

To the wild eye, and lip, and sinful brow. 

They hoped that soon Kehama would subdue 

The inexorable God, and seize his throne, 

Reduce the infernal World to his command, 

And, with his irresistible right hand,' 

Redeem them from the vaults of Padalon. 

5. 

Apart from these, a milder company, 

The victims of offences not their own, 

Look'd when the appointed Messenger should 

come ; 

Gather 'd together some, and some alone 

Brooding in silence on their future doom. 

Widows whom, to their husbands' funeral fire, 

Force or strong error led, to share the pyre, 

As to their everlasting marriage-bed ; 

And babes, by sin unstain'd. 

Whom erring parents vow'd 

To Ganges, and the Iioly stream profaned 

With that strange sacrifice, rite unordain'd 

By Law, by sacred Nature unallow'd ; 

Others more hapless in their destiny, 

Scarce having first inhaled their vital breath, 

Whose cradles from some tree 

Unnatural hands suspended, 

Then left, till gentle Death, 

Coming like Sleep, their feeble moanings ended ; 

Or for his prey the ravenous Kite descended ; 

Or marching like an army from their caves. 

The Pismires blacken'd o'er, then, bleach'd and 

bare, 
Left their unharden'd bones to fall asunder there. 



Innocent Souls ! thus set so early free 

From sin, and sorrow, and mortality, 

Their spotless spirits all-creating Love 

Received into its universal breast. 

Yon blue serene above 

Was their domain ; clouds pillow'd them to rest j 

The Elements on them like nurses tended. 

And with their growth ethereal substance blended. 

Less pure than these is that strange Indian bird, 

Who never dips in earthly streams her bill, 

But, when the sound of coming showers is heard, 

Looks up, and from the clouds receives her fill. 
Less pure the footless fowl of Heaven, that never 

Rest upon earth, but on the wing forever 

Hovering o'er flowers, their fragrant food inhale, 

Drink the descending dew upon its way, 

And sleep aloft while floating on the gale. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



XXII. 



And thus these innocents, in yonder sky, 

Grow and are strengthen'd, while the allotted 

years 

Perform their course ; then hitherward they fly, 

Being free from moral taint, so free from fears, 

A joyous band, expecting soon to soar 

To Indra's happy spheres, 
And mingle with the blessed company 
Of heavenly spirits there for evermore. 



A Gulf profound surrounded 

This icy belt ; the opposite side 

With highest rocks was bounded , 

But where their heads they hide. 

Or where their base is founded. 

None could espy. Above all reach of sight 

They rose ; the second Earth was on their height ; 

Their feet were fix'd in everlasting night. 



So deep the Gulf, no eye 

Could plumb its dark profundity, 

Yet all its depth must try } for this the road 

To Padalon, and Yamen's dread abode. 

And from below continually 

Ministrant Demons rose and caught 

The Souls whose hour was come } 

Then, with their burden fraught. 

Plunged down, and bore them to receive their doom. 

10. 

Then might be seen who went in hope, and who 

Trembled to meet the meed 

Of many a foul misdeed, as wild they threw 

Their arms retorted from the Demons' grasp, 

And look'd around, all eagerly, to seek 

For help, where help was none ; and strove for aid 

To clasp the nearest shade ; 

Yea, with imploring looks and horrent shriek, 

Even from one Demon to another bending, 

With hands extending, 

Their mercy they essay'd. 

Still from the verge they strain. 

And from the dreadful Gulf avert their eyes. 

In vain ; down plunge the Demons, and their cries 

Feebly, as down they sink, from that profound arise. 

11. 

What heart of living man could undisturb'd 

Bear sight so sad as this ! What wonder there 

If Kailyal's lip were blanch'd with inmost dread ! 

The chill which from that icy belt 
Struck through her, was less keen than what she 

felt 
With her heart's blood through every limb dispread. 

Close to the Glendoveer she clung, 

And clasping round his neck her trembling hands. 

She closed her eyes, and there in silence hung. 

12. 

Then to Ladurlad said the Glendoveer, 

These Demons, whom thou seest, the ministers 

Of Yaraen, wonder to behold us here ; 



But for the dead they come, and not for us ; 

Therefore, albeit they gaze upon thee thus, 

Have thou no fear. 

A little while thou must be left alone, 

Till I have borne thy daughter down, 

And placed her safely by the throne 

Of him who keeps the Gate of Padalon. 

13. 

Then, taking Kailyal in his arms, he said, 

Be of good heart. Beloved ! it is I 

Who bear thee. Saying this, his wings he spread, 

Sprung upward in the sky, and poised his flight, 

Then plunged into the Gulf, and sought the 

World of Night. 



XXII. 
THE GATE OF PADALON. 

1. 

The strong foundations of this inmost Earth 

Rest upon Padalon. That icy Mound, 

Which girt the mortal Ocean round, 

Reach'd the profound, — 

Ice in the regions of the upper air. 

Crystal midway, and adamant below, 

Whose strength sufficed to bear 

The weight of all this upper World of ours, 

And with its rampart closed the Realm of Woe. 

Eight gates hath Padalon ; eight heavenly Powers 

Have them in charge, each alway at his post, 

Lest from their penal caves the accursed host, 

Maugre the might of Baly and the God, 

Should break, and carry ruin all abroad. 



Those gates stand ever open, night and day, 

And Souls of mortal men 

Forever throng the way. 

Some from the dolorous den. 

Children of sin and Avrath, return no more : 

They, fit companions of the Spirits accurs'd. 

Are doom'd, like them in baths of fire immers'd. 

Or weltering upon beds of molten ore. 

Or stretch 'd upon the brazen floor. 

Are fasten 'd down witli adamantine chains; 

While on their substance, inconsumable. 

Leeches of fire forever hang and pull, 

And worms of fire forever gnaw their food, 

That, still renew'd. 

Freshens forever their perpetual pains. 



Others there were whom Baly's voice condemn'd, 

By long and painful penance, to atone 

Their fleshly deeds. Them from the Judgment- 

Throne, 

Dread Azyoruca, where she sat involved 

In darkness as a tent, received, and dealt 

To each the measure of his punishment; 

Till, in the central springs of fire, the Will 

Impure is purged away ; and the freed soul, 



XXTI. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



Thus fitted to receive a second birth, 
Imbodied once again, revisits Earth. 

4. 

But they whom Baly's righteous voice absolved. 

And Yamen, viewing with benignant eye, 

Dismiss'd to seek their heritage on high, 

How joyfully they leave this gloomy bourn, 

The dread sojourn 

Of Guilt and twin-born Punishment and Woe, 

And wild Remorse, here link'd with worse Despair ! 

They to the eastern Gate rejoicing go : 

The Ship of Heaven awaits their coming there ', 

And on they sail, greeting the blessed light 

Through realms of upper air. 

Bound for the Swerga once ; but now no more 

Their voyage rests upon that happy shore. 

Since Indra, by the dreadful Rajah's might 

Compell'd, hath taken flight; 

On to the second World their way they wend, 

And there, in trembling hope, await the doubtful 

end. 



For still in them doth hope predominate, 

Faith's precious privilege, when higher Powers 

Give way to fear in these portentous hours. 

Behold the Wardens eight 

Each silent at his gate 

Expectant stands ; they turn their anxious eyes 

Within, and listening to the dizzy din 

Of mutinous uproar, each in all his hands 

Holds all his weapons, ready for the fight. 

For, hark ! what clamorous cries 

Upon Kehama, for deliverance, call ! 

Come, Rajah ! they exclaim ; too long we groan 

In torments. Come, Deliverer ! yonder throne 

Awaits thee. Now, Kehama! Rajah, now ! 

Earthly Almighty, wherefore tarriest thou .? — 

Such were the sounds that rung, in wild uproar, 

O'er all the echoing vaults of Padalon; 

And as the Asuras from the brazen floor. 

Struggling against their fetters, strove to rise. 

Their clashing chains were heard, and shrieks and 

cries, 
With curses mix'd, against the Fiends who urge. 
Fierce on their rebel limbs, the avenging scourge. 



These were the sounds which, at the southern Gate, 

Assail'd Ereenia's ear ; alighting here. 

He laid before Neroodi's feet the Maid, 

Who, pale and cold with fear. 

Hung on his neck, well nigh a lifeless weight. 



Who and what art thou.? cried the Guardian 

Power, 

Sight so unwonted wondering to behold, — 

O Son of Light ! 

Who comest here at this portentous hour. 

When Yamen's throne 

Trembles, and all our might can scarce keep down 

The rebel race from seizing Padalon, — 
Who and what art thoa.? and what wild despair, 
77 



Or wilder hope, from realms of upper air, 

Tempts thee to bear 

This mortal Maid to our forlorn abodes ^ 

Fitter for her, I ween, the Swerga bowers, 

And sweet society of heavenly Powers, 

Than this, — a doleful scene, 

Even in securest hours. 

And whither would ye go .? 

Alas ! can human or celestial ear 

Unmadden'd hear 

The shrieks and yellings of infernal woe ? 

Can living flesh and blood 

Endure the passage of the fiery flood ! 

8. 

Lord of the Gate, replied the Glendoveer, 

We come obedient to the will of Fate ; 

And haply doom'd to bring 

Hope and salvation to the Infernal King j 

For Seeva sends us here ; 

Even He to whom futurity is known. 

The Holiest, bade us go to Yamen's throne. 

Thou seest my precious charge ; 

Under thy care, secure from harm, I leave her, 

While I ascend to bear her Father down. 
Beneath the shelter of thine arm receive her ! 

9. 

Then quoth he to the Maid, 

Be of good cheer, my Kailyal ! dearest dear. 

In faith subdue thy dread ; 

Anon I shall be here. So having said. 

Aloft, with vigorous bound, the Glendoveer 

Sprung in celestial might. 

And soaring up, in spiral circles, wound 

His indefatigable flight. 

10. 

But as he thus departed, 

The Maid, who at Neroodi's feet was lying, 

Like one intranced or dying. 

Recovering strength from sudden terror, started ; 

And, gazing after him, with straining sight 

And straining arms, she stood, 

As if in attitude 

To win him back from flight. 

Yea, she had shaped his name 

For utterance, to recall and bid him stay. 

Nor leave her thus alone ; but virtuous shame 

Repress'd the unbidden sounds upon their way 

And calling faith to aid. 

Even in this fearful hour, the pious Maid 

Collected courage, till she seem'd to be 

Calm and in hope ; such power hath piety. 

Before the Giant Keeper of the Gate 

She cross' d her patient arms, and at his feet 

Prepar'd to meet 

The awful will of Fate with equal mind. 

She took her seat resign'd. 

11. 

Even the stern trouble of Neroodi's brow 
Relax'd as he beheld the valiant Maid. 

Hope, long unfelt till now. 
Rose in his heart reviving, and a smile 



610 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



XXIII. 



Dawn'd in his brightening countenance, the while 
He gazed on her with wonder and delight. 

The blessing of the Powers of Padalon, 

Virgin, be on thee ! said the admiring God; 

And blessed be the hour that gave thee birth, 

Daughter of Earth ! 

For thou to this forlorn abode hast brought 

Hope, who too long hath been a stranger here. 

And surely for no lamentable lot. 

Nature, that erreth not, 

To thee that heart of fortitude hath given. 

Those eyes of purity, that face of love : — 

If thou beest not the inheritrix of Heaven, 

There is no truth above. 

12. 

Thus as Neroodi spake, his brow severe 

Shone with an inward joy ; for sure he thought. 

When Seeva sent so fair a creature here. 

In this momentous hour, 

Erelong the World's deliverance would be 

wrought. 

And Padalon escape the Rajah's power. 

With pious mind the Maid, in humble guise 

Inclined, received his blessing silently, 

And raised her grateful eyes 

A moment, then again 

Abased them at his presence. Hark ! on high 

The sound of coming wings ! — her anxious ears 

Have caught the distant sound. Ereenia brings 

His burden down ! Upstarting from her seat, 

How joyfully she rears 

Her eager head ! and scarce upon the ground 

Ladurlad's giddy feet their footing found, 

When with her trembling arms she clasp 'd him 

round. 

No word of greeting, 

No other sign of joy at that strange meeting ; 

Expectant of their fate, 

Silent, and hand in hand. 

Before the Infernal Gate, 

The Father and his pious Daughter stand. 

13. 

Then to Neroodi said the Glendoveer, 

No Heaven-born Spirit e'er hath visited 

This region drear and dread, but I, the first 

Who tread your World accurs'd. 

Lord of the Gate, to whom these realms are known, 

Direct our fated way to Yamen's throne. 

14. 

Bring forth my Chariot, Carmala ! quoth then 

The Keeper of the way. 

It was the Car wherein, 

On Yamen's festal day, 

When all the Powers of Hell attend their King, 

Yearly to Yamenpur did he repair 

To pay his homage there. 

Poised on a single wheel, it mov'd along. 

Instinct with motion ; by what wondrous skill 

Compact, no human tongue could tell. 

Nor human wit devise ; but on that wheel. 

Moving or still. 



As if with life indued, 
The Car miraculous supported stood. 

15. 

Then Carmala brought forth two mantles, white 

As the swan's breast, and bright as mountain snow, 

When from the wintry sky 

The sun, late rising, shines upon the height. 

And rolling vapors fill the vale below. 

Not without pain the unaccustom'd sight 

That brightness could sustain; 

For neither mortal stain. 

Nor parts corruptible, remain. 

Nor aught that time could touch, or force destroy, 

In that pure web whereof the robes were wrought; 

So long had it in tenfold fires been tried. 

And blanch'd, and to that brightness purified. 

Apparell'd thus, alone. 

Children of Earth, Neroodi cried. 

In safety may ye pass to Yamen's throne. 

Thus only can your living flesh and blood 

Endure the passage of the fiery flood. 

16. 

Of other frame, O son of Heaven, art thou ! 

Yet hast thou now to go 

Through regions which thy heavenly mould will 

try. 

Glories unutterably bright, I know, 

And beams intense of empyrean light. 

Thine eye divine can bear ; but fires of woe, 

The sight of torments, and the cry 

Of absolute despair, — 

Might not these things dismay thee on thy flight, 

And thy strong pennons flag and fail thee there .'' 

Trust not thy wings, celestial though thou art, 

Nor thy good heart, which horror might assail, 

And pity quail. 

Pity in these abodes of no avail ; 

But take thy seat this mortal pair beside, 

And Carmala the infernal Car will guide. 

Go, and may happy end your way betide ! 

So, as he spake, the self-moved Car roll'd on; 

And lo ! they pass the Gate of Padalon. 



XXIII. 
PADALON. 



1. 

Whoe'er hath loved, with venturous step, to tread 

The chambers dread 

Of some deep cave, and seen his taper's beam 

Lost in the arch of darkness overhead. 

And mark'd its gleam. 

Playing afar upon the sunless stream, 

Where from their secret bed. 

And course unknown and inacccessible, 

The silent waters well, — 

Whoe'er hath trod such caves of endless night. 

He knows, when measuring back the gloomy way,; 

With what delight refresh'd, his eye 



XXIII. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



611 



Perceives the shadow of the light of day, 

Through the far portal slanting, where it falls 

Dimly reflected on the watery walls ; 

How heavenly seems the sky ; 

And how, with quicken'd feet, he hastens up, 

Eager again to greet 

The living World and blessed sunshine there, 

And drink, as from a cup 

Of joy, with thirsty lips, the open air. 



Far other light than that of day there shone 

Upon the travellers, entering Padalon. 

They too in darkness enter'd on their way, 

But far before the Car, 

A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, 

Fill'd all before them. 'Twas a light which made 

Darkness itself appear 

A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd, 

Shrunk inward from the molten atmosphere. 

Their way was through the adamantine rock 

Which girt the World of Woe ; on either side 

Its massive walls arose, and overhead 

Arch'd the long passage ; onward as they ride, 

With stronger glare the light around them 

spread. 

And lo ! the regions dread. 

The World of Woe before them, opening wide. 



There rolls the fiery flood, 

Girding the realms of Padalon around. 

A sea of flame it seem'd to be, 

Sea without bound ; 

For neither mortal nor immortal sight 

Could pierce across through that intensest light. 

A single rib of steel. 

Keen as the edge of keenest cimeter, 

Spann'd this wide gulf of fire. The infernal 

Car 

Roll'd to the Gulf, and, on its single wheel 

Self-balanced, rose upon that edge of steel. 

Red-quivering float the vapors overhead ; 

The fiery gulf, beneath them spread. 

Tosses its billowing blaze with rush and roar; 

Steady and swift the self-moved Chariot went. 

Winning the long ascent. 

Then, downward rolling, gains the farther shore. 



But, oh ! what sounds and sights of woe, 

What sights and sounds of fear, 

Assail the mortal travellers here ! 

Their way was on a causey straight and wide. 

Where penal vaults on either side were seen, 

Ranged like the cells wherein 

Those wondrous winged alchemists infold 

Their stores of liquid gold. 

Thick walls of adamant divide 

The dungeons ; and from yonder circling flood, 

Off"-streams of fire through secret channels glide, 

And wind among them, and in each provide 

An everlasting food 
Of rightful torments for the accursed brood. 



5. 

These were the rebel race, who, in their might 

Confiding impiously, would fain have driven 

The deities supreme from highest Heaven; 

But by the Suras, in celestial fight, 

Opposed and put to flight. 

Here, in their penal dens, the accursed crew, 

Not for its crime, but for its failure, rue 

Their wild ambition. Yet again they long 

The contest to renew. 

And wield their arms again in happier hour; 

And with united power, 

Following Kehama's triumph, to press on 

From World to World, and Heaven to Heaven, 

and Sphere 

To Sphere, till Hemakoot shall be their own, 

And Meru Mount, and Indra's Swerga-Bowers, 

And Brama's region, where the heavenly Hours 

Weave the vast circle of his age-long day. 

Even over Veeshnoo's empyreal seat 

They trust the Rajah shall extend their sway, 

And that the seven-headed Snake, whereon 

The strong Preserver sets his conquering feet. 

Will rise and shake him headlong from his throne, 

When, in their irresistible array. 

Amid the Milky Sea they force their way. 

Even higher yet their frantic thoughts aspire ; 

Yea, on their beds of torment as they lie, 

The highest, holiest Seeva, they defy. 

And tell him they shall have anon their day, 

When they will storm his realm, and seize Mount 

Calasay. 



Such impious hopes torment 

Their raging hearts, impious and impotent; 

And now, with unendurable desire 

And lust of vengeance, that, like inward fire, 

Doth aggravate their punishment, they rave 

Upon Kehama ; him the accursed rout 

Acclaim; with furious cries and maddening shout 

They call on him to save ; 

Kehama! they exclaim; 

Thundering the dreadful echo rolls about. 

And Hell's whole vault repeats Kehama's name. 



Over these dens of punishment, the host 

Of Padalon maintain eternal guard. 

Keeping upon the walls their vigilant ward. 

At every angle stood 

A watch-tower, the decurion Demon's post. 

Where raised on high he view'd with sleepless eye 

His trust, that all was well. And over these, — 

Such was the perfect discipline of Hell, — 

Captains of fifties and of hundreds held 

Authority, each in his loftier tower ; 

And chiefs of legions over them had power ; 

And thus all Hell with towers was girt around. 

Aloft the brazen turrets shone 

In the red light of Padalon ; 

And on the walls between, 

Dark moving, the infernal Guards were seen, 

Gigantic Demons, pacing to and fro; 



612 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



XXIII. 



Who, ever and anon 

Spreading their crimson pennons, plunged below, 

Faster to rivet down the Asuras' chains, 

And with the snaky scourge and fiercer pains. 

Repress their rage rebellious. Loud around. 

In mingled sound, the echoing lash, the clash 

Of chains, the ponderous hammer's iron stroke, 

With execrations, groans, and shrieks, and cries. 

Combined, in one wild dissonance, arise ; 

And through the din there broke, 

Like thunder heard through all the warring winds. 

The dreadful name. Kehama, still they rave, 

Hasten and save ! 

Now, now. Deliverer ! now, Kehama, now ! 

Earthly Almighty, wherefore tarriest thou ? 



Oh, if that name abhorr'd. 

Thus utter'd, could well nigh 

Dismay the Powers of Hell, and daunt their 

Lord, 

How fearfully to Kailyal's ear it came ! 

She, as the car roll'd on its rapid way, 

Bent down her head, and closed her eyes for dread ) 

And deafening, with strong effort from within. 

Her ears against the din, 

Cover'd and press'd them close with both her hands. 

Sure, if the mortal Maiden had not fed 

On heavenly food, and long been strengthened 

With heavenly converse for such end vouchsafed, 

Her human heart had fail'd, and she had died 

Beneath the horrors of this awful hour. 

But Heaven supplied a power 

Beyond her earthly nature, to the measure 

Of need infusing strength ; 

And Fate, whose secret and unerring pleasure 

Appointed all, decreed 

An ample meed and recompense at length. 

High-fated Maid, the righteous hour is nigh ! 

The all-embracing eye 

Of Retribution still beholdeth thee ; 

Bear onward to the end, O Maid, courageously ! 



On roll'd the car, and lo ! afar 
Upon its height the towers of Yamenpur 

Rise on the astonish'd sight. 

Behold the infernal City, Yamen's seat 

Of empire, in the midst ofPadalon, 

Where the eight causeys meet. 

There, on a rock of adamant, it stood, 

Resplendent far and wide. 

Itself of solid diamond edified. 

And all around it roll'd the fiery flood. 

Eight bridges arch'd the stream ; huge piles of 

brass 

Magnificent, such structures as beseem 

The Seat and Capital of such great God, 

Worthy of Yamen's own august abode. 

A brazen tower and gateway at each end 

Of each was raised, where Giant Wardens 

stood, 

Station'd in arms the passage to defend, 

That never foe might cross the fiery flood. 



10. 

Oh, what a gorgeous sight it was to see 

The Diamond City blazing on its height 

With more than mid-sun splendor, by the light 

Of its own fiery river ! 

Its towers, and domes, and pinnacles, and spires, 

Turrets and battlements, that flash and quiver 

Through the red, restless atmosphere forever ; 

And hovering overhead, 

The smoke and vapors of all Padalon, 

Fit firmament for such a world, were spread. 

With surge, and swell, and everlasting motion, 

Heaving and opening like tumultuous ocean. 

11. 

Nor were there wanting there 

Such glories as beseem'd such region well ; 

For though with our blue heaven and genial air 

The firmament of Hell might not compare, 

As little might our earthly tempests vie 
With the dread storms of that infernal sky, 
Whose clouds of all metallic elements 
Sublimed were full. For, when its thunder 
broke. 
Not all the united World's artillery, 
In one discharge, could equal that loud stroke ; 
And though the Diamond Towers and Battle- 
ments 
Stood firm upon their adamantine rock, 
Yet while it volleyed round the vault of Hell, 
Earth's solid arch was shaken with the shock. 
And Cities in one mighty ruin fell. 
Through the red sky terrific meteors scour ; 
Huge stones come hailing down; or sulphur- 
shower, 
Floating amid the lurid air like snow. 
Kindles in its descent. 
And with blue fire-drops rains on all below. 
At times the whole supernal element, 
Igniting, burst in one vast sheet of flame, 

And roar'd as with the sound 

Of rushing winds, above, below, around; 

Anon the flame was spent, and overhead 

A heavy cloud of moving darkness spread. 

12. 

Straight to the brazen bridge and gate 
The self-moved Chariot bears its mortal load. 
At sight of Carmala, 
On either side the Giant Guards divide, i. 

And give the chariot way. 

Up yonder winding road it rolls along, 

Swift as the bittern soars on spiral wing, 

And lo ! the Palace of the Infernal King ! 

13. 

Two forms inseparable in unity 

Hath Yamen ; even as with hope or fear 

The Soul regardeth him doth he appear ; 

For hope and fear, 

At that dread hour, from ominous conscience 

spring. 

And err not in their bodings. Therefore some. 

They who polluted with offences come. 



XXIII. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



613 



Behold him as the King 

Of Terrors, black of aspect, red of eye, 

Reflecting back upon the sinful mind, 

Heighten'd with vengeance, and with wrath 

divine, 

Its own inborn deformity. 

But to the righteous Spirit how benign 

His awful countenance, 

Where, tempering justice with parental love, 

Goodness, and heavenly grace. 

And sweetest mercy shine ! Yet is he still 

Himself the same, one form, one face, one will ; 

And these his twofold aspects are but one ; 

And change is none 

In him for change in Yamen could not be ; 

The Immutable is he. 

14. 

He sat upon a marble sepulchre, 

Massive and huge, where, at the Monarch's feet, 

The righteous Baly had his Judgment-seat. 

A Golden Throne before them vacant stood ; 

Three human forms sustain'd its ponderous 

weight, 

With lifted hands outspread, and shoulders bow'd 

Bending beneath the load. 

A fourth was wanting. They were of the hue 

Of coals of fire ; yet were they flesh and blood, 

And living breath they drew ; 

And their red eyeballs roll'd with ghastly stare, 

As thus, for their misdeeds, they stood tormented 

there. 

15. 

On steps of gold those living Statues stood, 

Who bore the Golden Throne. A cloud behind 

Immovable was spread ; not all the light 

Of all the flames and fires of Padalon 

Could pierce its depth of night. 

There Azyoruca veil'd her awful form 

In those eternal shadows : there she sat, 

And as the trembling Souls, who crowd around 

The Judgment-seat, received the doom of fate, 

Her giant arms, extending from the cloud, 

Drew them within the darkness. Moving out 

To grasp and bear away the innumerous rout, 

Forever and forever thus were seen 

The thousand mighty arms of that dread Queen. 

16. 

Here, issuing from the Car, the Glendoveer 
Did homage to the God, then raised his head. 

Suppliants we come, he said, 

1 need not tell thee by what wrongs oppress'd. 

For nought can pass on earth to thee unknown ; 

Sufferers from tyranny we seek for rest. 

And Seeva bade us go to Yamen's throne ; 

Here, he hath said, all wrongs shall be redress'd. 

Yamen replied, Even now the hour draws near, 

When Fate its hidden ways will manifest. 

Not for light purpose would the Wisest send 

His suppliants here, when we, in doubt and 

fear, 

The awful issue of the hour attend. 

Wait ye in patience and in faith the end ! 



XXIV. 



THE AMREETA. 



So spake the King of Padalon, when, lo! 
The voice of lamentation ceas'd in Hell, 
And sudden silence all around them fell, 

Silence more wild and terrible 

Than all the infernal dissonance before. 

Through that portentous stillness, far away, 

Unwonted sounds were heard, advancing on 

And deepening on their way ; 

For now the inexorable hour 

Was come, and, in the fulness of his power, 

Now that the dreadful rites had all been done, 

Kehama from the Swerga hastened down 

To seize upon the throne of Padalon. 



He came in all his might and majesty. 

With all his terrors clad, and all his pride ; 

And, by the attribute of Deity, 

Which he had won from Heaven, self-multiplied, 

The Almighty Man appear 'd on every side. 

In the same indivisible point of time. 

At the eight Gates he stood at once, and beat 

The Warden-Gods of Hell beneath his feet; 

Then, in his brazen Cars of triumph, straight, 

At the same moment, drove through every gate. 

By Aullays, hugest of created kind, 

Fiercest, and fleeter than the viewless wind, 

His Cars were drawn, ten yokes often abreast, — 

What less sufliced for such almighty weight? 

Eight bridges from the fiery flood arose. 

Growing before his way ; and on he goes, 

And drives the thundering Chariot-wheels along, 

At once o'er all the roads of Padalon. 



Silent and motionless remain 

The Asuras on their bed of pain, 

Waiting, with breathless hope, the great event. 

All Hell was hush'd in dread, 

Such awe that omnipresent coming spread ; 

Nor had its voice been heard, though all its rout 

Innumerable had lifted up one shout ; 

Nor, if the infernal firmament 

Had in one unimaginable burst 

Spent its collected thunders, had the sound 

Been audible, such louder terrors went 

Before his forms substantial. Round about 

The presence scattered lightnings far and wide, 

That quench'd on every side. 

With their intensest blaze, the feebler fire 

Of Padalon, even as the stars go out. 

When, with prodigious light, 

Some blazing meteor fills the astonish'd night. 

4. 

The Diamond City shakes ! 

The adamantine Rock 

Is loosen'd with the shock ! 

From its foundation moved, it heaves and quakes ; 



614 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



The brazen portals, crumbling, fall to dust ; 

Prone fall the Giant Guards 

Beneath the Aullays crush'd ; 

On, on, through Yamenpur, their thundering feet 

Speed from all points to Yamen's Judgment-seat. 

And lo ! where multiplied. 

Behind, before him, and on every side. 

Wielding all weapons in his countless hands, 

Around the Lord of Hell Kehama stands ! 

Then, too, the Lord of Hell put forth his might: 

Thick darkness, blacker than the blackest night, 

Rose from their wrath, and veil'd 

The unutterable fight. 

The power of Fate and Sacrifice prevail'd, 

And soon the strife was done. 

Then did the Man- God reassume 

His unity, absorbing into one 

The consubstantiate shapes ; and as the gloom 

Opened, fallen Yamen on the ground was seen, 

His neck beneath the conquering Rajah's feet, 

Who on the marble tomb 

Had his triumphal seat. 



Silent the Man- Almighty sat ; a smile 

Gleam'd on his dreadful lips, the while, 

Dallying with power, he paused from following up 

His conquest, as a man in social hour 

Sips of the grateful cup. 

Again and yet again, with curious taste, 

Searching its subtile flavor ere he drink ; 

Even so Kehama now forbore his haste, 

Having within his reach whate'er he sought. 

On his own haughty power he seem'd to muse. 

Pampering his arrogant heart with silent thought. 

Before him stood the Golden Throne in sight, 

Right opposite ; he could not choose but see. 

Nor seeing choose but wonder. Who are ye 

Who bear the Golden Throne tormented there ? 

He cried ; for Avhom doth Destiny prepare 
The Imperial Seat .'' and why are ye but Three .'' 



FIRST STATUE. 

1 of the Children of Mankind was first, 

Me miserable ! who, adding store to store, 

Heap'd up superfluous wealth ; and now accurs'd. 

Forever I the frantic crime deplore. 

SECOND STATUE. 

I o'er my Brethren of Mankind the first 

Usurping power, set up a throne sublime, 

A King and Conqueror ; therefore thus accurst, 

Forever I in vain repent the crime. 

THIRD STATUE. 

I on the Children of Mankind the first, 

In God's most holy name, imposed a tale 

Of impious falsehood ; therefore thus accurst, 

Forever I in vain the crime bewail. 



Even as thou here beholdest us, 

Here we have stood, tormented thus, 

Such countless ages, that they seem to be 



Long as eternity ; 

And still we are but Three. 

A Fourth will come to share 

Our pain, at yonder vacant corner bear 

His portion of the burden, and complete 

The Golden Throne for Yamen's Judgment-seat. 

Thus hath it been appointed : he must be 

Equal in guilt to us, the guilty Three. 

Kehama, come ! too long we wait for thee ' 



Thereat, with one accord, 

The Three took up the word, like choral song, 

Come, Rajah ! Man-God ! Earth's Almighty Lord ! 

Kehama, come ! we wait for thee too long. 

9. 

A short and sudden laugh of wondering pride 

Burst from him in his triumph : to reply 

Scornful he deign'd not; but with alter'd eye, 

Wherein some doubtful meaning seem'd to lie, 

He turn'd to Kailyal. Maiden, thus he cried, 

I need not bid thee see 

How vain it is to strive with Fate's decree, 

When hither thou hast fled to fly from me, 

And lo ! even here thou find'st me at thy side. 

Mine thou must be, being doom'd with me to share 

The Amreeta cup of immortality ; 

Yea, by Myself I swear. 

It hath been thus appointed. Joyfully 

Join then thy hand, and heart, and will with mine, 

Nor at such glorious destiny repine. 

Nor in thy folly more provoke my wrath divine. 

10. 

She answer 'd, I have said. It must not be ! 

Almighty as thou art, 

Thou hast put all things underneath thy feet ; 

But still the resolute heart 

And virtuous will are free. 

Never, oh ! never, — never — can there be 

Communion, Rajah, between tJiee and me. 

11. 

Once more, quoth he, I urge, and once alone. 

Thou seest yon Golden Throne, 

Where I anon shall set thee by my side ; 

Take thou thy seat thereon, 

Kehama's willing bride. 

And I will place the Kingdoms of the World 

Beneath thy Father's feet, 

Appointing him the King of mortal men : 

Else underneath that Throne, 

The Fourth supporter he shall stand and groan ; 

Prayers will be vain to move my mercy then. 

12. 

Again the Virgin answer'd, I have said ! 

Ladurlad caught her in his proud embrace, 

- While on his neck she hid 

In agony her face. 

13. 

Bring forth the Amreeta-cup ! Kehama cried 

To Yamen, rising sternly in his pride. 



XXIV. 



THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



615 



It is within the Marble Sepulchre, 

The vanquish'd Lord of Padalon replied ; 

Bid it be open'd. Give thy treasure up ! 

Exclaiui'd the Man-Almighty to the Tomb. 

And at his voice and look 

The massy fabric shook, and open'd wide. 

A huge Anatomy was seen reclined 

Within its marble womb. Give me the Cup ! 

Again Kehama cried ; no other charm 

Was needed than that voice of stern command. 

From his repose the ghastly form arose, 

Put forth his bony and gigantic arm. 

And gave the Amreeta to the Rajah's hand. 

Take ! drink ! with accents dread the Spectre said ; 

For thee and Kailyal hath it been assign'd. 

Ye only of the Children of Mankind. 

14. 

Then was the Man- Almighty's heart elate ; 

This is the consummation! he exclaim'd; 

Thus have I triumphed over Death and Fate. 

Now, Seeva ! look to thine abode ! 

Henceforth, on equal footing we engage. 

Alike immortal now ; and we shall wage 

Our warfare, God to God ! 

Joy fill'd his impious soul, 

And to his lips he raised the fatal bowl. 

15. 

Thus long the Glendoveer had stood 

Watching the wonders of the eventful hour, 

Amazed, but undismay'd ; for in his heart 

Faith, overcoming fear, maintain'd its power. 

Nor had that faith abated, when the God 

Of Padalon was beaten down in fight ; 

For then he look'd to see the heavenly might 

Of Seeva break upon them. But when now 

He saw the Amreeta in Kehama's hand. 
An impulse which defied all self-command 

In that extremity 

Stung him, and he resolved to seize the cup. 

And dare the Rajah's force in Seeva's sight. 

Forward he sprung to tempt the unequal fray, 

When, lo ! the Anatomy 

fWith warning arm, withstood his desperate way. 

And from the Golden Throne the Fiery Three 

Again, in one accord, renew'd their song — 

Kehama, come ! we wait for thee too long. 

16. 

O fool of drunken hope and frantic vice ! 

Madman ! to seek for power beyond thy scope 

Of knowledge, and to deem 

Less than Omniscience could suffice 

To wield Omnipotence ! O fool, to dream 

That immortality could be 

The meed of evil ! — yea, thou hast it now. 

Victim of thine own wicked heart's device ; 

Thou hast thine object now, and now must pay the 

price. 

17. 

He did not know the holy mystery 

Of that divinest cup, that as the lips 

Which touch it, even such its quality, 



Good or malignant : Madman ! and he thinks 
The blessed prize is won, and joyfully he drinks. 

18. 

Then Seeva open'd on the Accursed One 

His Eye of Anger : upon him alone 

The wrath-beam fell. H-e shudders — but too late ; 

The deed is done ; 

The dreadful liquor works the will of Fate. 

Immortal he would be, 

Immortal he is made ; but through his veins 

Torture at once and immortality, 

A stream of poison doth the Amreeta run, 

And while within the burning anguish flows, 

His outward body glows, 

Like molten ore, beneath the avenging Eye, 

Doom'd thus to live and burn eternally. 

19. 

The Fiery Three, 

Beholding him, set up a fiendish cry, 

A song of jubilee ! 

Come, Brother, come ! they sung ; too long 

Have we expected thee ; 

Henceforth we bear no more 

The unequal weight. Come, Brother, we are Four ! 

20. 

Vain his almightiness, for mightier pain 

Subdued all power ; pain ruled supreme alone ; 

And yielding to the bony hand 

The unemptied cup, he moved toward the Throne, 

And at the vacant corner took his stand. 

Behold the Golden Throne at length complete, 

And Yamen silently ascends the Judgment-seat. 

21. 

For two alone, of all mankind, to me 

The Amreeta Cup was given, 

Then said the Anatomy ; 

The Man hath drank, the Woman's turn is next. 

Come, Kailyal, come, receive thy doom, 

And do the Will of Heaven ! — 

Wonder, and Fear, and Awe at once perplex'd 

The mortal Maiden's heart ; but over all 

Hope rose triumphant. With a trembling hand. 

Obedient to his call. 

She took the fated Cup ; and, lifting up 

Her eyes, where holy tears began to swell. 

Is it not your command, 

Ye heavenly Powers ? as on her knees she fell. 

The pious Virgin cried ; 

Ye know my innocent will, my heart sincere ; 

Ye govern all things still, 

And wherefore should I fear ? 

22. 

She said, and drank. The Eye of Mercy beam'd 

Upon the Maid : a cloud of fragrance steam'd 

Like incense-smoke as all her mortal frame 

Dissolved beneath the potent agency 

Of that mysterious draught ; such quality 

From her pure touch the fated Cup partook. 

Like one entranced she knelt, 

Feeling her body melt 



616 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



Till all but what was heavenly pass'd away : 

Yet still she felt 

Her Spirit strong within her, the same heart, 

With the same loves, and all her heavenly part 

Unchang'd, and ripen'd to such perfect state 

In this miraculous birth, as here on Earth, 

Dimly our holiest hopes anticipate. 

23. 

Mine ! mine ! with rapturous joy Ereenia cried, 

Immortal now, and yet not more divine ; 

Mine, mine, — forever mine ! 

The immortal Maid replied, 

Forever, ever thine ! 

24. 

Then Yamen said, O thou to whom by Fate, 

Alone of all mankind, this lot is given. 

Daughter of Earth, but now the Child of Heaven ! 

Go with thy heavenly Mate, 

Partaker now of his immortal bliss ; 

Go to the Swerga Bowers, 

And there recall the hours 

Of endless happiness. 

25. 

But that sweet Angel, — for she still retain'd 

Her human loves and human piety, — 

As if reluctant at the God's commands, 

Linger' d, with anxious eye 

Upon her Father fix'd, and spread her hands 

Toward him wistfully. 

Go ! Yamen said, nor cast that look behind 

Upon Ladurlad at this parting hour, 

For thou shalt find him in thy Mother's Bower. 

26. 
The Car — for Carmala his word obey 'd — 
Moved on, and bore away the Maid, 
While from the Golden Throne the Lord of Death 
With love benignant on Ladurlad smiled, 
And gently on his head his blessing laid. 
As sweetly as a Child, 
Whom neither thought disturbs nor care en- 
cumbers, 
Tired with long play, at close of summer day, 

Lies down and slumbers, 

Even thus, as sweet a boon of sleep partaking. 

By Yamen blest, Ladurlad sunk to rest. 

Blessed that sleep ! more blessed was the waking ! 

For on that night a heavenly morning broke ; 

The light of heaven was round him when he woke ; 

And in the Swerga, in Yedillian's Bower, 

All whom he loved he met, to part no more. 



NOTES. 

Calmly she took her seat. — I. 10, p. 560. 

" She," says Bernier, " whom T saw burn herself, when I 
parted from Swat to travel into Persia^ in the presence of Mon- 
sieur Chardin of Paris, and of many English and Dutch, was 
of a middle age, and not unhandsome. To represent unto you 



the undaunted cheerfulness that appeared in her countenance, 
the resolution with which she marched, washed herself, spoke 
to the people ; the confidence with which she looked upon us, 
viewed her little cabin, made up of very dry millet-straw and 
small wood, went into this cabin, and sat down upon the pile, 
and took her husband's head into her lap, and a torch into 
her own hand, and kindled the cabin, whilst I know not how 
many Brahmans were busy in kindling the fire round about. 
To represent to you, [ say, all this as it ought, is not possible 
for me ; I can at present scarce believe it myself, though it 
be but a few days since I saw it." 



They strip her ornaments away. — I. 11, p. 569. 

She went out again to the river, and taking up some water 
in her hands, muttered some prayers, and offered it to the 
sun. All her ornaments were then taken from her ; and her 
armlets were broken, and chaplets of white flowers were put 
upon her neck and hands. Her hair was tucked up with 
five combs ; and her forehead was marked with clay in the 
same manner as that of her husband. — Stavorinus. 



Around her neck they leave 

Tlie marriage-knot alone. — I. 11, p. 569. 

When the time for consummating the marriage is come, 
they light the fire Homan with the wood of Ravasiton. The 
Bramin blesses the former, which, being done, the bridegroom 
takes tliree handfuls of rice, and throws it on the bride's head, 
who does the same to him. Afterwards the bride's father 
clothes her in a dress according to his condition, and washes 
the bridegroom's feet ; the bride's mother observing to pour 
out the water. This being done, the father puts his daughter's 
hand in his own, puts water into it, some pieces of money, 
and, giving it to the bridegroom, says, at the same time, I 
have no longer any thing to do with you, and I give you up 
to the power of another. The Tali, which is a ribbon with a 
golden head hanging at it, is held ready ; and, being shown 
to the company, some prayers and blessings are pronounced ; 
after which the bridegroom takes it, and hangs it about the 
bride's neck. This knot is what particularly secures his pos- 
session of her ; for before he had had the Tali on, all the rest I 
of the ceremonies might have been made to no purpose ; for 
it has sometimes happened that when the bridegroom was : 
going to fix it on, the bride's father has discovered his not ft 
being satisfied with the bridegroom's gift, when another, , 
offering more, has carried off the bride with her father's con- 
sent. But, when once the Tali is put on, the marriage is 
indissoluble ; and whenever the husband dies, the Tali is 
burnt along with him, to show that the marriage bands are 
broke. Besides these particular ceremonies, the people have 
notice of the wedding by a Pandal, which is raised before the 
bride's door some days before. The whole concludes with an 
entertainment which the bride's father gives to the common 
friends ; and during this festivity, which continues five days, 
alms are given to the poor, and the fire Homan is kept in. 
The seventh day, the new-married couple set out for the 
bridegroom's house, whither they frequently go by torchlight. 
The bride and bridegroom are carried in a sedan, pass through ' 
the chief streets of the city, and are accompanied by their i 
friends, who are either on horseback or mounted on elephants. 
— A. Roger. \ 

Tliey force her on, they bind her to the dead. — I. 12, p. 569. 

'Tis true, says Bernier, that I have seen some of them, 
which, at the sight of the pile and the fire, appeared to have 
some apprehension, and that perhaps would have gone back. 
Those demons the Bramins that are there with their great 
sticks, astonish them, and hearten them up, or even thrust 
them in ; as I have seen it done to a young woman, that re- 
treated five or six paces from the pile, and to another, that 
was much disturbed when she saw the fire take hold of her 
clothes, these executioners thrusting her in with their long; 
poles. 

At Labor, I saw a very handsome and a very young woman 
burnt 5 I believe she was not above twelve years of age. This- 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



617 



poor unhappy creature appeared rather dead than alive when 
slie came near the pile ; she shook and wejit bitterly. Mean- 
wiiile, three or four of these executioners, the Bramins, 
together with an old hag that held her under the arm, thrust 
her on, and made her sit down upon the wood 3 and lest she 
should run away, they tied her legs and hands ; and so they 
burnt her alive. I had enough to do to contain myself for 
indignation. — Bernier. 

Pietro della Vulle conversed with a widow, who was about 
to burn herself by her own choice. She told him, that gene- 
rally speaiiing, women were not forced to burn themselves; 
but sometimes, among people of rank, M'hen a young woman, 
who was handsome, was left a widow, and in danger of mar- 
rying again, (which is never practised among them, because 
of the confusion and disgrace which are inseparable from such 
a thing,) or of f;illing into other irregularities, then indeed 
tlie relations of the husband, if they are at all tenacious of 
the honor of tlie family, compel her to burn herself, whether 
she likes it or no, merely to prevent the inconveniences which 
might take place. 

Dellon also, whom I consider as one of the best travellers 
in the East, expressly asserts, that widows are burnt there 
" de ore, on deforce. Uon ri'eii voit que trap qui apris avoir 
desire et dcmande la mart avec un courage intrepide, et apres 
avoir obtenu et achete la permission de se briiler, out tremble d 
la veu'd du hucher, se sont repeiities, mats trop tard, de leur im 
prudence, et ant fait dHiiutiles efforts pour se retracter. Mais 
lorsque cela arrive, blcn loin que les Bramencs soicnt touclies 
d'uacunc pitic, ils lient criiellcment ces malheureuses, et les brd- 
lent par force, sans avoir aucun egard d leurs plaintcs, ni d 
Icurs a-is.''' — Tom. i. p. 138. 

It would be easy to multiply authorities upon this point. 
Let it suffice to mention one important historical fact : When 
the great Alboquerque had establisiied himself at Goa, he 
forbade these accursed sacrifices ; the women extolled him for 
it as their benefactor and deliverer, {Commentarios de Alb. ii. 
20,) and no European in India was ever so popular, or so 
revered l)y the natives. Yet, if we are to believe the anti- 
missionaries, none but fools, fanatics, and pretenders to hu- 
manity, would wish to deprive the Hindoo women of the right 
of burning themselves! "It may be useful (says Colonel 
Mark Wilks) to examine the reasonableness of interfering 
with the most exceptionable of all their institutions. It has 
been tliouglit an abomination not to be tolerated, that a widow 
should immolate herself on the funeral pile of her deceased 
husband. But what judgment should we form of the Hindoo, 
who (if any of our institutions admitted the parallel) should 
forcibly pretend to stand between a Christian and the hope of 
eternal salvation ? And shall we not hold him to be a driveller 
in politics and morals, a fanatic in religion, and a pretender in 
humanity, who would forcibly wrest this hope from tlie Hindoo 
widow.'"' — Historical Sketches of the South of India, vol. i. 
p. 499. 

Such opinions, and such language, may safely be left to the 
indignation and pity which they cannot fail to excite. I shall 
only express my astonishment, that any thing so monstrous, 
and so miserably futile, should have proceeded from a man 
of learning, great good sense, and general good feelings, as 
Colonel Wilks evidently appears to be. 



j One drops, another plunges in. — I. 14, p. 569. 

I When Bernier was passing from Amad-Avad to Agra, 
I'there came news to him in a borough, where the caravan rested 
jiunder the shade, (staying for tlie cool of the evening to march 
Ion their journey,) that a woman was then upon the point of 
burning herself with the body of her husband. I presently 
rose, says he, and ran to the place where it was to be done, 

i which was a great pit, with a pile of wood raised in it, whereon 
I saw laid a dead corpse and a woman, which, at a distance, 
'Seemed to me pretty fair, sitting near it on the same pile, 
besides four or five Bramins putting the fire to it from all 
sides ; five women of a middle age, and well enough dressed, 
holding one another by the hand, and dancing about the pit, 
and a great crowd of people, men and v/omen, looking on. 
The pile of wood was presently all on fire, because store of oil 
and butter had been thrown upon it : and I saw, at the same 
78 



time, through the flames, that the fire took hold of the clothes 
of the woman, that were imbued witli well-scented oils, mm- 
gled with powder of sandal and saffron. All this I saw, but 
observed not that the woman was at all disturbed ; yea, it was 
said, that she had been heard to pronounce., with great force, 
these two words, ^);c, tico, to signify, according to the opinion 
of those that hold the soul's transmigration, that this was the 
fifth time she had burnt herself with the same husband, and 
that there remained but two more for perfection ; as if she 
had that time this remembrance, or some prophetical spirit. 
But here ended not this infernal tragedy: I thought it was 
only by way of ceremony that these five women sung and 
danced about the pit ; but I was altogether surprised when I 
saw that the flame having taken hold of the clothes of one 
of them, she cast herself, with her head foremost, into the pit ; 
and that after her, another, being overcome by the flame and 
the smoke, did the like ; and my astonishment redoubled 
afterwards, when I saw that the remaining three took one 
another again by the hand, continued their dance without any 
apparent fear; and that at length they precipitated themselves, 
one after another, into the fire, as their companions had done. 
I learnt tliat these had been five slaves, who, having seen 
their mistress extremely afflicted at the sickness of her hus- 
band, and heard her promise him, that she would not survive 
him, but burn herself with him, were so touched with com- 
passion and tenderness towards this tlieir mistress, that they 
engaged themselves in a promise to follow lier in her resolu- 
tion, and to burn themselves with her. — Berixier. 

This excellent traveller relates an extraordinary circum- 
stance which occurred at one of these sacrifices. A woman 
was engaged in some love-intrigues with a young IMahomedan, 
her neighbor, who was a tailor, and could play finely upon the 
tabor. This woman, in the liopes she had of marrying this 
young man, poisoned her husband, and presently came away 
to tell the tailor, that it was time to be gone together, as they 
had projected, or else she should be obliged to burn herself. 
Tlie young man, fearing lest he might be entangled in a 
mischievous business, flatly refused her. The woman, not 
at all surprised at it, went to her relations, and advertised 
them of the sudden death of her husband, and openly pro- 
tested that she would not survive him, but burn lierself with 
him. Her kindred, well satisfied with so generous a resolu- 
tion, and the great lienor she did to the whole family, presently 
had a pit maile and filled with wood, exposing the corpse upon 
it, and kindling the fire. All being prepared, the woman goes 
to embrace and bid farewell to all her kindred that were there 
about the pit, among whom was also the tailor, who had been 
invited to play upon tlie tabor that day, with many others of 
that sort of men, according to the custom of the country. 
This fury of a woman being also come to this young man, 
made sign as if she would bid him farewell with the rest; 
but, instead of gently embracing him, she taketli him witl; all 
lier force about his collar, pulls him to the pit, and tumbleth 
him, togetlier with herself, into the ditch, where they both 
were soon despatched. — Bernier. 

The Hindoos sometimes erect a chapel on the spot where 
one of these sacrifices has been performed, both on account of 
the soul of the deceased, and as a trophy of her virtue. I 
remember to have seen one of these places, where the spot on 
which the funeral pile had been erected, was enclosed and 
covered with bamboos, formed into a kind of bower, planted 
with flowering creepers. The inside was set round with 
flowers, and at one end there was an image. — Crawfurd. 

Some of the Yogees, who smear themselves with ashes, 
use none but what they collect from funeral piles, — human 
ashes ! — Pietro Della Valle. 

From a late investigation, it appears, that the number of 
women who sacrifice themselves within thirty miles round 
Calcutta every year, is, on an average, upwards of two hun- 
dred. The Pundits have already been called on to produce 
the sanction of their Shasters for this custom. The passages 
exhibited are vague and general in their meaning, and differ- 
ently interpreted by the same casts. Some sacred verses com- 
mend the practice, but none command it ; and the Pundits re- 
fer once more to custom. They have, however, intimated, 
that if government will pass a regulation, amercing by fine 
every Brahmin who attends a burning, or every Zemindar who 
permits him to attend it, the practice cannot possibly long 
continue ; for that the ceremony, unsanctified by the presence 



618 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



of the priests, will lose its dignity and consequence in the 
eyes of the people. 

The civilized world may expect soon to hear of the abolition 
of this opprobrium of a Christian administration, the female 
sacrifice ; which has subsisted, to our certain knowledge, since 
the time of Alexander the Great. — Claudius Buchanan. 

This practice, however, was manifestly unknown when the 
Institutes of Menu were written. Instructions are there 
given for the conduct of a widow : " Let her," it is said, 
" emaciate her body, by living voluntarily on pure flowers, 
roots, and fruit j but let her not, when her lord is deceased, 
even pronounce the name of another man. Let her continue 
till death forgiving all injuries, performing harsh duties, 
avoiding every sensual pleasure, and cheerfully practising the 
incomparable rules of virtue, which have been Ibllowedby such 
women as were devoted to one only husband. Many thou- 
sands of Brahmins, having avoided sensuality from their early 
youth, and having left no issue in their families, have as- 
cended nevertheless to heaven ; and, like those abstemious 
men, a virtuous wife ascends to heaven, though she have no 
child, if, after the decease of her lord, she devote herself to 
pious austerity ; but a widow, who, from a wish to bear chil- 
dren, slights her deceased husband by marrying again, brings 
disgrace on herself here below, and shall be excluded from 
the seat of her lord." — Inst, of Menu, ch. 5, 157 — 161. 

Second marriages were permitted to men. — Ibid., 1G7, 8, 9. 



Lo! Arvalan appears. — II. 1, p. 569. 

Many believe that some souls are sent back to the spot 
where their bodies were burnt, or where their ashes are pre- 
served, to wait there until the new bodies they are destined to 
occupy be ready for their reception. This appears to cor- 
respond with an opinion of Plato, which, with many other 
tenets of that philosopher, was adopted by the early Chris- 
tians ; and an ordinance of the Romish church is still extant, 
prohibiting having lights or making merriment in church-yards 
at night, lest they should disturb the souls that might come 
thither. — Crawfurd. 

According to the Danish missionaries, the souls of those 
who are untimely slain wander about as diabolical spectres, 
doing evil to mankind, and possessing those whom they per- 
secute. — Niecamp, i. 10, § 14. 

The inhabitants of the hills near Rajamahall believe that 
when God sends a messenger to summon a person to his pres- 
ence, if the messenger should mistake his object, and carry 
off another, he is desired by the Deity to take him away ; 
but as the earthly mansion of this soul must be decayed, it is 
destined to remain mid-way between heaven and earth, and 
never can return to the presence of God. Whoever commits 
homicide without a divine order, and whoever is killed by a 
snake, as a punishment for some concealed crime, will be 
doomed to the same state of wandering 5 and whoever hangs 
himself will wander eternally with a rope about his neck. — 
A.-iiat. Researches. 

Pope Benedict XII. drew up a list of 117 heretical opinions 
held by the Armenian Christians, which he sent to the king 
of Armenia, — instead of any other assistance, when that 
prince applied to him for aid against the Mabomedans. This 
paper was first published by Bernino, and exhibits a curious 
mixture of mytliologies. One of their opinions was, that the 
souls of the adult wander about in the air till the day of judg- 
ment ; neither hell, nor the heavenly, nor the terrestrial para- 
dise, being open to them till that day shall have passed. 

Davenant, in one of his plays, speculates upon such a state 
of wandering as the lot of the soul after death : — 

I must to darkness go, hover in clouds, 
Or in remote untroubled air, silent 
As thought, or what is uncreated yet ; 
Or I must rest in some cold sbade, and shall 
Perhaps ne'er see that everlasting spring 
Of which philosopiiy so long has dreamt. 
And seems rather to wish than understand. 

Love and Honor. 

I know no other author who has so often expressed to those 
who could understand him, his doubts respecting a future 
state, and how burdensome he felt them. 



Undying as lam! — 11. 3, p. 570. 

The Soul is not a thing of which a man may say, it hath 
been, it is about to be, or is to be hereafter ; for it is a thing 
without birth ; it is ancient, constant, and eternal, and is not 
to be destroyed in this its mortal frame. How can the man 
who believeth that this thing is incorruptible, eternal, inex- 
haustible, and without birth, think that he can either kill or 
cause it to be killed ! As a man throweth away old garments 
and putteth on new, even so the Soul, having quitted its old 
mortal frames, entereth into others which are new. The 
weapon divideth it not, the fire burneth it not, the water 
corrupteth it not, the wind drieth it not away j — for it is 
indivisible, inconsumable, incorruptible, and is not to be dried 
away — it is eternal, universal, permanent, immovable ; it is 
invisible, inconceivable, and unalterable. — Bhagvat Geeta. 



It was my hour of folly. — II. 5, p. 570. 

" Among the qualities required for the proper execution of 
public business, mention is made, ' That a man must be able 
to keep in subjection his lust, his anger, his avarice, his folly, 
and his pride.' The folly there specified is not to be under- 
stood in the usual sense of the word in an European idiom, 
as a negative quality, or the mere want of sense, but as a 
kind of obstinately stupid lethargy, or perverse absence of 
mind, in which the will is not altogether passive : it seems to 
be a weakness peculiar to Asia, for we cannot find a term by 
which to express the precise idea in the European languages 
It operates somewhat like the violent impulse of fear, under 
which men will utter falsehoods totally incompatible with 
each other, and utterly contrary to their own opinion, knowl- 
edge, and conviction ; and, it may be added, also, their incli- 
nation and intention. 

"• A very remarkaole instance of this temporary frenzy hap- 
pened lately in the supreme Court of Judicature at Calcutta, 
where a man (not an idiot) swore, upon a trial, that he was 
no kind of relation to his brother, who was then in Court, and 
who had constantly supported him from his infancy ; and that 
he lived in a house by himself, for which he paid the rent 
from his own pocket, when it was proved that he was not 
worth a rupee, and when the person, in whose house he had 
always resided, stood at the bar close to him. 

" Another conjecture, and that exceedingly acute and inge- 
nious, has been started upon this folly, that it may mean the 
deception which a man permits to be imposed on his judg- 
ment by his passions ; as acts of rapacity and avarice are often 
committed by men who ascribe them to prudence and a just 
assertion of their own right; malice and rancor pass for 
justice, and brutality for spirit. This opinion, when thor- 
oughly examined, will very nearly tally with the former ; for 
all the passions, as well as fear, have an equal efficacy to dis- 
turb and distort the mind : but, to account for the folly here 
spoken of as being the offspring of the passions, instead of 
drawing a parallel between it and the impulses of those pas- 
sions, we must suppose the impulses to act with infinitely 
more violence upon an Asiatic mind than we can ever have 
seen exemplified in Europe. It is, bowever, something like 
the madness so inimitably delineated in the Hero of Cervantes, 
sensible enough upon some occasions, and at the same time 
completely wild, and unconscious of itself upon others, and 
that, too, originally produced by an effort of the will, though, 
in the end, overpowering and superseding its functions." — 
Halhed. 



But I, all naked feeling and raw life. — II. 5, p. 570. 



By the vital souls of those men who have committed sins 
the body, another body, composed of nerves, with five sc 
sations, in order to be susceptible of torment, shall certain 
be assumed after death ; and being intimately united with 
those minute nervous particles, according to their distribution, 
they shall feel in that new body the pangs inflicted in each 
case by the sentence of Yama. — lust, of Menu. 

Henry More, the Platonist, has two applicable stanzas in 
his Song of the Soul : — 

Like to a light fast lock'd in lantern dark. 
Whereby by night our wary steps we guide 






NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



619 



In slabby streets, and dirty channels mark, 
Some weaker rays through the black top do glide. 
And flusher streams, purhups, from horny side ; 
But when we've past the peril of the way, 
Arrived at home, and laid that case aside, — 
The naked light how clearly doth it ray, 
And spread its joyful beams as bright as summer's day. 

Even so the soul, in this contracted state, 

Confined to these straight instruments of sense, 

More dull and narrowly doth operate ; 

At this hole hears, — the sight must ray from thence,— 

Here tastes, there smells j — but when she's gone from 

hence, 
Like naked lamp she is one shining sphere, 
And round about has perfect cognoscence ; 
Whate'er in her horizon doth appear. 
She is one orb of sense, all eye, all airy ear. 

Amid the uncouth allegory, and more uncouth language, of 
tills strange series of poems, a few passages are to be found of 
exceeding beauty. Milton, who was the author's friend, had 
evidently read them. 



Marriataly. — II. 8, p. 570. 

Mariatale, as Sonnerat spells the name, was wife of the 
penitent Chamadaguini, and mother of Farassourama, who 
was, in part, an incarnation of Veeshno. This goddess, says 
Sonnerat, commanded the elements, but could not preserve 
that empire longer than her heart was pure. One day, while 
she was cotlecting water out of a tank, and, according to her 
custom, was making a bowl of earth to carry it to the house, 
she saw on the surface of the water some tigures of Grin- 
dovers, (Glendoveers,) which were flying over her head. 
Struck with their beauty, her heart admitted an impure 
thought, and the earth of the bowl dissolved. From that 
time she was obliged to make use of an ordinary vessel. This 
discovered lo Chamadaguini that his wife had deviated from 
purity ; and in the excess of his rage, he ordered his son to 
drag her to the place were criminals were executed, and to 
behead her. The order was executed ; but Farassourama was 
so much afflicted for the loss of his mother, that Chamada- 
guini told him to take up the body, and fasten the head upon 
it, and repeat a prayer (which he taught him for that pur- 
pose) in her ear, and then his motlier would come to life 
again. The son ran eagerly to perform what he was ordered, 
but, by a very singular blunder, he joined the head of his 
mother to the body of a Parichi, who had been executed for 
her crimes ; a monstrous union, which gave to this woman the 
virtues of a goddess, and the vices of a criminal. The god- 
dess, becoming impure by such a mixture, w;is driven from 
her house, and committed all kinds of cruelties. The De- 
verkels, perceiving the destruction she made, appeased her by 
giving her power to cure the small-pox, and promising that 
I she should be implored for that disorder. Mariatale is the 
great goddess of the Farias ; — to honor her, they have a 
custom of dancing with several pots of water on their heads, 
placed one above the other; these pots are adorned with the 
leaves of the Margosies, a tree consecrated to her. 



The little songsters of the sky 

Sit silent in the sultry hour. — IV. 2, p. 572. 

The tufted lark, fixed to this fruitful land, says Sonnini, 
speaking of Egypt, never forsakes it; it seems, however, that 
the excessive beat annoys him. You may see these birds, as 
well as sparrows, in the middle of the day, with their bills 
half open, and the muscles of their breasts agitated, breathing 
•with difficulty, and as if they panted for respiration. The 
instinct which induces them to prefer those means of subsist- 
ence which are easily obtained, and in abundance, although 
attended with some suffering, resembles the mind of man, 
whom a thirst for riches engages to brave calamities and dan- 
gers without number. 



TTie watchman. — V. 1, p. 574. 

The watchmen are provided with no offensive weapons ex- 
cepting a sling ; on the contrnry, they continue the whole day 
standing, in one single position, upon a pillar of clay raised 
about ten feet, where they remain bellowing continually, that 
they may terrify, without hurting, the birds who feed upon the 
crop. Every considerable field contains several such senti- 
nels, stationed at different corners, who repeat the call from 
one to another so incessantly, that the invaders have hardly 
any opportunity of making a good livelihood in the field. 

Th(;se watchmen are forced, during the rains, to erect, in- 
stead of a clay pillar, a scaffolding of wood as high as the 
crop, over which they suspend a roof of straw, to shelter their 
naked bodies from the rain. — Tennant. 



The Golden Palaces. — V. 1, p. 574. 

Every thing belonging to the Sovereign of Ava has the ad- 
dition of shoe, or golden, annexed to it ; even his majesty's 
person is never mentioned but in conjunction with this pre- 
cious metal. When a subject means to affirm that the king 
has heard any thing, he says, " It has reached the golden 
ears ; " he who obtained admission to the royal presence has 
been at the " golden feet." The perfume of otta of roses, a 
nobleman observed one day, " was an odor grateful to the 
golden nose." — Symes. 



•^ cloud, ascending in the easteim sky^ 

Sails slowly oW the vale, 

And darkens round, and closes in the niglvt. — V. 3, p. 574. 

At this season of the year, it is not uncommon, towards the 
evening, to see a small black cloud rising in the eastern part 
of the horizon, and afterwards spreading itself to the north- 
west. This phenomenon is always attended with a violent 
storm of wind, and flashes of the strongest and most vivid 
lightning and heavy thunder, which is followed by rain. 
These storms sometimes last for half an hour or more ; and, 
when they disjierse, they leave the air greatly freshened, and 
the sky of a deep, clear and transparent blue. When they 
occur near the full moon, the whole atmosphere is illuminated 
by a soft but brilliant silver light, attended with gentle airs. — 
Hodges. 



A white flag, flapping to the winds of night, 

Maries where the tiger seized a human prey. — V. 4, p. 574. 

It is usual to place a small, white, triangular flag, fixed to 
a bamboo staff, of ten or twelve feet long, at the place where a 
tiger has destroyed a man. It is common for the passengers, 
also, each to throw a stone or brick near the spot, so that, in 
the course of a little time, a pile, efjual to a good wagon-load, is 
collected. This custom, as well as the fixing a rag on any partic- 
ular thorn-bush, near the fatal spot, is in use, likewise, on vari- 
ous accounts. Many brambles may be seen in a day's journey, 
completely covered with this motley assemblage of remnants. 
The sight of the flags and piles of stones imparts a certain 
melancholy, not perhaps altogether devoid of apprehension. 
They may be said to be of service in pointing out the places 
most frequented by tigers. — Oriental Sports, vol. ii. p. 22. 



Gently he steals away with silent tread V. 9, p. 575. 

This part of the poem has been censured, upon the ground 
that Ladurlad's conduct in thus forsaking his daughter is in- 
consistent with his affection for her. There is a passage in 
Mr. Milman's version of Nala and Damayanti so curiously 
resembling it in the situation of the two persons, that any one 
might suppose I had imitated the Sanscrit, if Kehama had not 
been published five-and-twenty years before Mr. Milman's 
most characteristic specimen of Indian poetry. Indeed, it is 
to him that I am obliged for pointing out the very singular 
coincidence. 
" Mighty is thy father's kingdom — once was mine as mighty, 

too ; 
Never will I there seek refuge — in my base extremity. 



620 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



There I once appeared in glory — to the exaltingof thy pride ; 
Shall I now appear in misery — to the increasing of thy 

shame ? " 
Nala thus to Damayanti — spake again, and yet a^ain, 
Comforting the noble lady — scant in half agarment clad. 
Both together, by one garment — covered, roamed they here 

and there ; 
Wearied out by thirst and famine — to a cabin drew they near, 
Wlien they reached that lowly cabin — then did great Nisha- 

dha's king 
With the princess of Vidarbha — on the hard earth seat them 

down ; 
Naked, with no mat to rest on — wet with mire and stained 

with dust. 
Weary then with Damayanti — on the earth he fell asleep. 
Sank the lovely Damayanti — by his side with sleep oppress'd. 
She thus plunged in sudden misery — she the tender, the 

devout. 
But while on the cold earth slumbered — Damayanti, all dis- 
traught, 
Nala in his mind by sorrow — might no longer calmly sleep ; 
For the losing of his kingdom — the desertion of his friends. 
And his weary forest wanderings — painful on his thought 

arose ; 
" If I do it, what may follow ? — what if I refuse to do ? 
Were my instant death the better- — or to abandon her I love. 
But to me too deep devoted — suffers she distress and shame : 
Reft of me, she home may wander — to her royal father's 

house ; 
Faithful wandering ever with me — certain sorrow will she 

bear. 
But if separated from me — chance of solace may be hers." 
Long within his heart he pondered — and again, again weighed 

o'er. 
Best he thought it Damayanti — to desert, that wretched 

king. 
From her virtue none dare harm her — in the lonely forest 

way. 
Her the fortunate, the noble, my devoted wedded wife. 
Thus his mind on Damayanti — dwelt in its perverted thought, 
Wrought by Kali's evil influence — to desert his lovely wife. 
Of himself without a garment — and of her with only one 
As he thought, approached he near her — to divide that single 

robe. 
"How shall I divide the garment — by my loved one unper- 

ceived ? " 
Pondering this within his spirit — round the cabin Nala went ; 
In that narrow cabin's circuit — Nala wandered here and 

there, 
Till he found without a scabbard — shining, a well-tempered 

sword. 
Then when half that only garment — he had severed and 

put on, 
In her sleep Vidarbha's princess — with bewildered mind he 

fled. 
Yet, his cruel heart relenting — to the cabin turns he back ; 
On the slumbering Damayanti — gazing, sadly wept the king ; 
"Thou that sun nor wind hath ever — roughly visited, my 

love ! 
On the hard earth in a cabin — sleepest with thy guardian 

gone. 
Thus attired in half a garment — she that aye so sweetly 

smiled. 
Like to one distracted, beauteous — how at length will she 

awake ! 
How will't fare with Bhima's daughter — lone, abandoned by 

her lord, 
Wandering in the savage forest — where wild beasts and ser- 
pents dwell ! 
May the suns and winds of heaven — may the genii of the 

woods, 
Noblest, may they all protect thee — thine own virtue thy best 

guard." 
To his wife of peerless beauty — on the earth, 'twas thus he 

spoke. 
Then of sense bereft by Kali — Nala hastily set forth ; 
And departing, still departing — he returned again, again ; 
Dragged away by that bad demon — ever by his love drawn 

back. 



Nala, thus his heart divided — into two conflicting parts, 
Like a swing goes backward, forward — from the cabin, to 

and fro. 
Torn away at length by Kali — flies afar the frantic king, 
Leaving there his wife in slumber — making miserable moans. 
Reft of sense, possessed by Kali — thinking still on her he left, 
Passed he in the lonely forest — leaving his deserted wife. 



Pollear. — Y. 14, p. 575. 

The first and greatest of the sons of Sevee is Pollear j he 
presides over marriages : the Indians build no house without 
having first carried a Pollear on the ground, which they 
sprinkle with oil, and throw flowers on it every day. If they 
do not invoke it before they undertake any enterprise, they 
believe that God will make them forget what they wanted to 
undertake, and that their labor will be in vain. Pie is rep- 
resented with an elephant's head, and mounted on a rat ; but 
in the pagodas they place him on a pedestal, with his legs 
almost crossed. A rat is always put before the door of his 
chapel. This rat was a giant, called Gudja-mouga-chourin, 
on whom the gods had bestowed immortality, as well as great 
powers, which he abused, and did much harm to mankind. 
Pollear, entreated by the sages and penitents to deliver them, 
pulled out one of his tusks, and threw it against Gudja- 
mouga-chourin ; the tooth entered the giant's stomach, and 
overthrew him, who immediately changed himself into a rat 
as large as a mountain, and came to attack Pollear ; who 
sprung on his back, telling him, that hereafter he should ever 
be his carrier. 

The Indians, in their adoration of this god, cross their arms, 
shut the fist, and in this manner give themselves several blows 
on the temples ; then, but always with the arms crossed, they 
take hold of their ears, and make three inclinations, bending 
the knee ; after which, with their hands joined, they address 
their prayers to him, and strike their forehead. They have a 
great veneration for this deity, whose image they place in all 
temples, streets, highways, and in the country, at the foot of 
some tree ; that all the world may have an opportunity of in 
voking him before they undertake any concern ; and that 
travellers may make their adorations and offerings to him 
before they pursue their journey. — Sonnera.t. 



77ie Olendoveen 



VL 



576. 



This word is altered from the Grindouvers of Sonnerat; 
who describes these celestial children of Casyapa as famouu 
for their beauty ; they have wings, he adds, and fly in the air 
with their wives. I do not know whether they are the Oand- 
liarvas of the English Orientalists. The wings with which 
they are attired in the poem are borrowed from the neglected 
story of Peter Wilkins. At a recent sale of manuscripts, the 
author's assignment of this book to Dodsley for ten guineas 
was brought to light, and it then appeared that his name, which 
till then had been unknown, was R. Paltock. Nothing more 
has been discovered concerning him. His book, however, is 
a work of great genius, and I know that both Sir Walter Scott 
and Mr. Coleridge thought as highly of it as I do. His winged 
people are the most beautiful creatures of imagination that 
ever were devised. I copy his minute descrijition of the 
graundce, as he calls it ; — Stothard has made some delightful 
drawings of it in the Novelist's Magazine. 

" She first threw up two long branches, or ribs, of the 
whalebone, as I called it before, (and indeed for several of its 
properties, as toughness, elasticity, and pliableness, nothing I 
have ever seen can so justly be compared to it,) which were 
jointed behind to the upper bone of the spine, and which, 
when not extended, lie bent over the shoulders on each side 
of the neck forwards, from whence, by nearer and nearer ap- 
proaches, they just meet at the lower rim of the belly in a sort 
of point; but, when extended, they stand their whole length 
above the shoulders, not perpendicularly, but spreading out- 
wards, with a web of the softest and most pliable and spongy 
membrane that can be imagined in the interstices between 
them, reaching from their root or joint on the back up above 
the hinder part of the head, and near half way their own 
length ; but, when closed, the membrane falls down in the 






NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



621 



middle upon tlie neck, like a handkerchief. There are also 
two other ribs, rising, as it were, from the same root, which, 
when open, run horizontull}', but not so long as the others. 
These are filled up in the interstice between them and the 
upper ones with the same membrane ; and on tlie lower side 
of this is also a deep flap of the membrane,so that the arms can 
be either above or below it in flight, and are always above 
it when closed. This last rib, when shut, flaps under the 
upper one, and also falls down with it before to the waist j 
but it is not joined to the ribs below. Along the whole spine- 
bone runs a strong, flat, broad, gristly cartilage, to which are 
joined several other of these ribs, all whicli open horizontally, 
and are filled in the interstices with the above membrane, and 
are jointed to the ribs of the person just where the plane of the 
back begins to turn towards the breast and belly ; and, when 
shut, wrup the body round to the joints on the contrary side, 
folding neatly one side over the other. 

" At the lower spine are two more ribs extended horizon- 
tally when open, jointed again to the hips, and long enough to 
meet the joint on the contrary side across the belly : and IVom 
the hip-joint, which is on the outermost edge of the hip-bone, 
runs a pliable cartilage quite down the outside of the thigh 
and leg to the ankle ; from which there branch out divers 
other ribs, horizontally also when open, but, when closed, 
they encompass the whole thigh and leg, rolling inwards across 
tlie back of the leg and thigh, till they reach and just cover 
the cartilage. The interstices of these are filled up with the 
same membrane. From the two ribs which join to the lower 
spine-bone, there hangs down a sort of short apron, very full 
of plaits, from hip-joint to hip-joint, and reaches below the 
buttocks, half way or more to the hams. This has also sev- 
eral small limber ribs in it. Just upon the lower spine-joint, 
and above the apron, as I call it, there are two other long 
branches, which when close, extend upon the back from the 
point they join at below to the shoulders, where each rib has 
a clasper, which reaching over the shoulders, just under the 
fold of the uppermost branch or ribs, hold up the two ribs flat 
to the back, like a V, tlie interstices of which are filled up with 
the aforesaid membrane. This last piece, in flight, falls down 
almost to the ankles, where the two claspers, lapping under 
each leg within-side, hold it very fast ; and then, also, the 
short apron is drawn up, by the strength of the ribs in it, 
between the thighs, forward and covers as far as the riin of 
the belly. The whole arms are covered also from the shoul- 
ders to the wrist with the same delicate membrane, fastened to 
ribs of proportionable dimensions, and jointed to a cartilage 
on the outside in the same manner as on the legs. It is very 
surprising to feel the difference of these ribs when open and 
when closed ; for closed they are as pliable as the finest 
whalebone, or more so ; but, when extended, are as strong and 
stiff" as a bone. They are tapering from the roots, and are 
broader or narrower, as best suits the places they occupy, and 
the stress they are put to, up to their points, which are almost 
as small as a hair. The membrane between them is the most 
elastic thing I ever met with, occupying no more space, when 
the ribs are closed, than just from rib to rib, as flat and smooth 
as possible ; but, when extended in some postures, will dilate 
itself surprisingly. 

" It is the most amazing thing in the world to observe the 
large expansion of this graundee when open, and, when closed, 
(as it all is in a moment, upon the party's descent,) to see it 
■fit so close and compact to the body as no tailor can come up 
to it ; and then the several ribs lie so justly disposed in the 
several parts, that instead of being, as one would imagine, a 
disadvantage to the shape, they make the body and limbs look 
extremely elegant ; and, by the different adjustment of their 
lines on the body and limbs, the whole, to my fancy, some- 
what resembles the dress of the old Roman warriors in their 
buskins ; and, to appearance, seems much more noble than any 
fictitious garb I ever saw, or can frame a notion of to myself." 



Mount Himakoot. — VI. 3, p. 576. 

Diishmanta. Say, Matali, what mountain is that which, 
like an evening cloud, pours exhilarating streams, and forms a 
golden zone between the western and eastern seas ? 

Matali. That, O king ! is the mountain of Gandharvas, 
named Hemaciita : the universe contains not a more excellent 



place for the successful devotion of the pious. There Casya- 
pa, father of the immortals, ruler of men, son of Marichi, who 
sprang from the self-existent, resides with his consort Aditi, 
blessed in holy retirement. — We now enter the sanctuary of 
him who rules the world, and the groves which are watered 
by streams from celestial sources. 

Dushmanta. I see with equal amazement both the pious and 
their awful retreat. It becomes, indeed, pure spirits to feed 
on balmy air in a forest blooming with trees of life ; to bathe 
in rills dyed yellow with the golden dust of the lotus, and to 
fortify their virtue in the mysterious bath ; to meditate in 
caves, the pebbles of which are unblemished gems ; and to 
restrain their passions, even though nymphs of exquisite 
beauty frolick around them. In this grove alone is attained 
the summit of true piety, to whicli other hermits in vain 
aspire. — Sacontala. 



Her death predoom^d 

To that Mack hour of midnight, when the Moan 

Hath turned her face away, 

Uiiwilling to behold 

The unhappy end of guilt! — VI. 4, p. 576. 

I will now speak to thee of that time in which, should a 

devout man die, he will never return ; and of that time in 

which, dying, he shall return again to earth. 

Tiiose holy men who are acquainted with Brahma, depart- 
ing this life in the fiery light of day, in the bright season of the 
moon, within the six months of the sun's northern course, go 
unto him : but those who de])art in the gloomy night of the 
moon's dark season, and whilst the sun is yet within the 
southern path of his journey, ascend for a while into the re- 
gions of the moon, and again return to mortal birth. These 
two. Light and Darkness, are esteemed the World's eternal 
ways: he wlio walketh in the former path returneth notj 
whilst he who walketh in the latter cometh back again upon 
the earth. — Kreeshna, in the Bhagvat Gecta. 



Indra VI. 4, p. 577. 

The Indian God of the visible Heavens is called Indra, or 
the King; and Divespetir, Lord of the Sky. He has the 
character of the Rom;in Oenius, or chief of the Good Spirits. 
His consort is named Sachi ; his celestial city, Amaravati; 
his palace, Valjayanta ; his garden, Mindana; his chief ele- 
phant, ./3/rCTiai ; his charioteer, ./1/aicZi; and his weapon, Vajra, 
or the thunderbolt. He is tlie regent of winds and showers, 
and, though the East is peculiarly under his care, yet his 
Olympus is Meru, or the North Pole, allegorically represented 
as a mountain of gold and gems. He is the Prince of the 
beneficent Genii. — Sir W. Jones. 

A distinct idea of Indra, the King of Immortals, may be 
collected from a passage in the ninth section of the Geeta. 

" These having, through virtue, reached the mansion of the 
king of Suras, feast on the exquisite heavenly food of the 
Gods ; they who have enjoyed this lofty region of Swerga, 
but whose virtue is exhausted, revisit the habitation of 
mortals." 

He is the God of thunder and the five elements, with in- 
ferior Genii under his command ; and is conceived to govern 
the eastern quarter of the world, but to preside, like the 
Oenius or Agathodaemon of the ancients, over the celestial 
bands, which are stationed on the summit of Meru, or the 
North Pole, where he solaces the Gods with nectar and 
heavenly music. 

The Cinnaras are the male dancers in Swerga, or the 
Heaven of Indra, and the Apsaras are his dancing girls, 
answering to the fairies of the Persians, and to the damsels 
called in the Koran hhuru lityiln, or, with antelope's eyes. — 
Sir W. Jones. 



J have seen Indra tremble at his prayers. 

And at his dreadful penances turn pale. — VT. 4, p. 577. 

Of such penances Mr. Halhed has produced a curious 
specimen. 

" In the wood Midhoo, which is on the confines of the 
kingdoms of Brege, Tarakee selected a pleasant and beautiful 



622 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



spot, adorned witli verdure and blossoms, and there exercised 
himself in penance and mortification, externally with the 
sincerest piety, but in reality, the most malignant inten- 
tion, and with the determined purpose of oppressing the 
Devetas ; penances such as credulity itself was astonished to 
hear ; and they are here recounted : — 

1. For a hundred years, he held up his arms and one foot 
towards heaven, and fixed his eyes upon the sun the whole 
time. 

2. For a hundred years, he remained standing on tiptoe. 

3. For a hundred years more, he nourished himself with 
nothing but water. 

4. For a hundred years more, he lived upon nothing but air. 

5. For a hundred years more, he stood and made his adora- 
tions in the river. 

6. For a hundred years more he made those adorations 
buried up to his neck in the earth. 

7. For a hundred years more, enveloped with fire. 

8. For a hundred years more, he stood upon his head with 
his feet towards heaven. 

9. For a hundred years more, he stood upon the palm of one 
hand resting on the ground. 

10. For a hundred years more, he hung by his hand from 
the branch of a tree. 

11. For a hundred years more, he hung from a tree with 
his head downwards. 

When he at length came to a respite from these severe mor- 
tifications, a radiant glory encircled the devotee, and a flame 
of fire, arising from his head, began to consume the whole 
world." — Fro7n the Seva Pooraun, Maurice's History of Hin- 
dostan. 

You see a pious Yogi, motionless as a pollard, holding his 
thick, bushy hair, and fixing his eyes on the solar orb. Mark — 
his body is half covered with a white ant's edifice made of 
raised clay ; the skin of a snake supplies the place of his sa- 
cerdotal thread, and part of it girds his loins ; a number of 
knotty plants encircle and wound his neck, and surrounding 
birds' nests almost conceal his shoulders. 

DiLshnanta. I bow to a man of his austere devotion. — 

Sac O NT ALA. 



Tliat even Secva's self. 
The Highest, cannot grant and he secure. — VI. 4, p. 577. 

It will be seen from the following fuble, that Seeva had once 
been reduced to a very humiliating employment by one of 
Kehama's predecessors : — 

Ravana, by his power and infernal arts, had subjugated 
all the gods and demigods, and forced them to perform menial 
offices about his person and household. Indra made garlands 
of flowers to adorn him withal ; Agni was his cook ; Surya 
supplied light by day, and Chandra by night ; Varuna pur- 
veyed water for the palace ; Ktivera furnished cash. The 
whole nava-graha (the nine planetary spheres) sometimes ar- 
ranged themselves into a ladder, by which, they serving as 
steps, the tyrant ascended his throne. Brahma (for the great 
gods were there also ; and I give this anecdote as I find it in 
my memoranda, without any improved arrangement) — Brahma 
was a herald, proclaiming the giant's titles, the day of the 
week, month, &c. daily in the palace, — a sort of speaking 
almanac : Mahadcva, (i. e. Seeva,) in his Avatara of Kan- 
dclir-roo, performed the ofliee of barber, and trimmed the giants' 
beards: Vishnu had the honorable occupation of instructing 
and drilling the dancing and singing girls, and selecting the 
fairest for the royal bed : Oancsa had the care of the cows, 
goats, and herds : Vayu swept the house ; Yama washed the 
linen ; — and in this manner were all the gods employed in the 
menial offices of Ravana, who rebuked and flogged them in 
default of industry and attention. Nor were the female 
divinities exempted ; for Bhavani, in her name and form of 
Satni, was head Aya, or nurse, to Ravana's children ; Lakshmi 
and Saraswati were also among them, but it does not appear 
in what capacity, — Moore's Hindu Pantheon, p. 333. 

Seeva was once in danger even of annihilation. " In pass- 
ing from the town of Silgut to Deonhully," says Colonel 
Wilks, "I became accidentally informed of a sect, peculiar, 
as I since understand, to the north-eastern parts of Mysoor, 
the women of v/hich universally undergo the amputation of 
the first joints of the third and fourth fingers of their right 



hands. On my arrival at Deonhully, after ascertaining that 
the request would not give ofience, I desired to see some of 
these women ; and, the same afternoon, seven of them at- 
tended at my tent. The sect is a subdivision of the Murresoo 
TVokul,* and belongs to the fourth great class of the Hindoos-, 
viz. the Souder. Every woman of the sect, previously to 
piercing the ears of her eldest daughter, preparatory to her 
being betrothed in marriage, must necessarily undergo this 
mutilation, which is performed by the blacksmith of the vil- 
lage for a regulated fee, by a surgical process sufficiently rude. 
The finger to be amputated is placed on a block 3 the black- 
smith places a chisel over the articulation of the joint, and 
chops it off^ at a single blow. If the girl to be betrothed is 
motherless, and the mother of the boy have not before been 
subject to the operation, it is incumbent on her to perform the 
sacrifice. After satisfying myself with regard to the facts of 
the case, I inquired into the origin of so strange a practice, 
and one of the women related, with great fluency, the follow- 
ing traditionary tale, which has since been repeated to me, 
with no material deviation, by several others of the sect. 

A Rachas (or giant) named Frica, and in after times Bus- 
maa-soor, or the giant of the ashes, had, by a course of austere 
devotion to Mahadeo, (Seeva,) obtained from him the promise 
of whatever boon he should ask. The Rachas accordingly 
demanded, that every person on whose head he should place 
his right hand might instantly be reduced to ashes ; and 
Mahadeo conferred the boon, without suspicion of the purpose 
for which it was designed. 

The Rachas no sooner found himself possessed of this for- 
midable power, than he attempted to use it for the destruction 
of his benefactor. Mahadeo fled, the Rachas pursued, and 
followed the fugitive so closely as to chase him into a thick 
grove; where Mahadeo, changing his form and bulk, con- 
cealed himself in the centre of a fruit, then called tunda 
pvndoo, but since named linga tunda, from the resemblance 
which its kernel thenceforward assumed to the ling, the 
appropriate emblem of Mahadeo. 

The Rachas having lost sight of Mahadeo, inquired of a 
husbandman, who was working in the adjoining field, whether 
he had seen the fugitive, and what direction he had taken. 
The husbandman, who had attentively observed the whole 
transaction, fearful of the future resentment of Mahadeo, and 
equally alarmed for the present vengeance of the giant, an- 
swered aloud, that he had seen no fugitive, but pointed, at the 
same time, with the little finger of his right hand, to the place 
of Mahadeo's concealment. 

In this extremity,! Vishnou descended, in the form of a 
beautiful damsel, to the rescue of Mahadeo. The Rachas 
became instantly enamored; — the damsel was a pure Brah- 
min, and might not be approached by the unclean Rachas. 
By degrees she appeared to relent ; and as a previous con- 
dition to farther advances, enjoined the performance of his 
ablutions in a neighboring pool. After these were finished, 
she prescribed, as a further purification, the performance of 
the Sundia, — a ceremony in which the right hand is suc- 
cessively applied to the breast, to the crown of the head, and 
to other j)arts of the body. The Rachas, thinking only of 
love, and forgetful of the powers of his right hand, performed 
the Simdia, and was himself reduced to ashes. 

Mahadeo now issued from the linga tunda, and, after the 
proper acknowledgm(;nts for his deliverance, proceeded to 
discuss the guilt of the treacherous husbandman, and deter- 
mined on the loss of the finger with which he had offended, 
as the proper punishment of his crime. 

The wife of the husbandman, who had just arrived at the 
field with food for her husband, hearing this dreadful sentence, 
threw herself at the feet of Mahadeo. She represented the 
certain ruin of her family, if her husband should be disabled 
for some months from performing the labors of the farm, and 
besought the Deity to accept two of her fingers, instead of 
one from her husband. Mahadeo, pleased with so sincere a 
proof of conjugal affection, accepted tlie exchange, and or- 
dained that her female posterity, in all future generations, 
should sacrifice two fingers at his temple, as a memorial of the 
transaction, and of their exclusive devotion to the God of the 
Ling. 

* Murresoo, or Mursoo, in the Hala Canara, signifies rude, iincivilizedf 
— Wokul, a husbandman. 
t Diguus vindice nodus. 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



623 



The practice is, accordingly, confined to the supposed pos- 
terity of this sin<,'lo woman, and is not common to the whole 
sect of Murresoo-VVoiiul. I ascertained the actual number of 
families who observed this practice in three successive districts 
throus^li which I afterwards passed, and I conjecture that, 
within the limits of Mysoor, they may amount to about two 
thousand houses. 

The Hill of Sectee, in the talook of Colar, where the giant 
was destroyed, is (according to this tradition) formed of the 
ashes of Busmaa-soor. It is held in particular veneration by 
this sect, as the chief seat of their appropriate sacrifice ; and 
the fact of its containing little or no moisture is held to be a 
miraculous proof that the ashes of the giant continue to 
absorb the most violent and continued rain. This is a re- 
markable example of easy credulity. I have examined the 
mountain, which is of a sloping form, and composed of coarse 
gra.mte." — Hist. Sketches vf the South of India, vol. i. p. 442, 
note. 



The Ship of Heaven, — VII. 1, p. 578. 

1 have converted the Vimana, or self-moving Car of the 
Gods, into a Ship. Captain Wilford has given the history of 
its invention, — and, what is more curious, has attempted to 
settle the geography of the story. 

" A most pious and venerable sage, named Rishi'ce'sa, 
being very far advanced in years, had resolved to visit, before 
he died, all the famed places of pilgrimage ; and, having per- 
formed his resolution, he bathed at last in the sacred water of 
the CaTi, where he observed some fishes engaged in amorous 
play, and reflecting on their numerous progeny, which would 
sport like them in the stream, he lamented the improbability 
of leaving any children : but, since he might possibly be a 
father, even at his great age, he went immediately to the king 
of that country, Hiranyaverna, who had fifty daughters, and 
demanded one of them in marriage. So strange a demand gave 
the prince great uneasiness : yet he was unwilling to incur 
the displeasure of a saint whose imprecations he dreaded j he, 
therefore, invoked Hcri, or Vishnu, to inspire him with a wise 
answer, and told the hoar philosopher, that he should marry 
any one of his daughters, who, of her own accord, should fix 
on him as her bridegroom. The sage, rather disconcerted, 
left the palace ; but, calling to mind the two sons of Aswint, 
he hastened to their terrestrial abode, and requested that they 
would bestow on him both youth and beauty : they imme- 
diately conducted him to Mhimatada, which we suppose to be 
Abydiis, in Upper Egypt; and, when he had bathed in the 
pool of Rupayuuvana, he was restored to the flower of his age, 
with the graces and charms of Ca'ma'de'va. On his return 
to the palace, he entered the secret apartments, called antah- 
pura, where the fifty princesses were assembled ; and they 
were all so transported with the vision of more than human 
beauty, that they fell into an ecstasy, whence the place was 
afterwards named Mohast-han, or Mohana, and is, possibly, the 
same with Mohannan. They no sooner had recovered from 
their trance, than each of them exclaimed, that she would be 
his bride ; and their altercation having brought Hiranyaterna 
into their apartment, he terminated the contest by giving 
them all in marriage to Rishi'ce'sa, who became the father 
of a hundred sons ; and, when he succeeded to the throne, 
built the city of Suc-}iaverddhana, framed vim&nas, or celestial, 
self-moving cars, in which he visited the gods, and made gar- 
dens, abounding in delights, which rivalled the bowers of 
Indra ; but, having obtained the desire which he formed at 
Matoyasangama, or the place where the fish were assembled, 
he resigned the kingdom to his eldest son Hiranyavriddah, 
and returned, in his former shape, to the banks of the Ca'li, 
where he closed his days in devotion." — Wilford. Asiatic 
Researches. 

Diishmanta. In what path of the winds are we now 
journeying ? 

Matali. This is the way which leads along the triple river, 
heaven's brightest ornament, and causes yon luminaries to roll 
in a circle with difl"used beams : it is the course of a gentle 
breeze which supports the floating forms of the gods ; and 
this path was the second step of Vishnu when he confounded 
the proud Bali. 



Dushmanta. The car itself instructs me that we are moving 
over clouds pregnant with showers ; for the circumference of 
its wheels disperses pellucid water. 

* * * 

Dushmanta. These chariot wheels yield no sound ; no dust 
arises from them, and the descent of the car gave me no 
shock. 

Matali. Such is the difference, O King I between thy car 
and that of Indra. — Sacontala. 



The Raining Tree. — VII. 9, p. 579 

The island of Fierro is one of the most considerable of the 
Canaries ; and I conceive that name to be given it upon this 
account, that its soil, not aftbrding so much as a drop of fresh 
water, seems to be of iron ; and, indeed, there is in this island 
neither river, nor rivulet, nor well, nor spring, save that only 
towards the sea-side, there are some wells ; but they lie at 
such a distance from the city, that the inhabitants can make 
no use thereof. But the great Preserver and Sustainer of all 
remedies this inconvenience by a way so extraordinary, that a 
man will be forced to sit down and acknowledge that he gives 
in this an undeniable demonstration of his goodness and in- 
finite providence. 

For in the midst of the island, there is a tree, which is the 
only one of its kind, inasmuch as it hath no resemblance to 
those mentioned by us in this relation, nor to any other known 
to us in Europe, The leaves of it are long and narrow, and 
continue in a constant verdure, winter and summer 5 and its 
branches are covered with a cloud, which is never dispelled, 
but resolved into a moisture, which causes to fall from its 
leaves a very clear water, and that in such abundance, that 
the cisterns, which are placed at the foot of the tree to receive 
it, are never empty, but contain enough to supply both men 
and beasts. — Mandelslo. 

Feyjoo denies the existence of any such tree, upon the au- 
thority of P. Tallandier, a French Jesuit, (quoted in Mem. de 
Trevoux, 2715, art. 97,) who visited the island. ^^ Jlssi no 
dado,'''' he adds, " que este Fcniz de les plantas es ten Jingido 
como el de las aves.'" — Theat. Crit. Tom. ii. Disc. 2, $65. 
What authority is due to the testimony of this French Jesuit 
I do not know, never having seen his book ; but it appears, 
from the undoubted evidence of Glas, that the existence of 
such a tree is believed in the Canaries, and positively affirmed 
by the inhabitants of Fierro itself. 

" There are," says this excellent author, " only three foun- 
tains of water in the whole island ; one of them is called Acof,* 
which, in the language of the ancient inhabitants, signifies 
river ; a name, however, which does not seem to have been 
given it on account of its yielding much water, for in that 
respect it hardly deserves the name of a fountain. More to 
the northward is another called Hapio ; and in the middle of 
the island is a spring, yielding a stream about the thiclcness of 
a man's finger. This last was discovered in the year 1565, 
and is called the Fountain of Anton Hernandez. On account 
of the scarcity of water, the sheep, goats, and swine here do 
not drink in the summer, but are taught to dig up the roots 
of fern, and chew them to quench their thirst. The great 
cattle are watered at those fountains, and at a place where 
water distils from the leaves of a tree. Many writers have 
made mention of this famous tree ; some in such a manner as 
to make it appear miraculous ; others again deny the existence 
of any such tree, among whom is Father Feyjoo, a modern 
Spanish author, in his Theatro Critico. But he, and those 
who agree with him in this matter, are as much mistaken as 
they who would make it appear miraculous. This is the only 
island of all the Canaries which I have not been in ; but I 
have sailed with natives of Hierro, who, when questioned 
about the existence of this tree, answered in the affirmative. 

The author of the History of the Discovery and Conquest 
has given us a particular account of it, which I shall relate 
here at large. "The district in which this tree stands is 
called Tigulahe ; near to which, and in the cliff, or steep 
rocky ascent that surrounds the whole island, is a narrow 
gutter or guHey, which commences at the sea, and continues 
to the summit of the cliff, where it joins or coincides with a 

* In the Azanaga dialect of the Lybian tongue, Aseif signifies a river. 



624 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



valley, which is terminated by the steep front of a rock. On 
the top of this rock grows a tree, called, in the language of 
the ancient inhabitants, Garse, i. e. Sacred or Holy Tree, 
which, for many years, has been preserved sound, entire, and 
fresh. Its leaves constantly distil such a quantity of water 
as is sufficient to furnish drink to every living creature in 
Hierro ; nature having provided this remedy for the drought 
of the island. It is situated about a league and a half from 
the sea. Nobody knows of what species it is, only that it is 
called Til. It is distinct from other trees, and stands by it- 
self; the circumference of the trunk is about twelve spans, 
the diameter four, and in height, from the ground to the top 
of the highest branch, forty spans : The circumference of all 
the branches together is one hundred and twenty feet. The 
branches are thick and extended; the lowest commence 
about the height of an ell from the ground. Its fruit resembles 
the acorn, and tastes something like the kernel of a pine nut, 
but is softer and more aromatic. The leaves of this tree 
resemble those of the laurel, but are larger, wider, and more 
curved ; they come forth in a perpetual succession, so that 
the tree always remains green. Near to it grows a thorn, 
which fastens on many of its branches, and interweaves with 
them ; and, at a small distance from the Garse, are some 
beech-trees, bresos, and thorns. On the north side of the 
trunk are two large tanks, or cisterns, of rough stone, or 
rather one cistern divided, each half being twenty feet square, 
and sixteen spans in depth. One of these contains water for 
the drinking of the inhabitants, and the other that which they 
use for their cattle, washing, and such like purposes. Every 
morning, near this part of the island, a cloud or mist arises 
from the sea, which the south and easterly winds force 
against the fore-mentioned steep cliff; so that the cloud, 
having no vent but by the gutter, gradually ascends it, and 
from thence advances slowly to the extremity of the valley, 
where it is stopped and checked by the front of the rock 
which terminates the valley, and then rests upon the thick 
leaves and wide-spreading branches of the tree ; from whence 
it distils in drops during the remainder of the day, until it is 
at length exhausted, in the same manner that we see water 
drip from the leaves of trees after a heavy sliower of rain. 
This distillation is not peculiar to the Garse, or Til, for the 
bresos which grow near it likewise drop water ; but their 
leaves being but few and narrow, the quantity is so trifling, 
that, though the natives save some of it, yet they make little 
or no account of any but what distils from the Til ; which, 
together with the water of some fountains, and what is saved 
m the winter season, is sufficient to serve them and their 
flocks. This tree yields most water in those years when the 
Levant, or easterly winds have prevailed for a continuance ; 
for by these winds only the clouds or mists are drawn hither 
from the sea. A person lives on the spot near which this tree 
grov/s, who is appointed by the Council to take care of it and 
its water, and is allowed a house to live in, with a certain 
salary. He every day distributes to each family of the dis- 
trict seven pots or vessels full of water, besides what he gives 
to the principal people of the island." 

Whether the tree which yields water at this present time 
be the same as that mentioned in the above description, I 
cannot pretend to determine, but it is probable there has been 
a succession of them ; for Pliny, describing the Fortunate 
Islands, says, " In the mountains of Ombrion are trees resem- 
bling the plant Ferula, from which water may be procured 
by pressure. What comes from the black kind is bitter, but 
that which the white yields is sweet and palatable." — Glas 's 
History of the Canary Islands. 

Cordeyro {Historia Insulana, lib. ii. c. 5) says, that this 
tree resembles what in other places is called the Til (Tilia,) 
the Linden Tree ; and he proceeds, from these three letters, 
to make it an emblem of the Trinity. The water, he says, 
was called the ^gua Santa, and the tree itself the Santa 
Arvore, — appellations not ill bestowed. According to his 
account the water was delivered out in stated portions. 

There is an account of a similar tree in Cockburne's 
Travels ; but this I believe to be a work of fiction. Bernal 
Diaz, however, mentions one as growing at Naco, in Honduras, 
" Q«e enmitad de la siesta, por redo sol que hiziesse, parecia 
que la somhra del arbol refrescava al corazon, caia del una coma 
rozio muy delgado que confortaim las cabezas.'^ — 206. 

There may be some exaggeration in the accounts of the 



Fierro Tree, but that the story has some foundation I have 
no doubt. The islanders of St. Thomas say, that they have a 
sort of trees whose leaves continually are distilling water. 
(Barbot. in Ckurckle, 405.) It is certain that a dew falls in 
hot weather from the lime, — a fact of which any person may 
easily convince himself. The same property has been ob- 
served in other English trees, as appears by the following 
extract from the Monthly Magazine : — 

" In the beginning of August, after a sunshiny day, the 
air became suddenly misty about six o'clock; I walked, how- 
ever, by the road-side from seven to eight, and observed, in 
many places, that a shower of big drops of water was falling 
under tjie large trees, although no rain fell elsewhere. The 
road and path continued dusty, and the field-gates showed no 
signs of being wetted by the mist. I have often noticed the 
like fact, but have not met with a satisfactory explanation of 
this power in trees to condense mist." 

I am not the only poet who has availed himself of the 
Fierro Tree. It is thus introduced in the Columbus of Car- 
rara, — a singular work, containing, amid many extravagances, 
some passages of rare merit : — 

Ecce autem inspector miri dum devius ignis 
Fertur, in occursum miramagis incidit undoB. 
^quoris in medio diffusi largiter arbor 
Stabat, opaca, ingens, avoque intacia priori, 
Ch-ata quies Mymphis, et grata colentibus umbram 
Alitibus sedes, quarum vox blanda nee ulld. 
Musicus arte canor sylvam resonare docebat. 
Auditor primum ran modulaminis, utque 
Cominus admovit gressum, spectator et Imsit ; 
JVamque videbat, ubi de cortice, deque supernis 
Crinibus, argentum guttatim mitteret humens 
Truncus, et ignaro phieret Jove ; moxque serenus 
In concham caderet subjecti mannoris imher. 
Donee ibi infonteni coUectis undique rivis 
Cresceret, atque ipso jam nan ingratus ab ortu 
Redderet humorem matri, qiuB commodat umbram. 

Dam stiipet et qumrit, cur intemodia possit 
Unda ; per etjibras, virides et serpere rugas, 
Etferri sursum, genio ducente deorsum ; 
Adstitit en JVymphe ; dubitat decernere, JVais, 
Anne Dry as, custos numfontis, an arboris esset ,• 
Vcrius ut credam. Genius sub imagine J^'^ymphm 
Hie locifaerat. Quern prccstantissimus Heros 
Protinus ut vidit, Parce, o pulcherrima, dixit, 
Si miser, et vestras ejectus nuper ad oras 
JVaufragus, idem audax videor fortasse rogando. 
Die age, quas lahi video de stipite, lymphce 
Muntibus anne cadant,per operta foramina ductWy 
Mox trabis irrigum saliant infrondea sursum 
Brackia, ramalesque tubos ; genitalis an alvus 
Umbrosce genitricis alat ; ceu smpe videmus 
Bahama de truncis, stillare electra racemis. 
Pandcre ne grave sit cupienti noscere causam 
Vilia qucB vobis usus miracula fecit. 

Hcec ubi dicta, silet. Turn Virgo ita reddidit ; Hospes 

Quisquis es, {eximium certe prcesentia prodit) 

Deciperis, si forte putas, quas aspicis undas 

Esse satas terrd. ; procul omni a sede remota 

Mira arbos, iini debet sua munera Ccelo. 

Qu& ratione tamcn capiat, quia noscere gestis 

Edicam ; sed dicendis ne tcedia repant, 

Hie locus, hcec eadem, de qucL cantabitur, arbor 

Dat tempestivam blaadis afflatibus umbram .- 

Hie una sedeamxLS ; et ambofontis ad tindam 

Consedere ; dehinc intermittente parumper 

Concentu volucrum, placido sic.incipit ore. 

J^omine Canarice, de qu& tenet Insula nomen 
Virgo fiat, non ore minus, qiLamprmdita rarm 
Laude pudicitice, mirum qua pectore votum 
Clausit, ut esse eadem genitrix ct Virgo cupiret. 
At quia in Urbe satamfuerat sortita parentem 
Ortam rure Patrem, diversis moribus hausit 
Hinc sylvce austeros, teneros hinc Urbis amores 
Scepe ubi visendi studio convenerat Urbes^ 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



625 



Et dare blanditias iiatis et stimrre matres 
Viderat ante fores, ut mater amuvit amari. 
S(£pc iibi rurefuit de npnphis una Diana:, 
Viderat atqiie Beam tluilami consorte carentem, 
Esse Dem similis, nee amari at mater amavit. 
Srd quid agetl cernit fieri non 2)osse quod optat; 
JVun optare tamc-n, cruddlus urit amantcm. 
JVuctis erat medium .- quo nos sumus, hoc erat ilia 
Forte loco, Caloque vidcns splendescere Lunam, 
O Dca, cui triplicis eoneessa potentia regni. 
Farce precor, dixit, si qua; nunc profcro, non sum 
Ansa prius ; quod non posses audire Diana, 
Cum sis Luna potcs ; tenebrcB minuere pudorem. 
Estmihi Virginitas,fateor, re charior omni, 
Jittamen, hoc salv&,f(Ecund<B si quoque Matris 
JVuiiiina misccrem, duplici de nomine quantum 
Jlmbitiosa furem ; eerie non parva voluptas 
Me caperet, coram si qui^ me ludcret infans 
Si mccum gestu, mecum luquerelur ocellis, 
Cumque potest, quaeumque potest, me voce vocaret, 
Cujus et in vultu multum de matre viderem. 
JVi sinit hoe humana tamcn natura licere. 
Fiat qud, ratione potest ; mutarefiguram 
JVil refert, voti compos si deniquefiam. 

Annuit oranti facilis Dea ; Virginc digna 
Et quia voia tulit, Virgo probat. Eligit ergo 
De grege Plantarum ligni qua calibis esset. 
Visa fait Platanus : placet hcec ; si vertat in islam 
Canaria; corpus, sibi tempus in omne faturam 
Tarn caram esse videt, quam sit sua laurea Phcebo. 
J\fec mora, poscenti mtiniLs, ne signa deessent 
Certa dati, movit falcatm cornuafrontis. 
Virginis extcmplo cocpere rigere crtira 
Tenuia vestiri duro praecordia libra, 
Ipsaque miratar, cervix quod eburnca, quantum 
It Cnelo, tantum tendant in Tartara plantw. 
Et jam formosct de Virgine stubat et Arbos 
Jfonformosa minus ; qui toto in corpore pridem 
Par ebori fuerat, candor quoque cortice mansit. 
Sed decrat covjux uxoris moribus wque 
Integer et caelebs, et Virginitatis amator, 
Quo fa:cundaforct ; verum tellure petendus 
JVon hie, ab axefuit. Qaare incorruptus et idem 
Purior e cuiictis stellatm noctis alumnis 
Poscitur Hersophorus, sic Graii nomine dicunt, 
Rorem Itali. Quaeumque die (quis credere posset ?) 
Tamquam ex condicto cum Sol altissimus extat, 
Sydereus conjux nebula velatus amictu 
Labitur hue, nivcisque vmiitam amplectitur alis : 
Quodquefidem superat, parvo post temporafcetum 
Concipit, et parvo post tempore parturit arbor. 
Molle puerperium vis noscere 1 Consulefontcnn, 
Qui nos propter adest, in quo mixtura duorum 
Agnosci posdt, splendet materque patcrque. 
Loitafovet genitrix, compos jam facta cupiti; 
Illius optarat vultu se noscere, noscit ; 
Cemere ludentcm se circum, ludere cernit ; 
Ilium audire nidi matrem quoque voce vocantcm, 
Et matrem sese did dum murmurat, audit. 
JVec modo Virginitas fcecunda est arboris, ips<B 
Sunt quoque faieundcB frondes, quas excutit arbor. 
J\ram simul ac supra latices cecidere tepentes, 
Insuper accessil Phcebei jiamma caloris, 
Concipiunt, pariuntque .• oriturque tenerrimus ales 
JVomine Canarius, qui pene exclusus in auras. 
Tenuis adhuc, ccelique rudis, crudusque Idbori 
Jam super extantes affectat scandere ramos, 
Et frondes, quarum unafuit. J^Tidum inde sub illis 
Collocat adversum Soli, cui pandere pennas 
Et siccare queat ; latet hie, nullctque magistr& 
Arte canit, matrisque replet concentibus aures. 
Adde quod affectus reddit genitricis eosdem, 
Utque puellari genitrix in pectore clausit, 
Hiuc sylvce austeros, teneros hinc Urbis amores, 
Sic amat hie sylvas, tit nonfastidiat Urbes. 
Tccta colit, patiturque hominem, nee divitis avM 
Grande supercilium metuit sylvestris alumnus. 
Inio loco admonitus, vix aulicus incipit esse, 
79 



Jam fit adulator, positum proferre paratus 
In statione vtelos, domini quod vellicet aurem. 

Carrara. Columbus. Lib. iii. pp. 53 — 57. 



JVarerf. — VII. ll,p. 579. 

A very distinguished son of Brahma, named Nared, bears a 
strong resemblance to Hermes or Mercury ;• he was a wise 
legislator, great in arts and in arms, an eloquent messenger of 
the Gods, either to one another or to favored mortals, and a 
musician of exquisite skill. His invention of the Vina, or 
Indian lute, is thus described in the poem entitled Magha: 
" Nared sat watching from time to time his large Vina, which, 
by the impulse of the breeze, yielded notes that pierced suc- 
cessively the regions of his ear, and proceeded by musical 
intervals." — Asiatic Researches, Sir W. Jones. 

The Vina is an -^olian harp. The people of Amboyna 
have a different kind of iEolian instrument, which is thus de- 
scribed in the first account of D'Entrecasteaux's Voyage ; 
" Being on the sea-shore, I heard some wind-instruments, the 
harmony of which, thougli sometimes very correct, was inter- 
mixed with discordant notes that were by no means unpleasing. 
These sounds, which were very musical, and formed fine ca- 
dences, seemed to come from such a distance, that I for some 
time imagined the natives were having a concert beyond the 
roadstead, near a myriameter from the spot where I stood. 
My ear was greatly deceived respecting the distance, for I was 
not a hundred meters from the instrument. It was a bamboo 
at least twenty meters in height, which had been fixed in a 
vertical situation by the sea-side. I remarked between each 
knot a slit about three centimeters long by a centimeter and a 
half wide ; these slits formed so many holes, which, when the 
wind introduced itself into them, gave agreeable and diversi- 
fied sounds. As the knots of this long bamboo were very nu- 
merous, care had been taken to make holes in different direc- 
tions, in order that, on whatever side the wind blew, it might 
always meet with some of them. I cannot convey a better 
idea of the sound of this instrument, than by comparing them 
to those of the Harmonica." — Labillardifre. Voyage in 
Search of La Perouse. 

Nareda, the mythological oflTspring of Saraswati, patroness 
of music, is famed for his talents in that science. So great 
were they, that he became presumptuous ; and emulating the 
divine strains of Krishna, he was punished by having his Vijia 
placed in the paws of a bear, whence it emitted sounds far 
sweeter than the minstrelsy of the mortified musician. I have 
a picture of this joke, in which Krishna is forcing his reluc- 
tant friend to attend to his rough-visaged rival, who is ridicu- 
lously touching the chords of poor JSTareda's Vina, accompa- 
nied by a brother Bruin on the cymbals. Krishna passed 
several practical jokes on his humble and affectionate friend : 
he metamorphosed him once into a woman, at another time 
into a bear. — Moore's Hindu Pantheon, p. 204. 



Tlie sacrifice 

That should, to men and gods, proclaim him Lord 
And Sovereign Master of the vassal World. — VII. 11, p. 580. 

The Raisoo Yug, or Feast of Rajahs, could only be per- 
formed by a monarch who had conquered all the other sove- 
reigns of the world. — Halhed. JVofe to the Life of Crecshna. 



Sole Rajah, the Omnipotent below. — VII. 11, p. 580. 

No person has given so complete a sample of the absurdity 
of Oriental titles as the Dutch traveller Struys, in his enumer- 
ation of " the proud and blasphemous titles of the King of 
Siam, — they will hardly bear sense," says the translator, in 
what he calls, by a happy blunder, " the idiotism of our 
tongue." 

The Alliance, written with letters of fine gold, being full 
of godlike glory. The most Excellent, containing all wise 
sciences. The most Happy, which is not in the world among 
men. The Best and most Certain that is in Heaven, Earth, 
and Hell. The greatest Sweet, and friendly Royal Word; 
whose powerful sounding properties and glorious fame range 



626 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



through the world, as if the dead were raised by a godlike 
power, and wonderfully purged from ghostly and corporal cor- 
ruption. At this both spiritual and secular men admire with 
a special joy, whereas no dignity may be herewith compared. 
Proceeding from a friendly, illustrious, inconquerable, most 
mighty and most high Lord ; and a royal Crown of Gold, 
adorned with nine sorts of precious stones. The greatest, 
clearest, and most godlike Lord of unblamable Souls. The 
most Holy, seeing every where, and protecting Sovereign of 
the city Judia, whose many streets and open gates are 
thronged by troops of men, which is the chief metropolis of 
the whole world, the royal throne of the earth, that is adorned 
with nine sorts of stones and most pleasant valleys. He who 
guides the reins of the world, and has a house more than the 
Gods of fine gold and of precious stones ; they the godlike 
Lords of thrones and of fine gold 3 the White, Red, and 
Sound-tayl'd Elephants, — which excellent creatures are the 
chiefest of the nine sorts of Gods. To none hath the divine 
Lord given, in whose hand is the victorious sword ; who is 
like the fiery-armed God of Battails, to the most illustrious. 

The second is as blasphemous as the first, though hardly 
swells so far out of sense. 

The highest Paducco Syry Sultan, Nelmonam Wel- 
GACA, Nelmochadin Magiviitha, Jouken der eauten 
Allaula fylan. King of the whole world j who makes the 
water rise and flow. A King that is like a God, and shines 
like the sun at noon-day. A King that gives a glance like the 
Moon when it is at full. Elected of God to be worthy as the 
North Star, being of the race and offspring of the great Alex- 
ander J with a great understanding, as a round orb, that tum- 
bles hither and thither, able to guess at the depth of the great 
sea. A King that hath amended all the funerals of the de- 
parted Saints, and is as righteous as God, and of such power, 
that all the world may come and shelter under his wings. A 
King that doth right in all things, as the Kings of old have 
done. A King more liberal than all Kings. A King that 
hath many mines of gold that God hath lent him ; who hath 
built temples half gold and half brass ; sitting upon a throne 
of pure gold, and of all sorts of precious stones. A King of 
the white Elephant, which Elephant is the King of all Ele- 
phants, before vv'hom many thousands of other Elephants must 
bow and fall upon their knees. He whose eyes shine like the 
morning-star. A King that hath Elephants with four teeth, 
red, purple, and pied. Elephants, aij, and a Byytenaques 
Elephant J for which God has given him many and divers 
aorts of apparel wrought with most fine gold, ennobled with 
many precious stones : and, besides these, so many Elephants 
used in battel, having harnesses of iron, their teeth tipt with 
steel, and their harnesses laid over with shining brass. A King 
that has many hundred horses, whose trappings are wrought 
with fine gold, and adorned with precious stones of every sort 
that are found in the universal world where the Sun shines, 
end these shod with fine gold : besides so many hundred horses 
that are used in war of every kind. A King who has all Em- 
porours. Kings, Princes, and Sovereigns in the whole world 
from the rising to the going down of the sun, under subjec- 
tion ; — and such as can obtain his favor are by him promoted 
to great honor ; but, on the contrary, such as revolt, he burns 
with fire. A King who can show the power of God, and 
whatever God has made. 

And so, by this time, I hope you have heard enough of a 
King of Elephants and Horses, though not a word of his 
-Struys. 



The Sacrifice. — VITL p. SSL 

The J3sviamedha, or sacrifice of a horse. Considerable dif- 
ficulties usually attended that ceremony ; for the consecrated 
horse was to be set at liberty for a certain time, and followed 
at a distance by the owner, or his champion, who was usually 
one of his near kinsman j and, if any person should attempt 
to stop it in its rambles, a battle must inevitably ensue ; be- 
sides, as tlie performer of a hundred Aswamedhas became 
equal to the God of the firmament, Indra was perpetually on 
the watch, and generally carried off the sacred animal by 
force or by fraud. — Wilford. Asiat. Res. 

Mr. Halhed gives a very curious account of this remarkable 
sacrifice : — 

" The Ashum-meed-Jugg does not merely consist in the | 



performance of that ceremony which is open to the inspection 
of the world, namely, bringing a horse and sacrificing him j 
but Ashum-meed is to be taken in a mystic signification, as 
implying that the sacrificer must look upon himself to be typi- 
fied in that horse, such as he shall be described, because the 
religious duty of the Ashum-meed-Jugg comprehends all those 
other religious duties, to the performance of which all the 
wise and holy direct all their actions, and by which all the 
sincere professors of every different faith aim at perfection : 
the mystic signification thereof is as follows : 

" The head of that unblemished horse is the symbol of the 
morning 5 his eyes are the sun; his breath the wind; his 
wide-opening mouth is the Bishwaner, or that innate warmth 
which invigorates all the world : his body typifies one entire 
year ; his back paradise ; his belly the plains ; his hoofs this 
earth ; his sides the four quarters of the heavens ; the bones 
thereof the intermediate spaces between the four quarters ; the 
rest of his limbs represent all distinct matter 3 the places where 
those limbs meet, or his joints, imply the months and halves of 
the months, which are called peche (or fortnights) ; his feet 
signify night and day; and night and day are of four kinds. 
1. The night and day of Birhma, 2. The night and day of 
angels, 3. The night and day of the world of the spirits of 
deceased ancestors, 4. The night and day of mortals ; these 
four kinds are typified in his four feet. The rest of his bones 
are the constellations of the fixed stars, which are the twenty- 
eight stages of the moon's course, called the Lunar year : his 
flesh is the clouds ; his food the sand ; his tendons the river ; 
his spleen and his liver the mountains ; the hair of his body 
the vegetables, and his long hair the trees ; the fore part of his 
body typifies the first half of the day, and the hinder part the 
latter half; his yawning is the flash of the lightning, and his 
turning himself is the thunder of the cloud ; his urine repre- 
sents the rain, and his mental reflection is his only speech. 
The golden vessels, which are prepared before the horse is let 
loose, are the light of the day, and the place where those 
vessels are kept is a type of the Ocean of the East ; the silver 
vessels which are prepared after the horse is let loose, are the 
light of the night ; and the place where those vessels are 
kept is a type of the Ocean of the West ; these two sorts 
of vessels are always before and after the horse. The Arabian 
horse, which, on account of his swiftness, is called the Hy, is 
the performer of the journeys of angels ; the Tajee, which is 
of the race of Persian horses, is the performer of the journeys 
of the Kundherps (or good spirits ;) the Wazba, which is of 
the race of the deformed Tazee horses, is the performer of 
the journeys of the Jins (or demons ;) and the Ashoo, which is 
of the race of Turkish horses, is the performer of the journeys 
of mankind. This one horse, which performs these several 
services, on account of his four different sorts of riders, obtains 
the four different appellations. The place where this horse 
remains is the great ocean, which signifies the great spirit of 
Perm-Atma, or the Universal Soul, which proceeds also from 
that Perm-Atma, and is comprehended in the same Perm- 
Atma. The intent of this sacrifice is, that a man should con- 
sider himself to be in the place of that horse, and look upon 
all these articles as typified in himself; and, conceiving the 
Atma (or divine soul) to be an ocean, should let all thought 
of self be absorbed in that Atma." — Halhed, from Darul 
Shekuh. 

Compare this specimen of Eastern sublimity with the de- 
scription of the horse in Job ! Compare it also with the ac- 
count of the Bengal horses, in the very amusing work of 
Captain Williamson, — " which said horses," he says, " have 
generally Roman noses, and sharp, narrow foreheads, much 
white in their eyes, ill-shaped ears, square heads, thin necks, 
narrow chests, shallow girths, lank bellies, cat hams, goose 
rumps, and switch tails," — Oriental Spo7-ts, vol. ii. p. 206. 



Tlie bowl that in its ?) 



— VIIL5,p. 58L 



The day and night are here divided into four quarters, each 
of six hours, and these again into fifteen parts, of twenty-four 
minutes each. For a chronometer they use a kind of dish of 
thin brass, at the bottom of which there is a little hole ; this 
is put into a vessel with water, and it runs full in a certain 
time. They begin their first quarter at six in the morning. 
They strike the quarters and subdivisions of time with a 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



627 



wooden hammer, upon a flat piece of iron or steel, of about 
ten inclies in diameter, which is called a garnial, and gives a 
pretty smart sound, which can be heard at some distance. 
The quarters are first struck, and then as many times as the 
brass dish has run full in that quarter. None but the chief 
men of a district are allowed to have a garnial, and still they 
( may not strike the first division of the first quarter, which is 
a privilege reserved to the nabob alone. Those who attend 
at these clocks must be of the Bramin cast. — Stavorinus. 



Lo! the tme-taper*s fiame, ascending slow, 
I Creeps up its coil. — VIII. 7, p. 582. 

They make a sort of paste of the dust of a certain sort of 
wood, (the learned and rich men of sandal, eagle-wood, and 
others that are odoriferous,) and of this paste they make 
sticks of several sorts, drawing them through a hole, that they 
may be of an equal thickness. They commonly make them 
one, two, or three yards long, about the thickness of a goose- 
quill, to burn in the pagods before their idols, or to use like a 
match to convey fire from one thing to another. These sticks 
or ropes they coil, beginning at the centre, and so form a 
spiral, conical figure, like a fisherman's M'heel, so that the last 
circle shall be one, two, or three spans in diameter, and will 
last one, two, or three days, or more, according as it is in 
thickness. There are of them in the temples that last ten, 
twenty, and thirty days. This tiling is hung up by the centre, 
and is lighted at the lower end, whence the fire gently and 
insensibly runs round all the coil, on which there are generally 
five marks, to distinguish the five parts of the night. This 
method of measuring time is so exact and true, that tliey 
Bcarce ever find any considerable mistake in it. The learned 
travellers, and all others, who will rise at a certain hour to 
follow their business, hang a little weight at the mark that 
shows the hour they have a mind to rise at, which, when the 
fire comes thitlier, drops into a brass basin set under it; and 
so the noise of it falling awakes them, as our alarum-clocks 
ido. — Gemelli Careri. 



^t noon the massacre begun, 
And night closed in before the work of death was done. 
VIII. 11, p. 582. 

Of such massacres the ancient and modern history of the 
East supply but too many examples. One may suffice : 

After the surrender of the Ilbars Khan, Nadir prohibited 
his soldiers from molesting the inhabitants ; but their rapacity 
was more powerful than their habits of obedience, or even 
their dread of his displeasure, and they accordingly began to 
plunder. The instant Nadir heard of their disobedience, he 
ordered the offenders to be brought before him, and the officers 
were beheaded in his presence, and the private soldiers dis- 
missed with the loss of their ears and noses. The execu- 
tioners toiled till sunset, when he commanded the headless 
trunks with their arms to be carried to the main-guard, and 
tliere to be exposed for two days, as an example to others. I 
was present the whole time, and saw the wonderful hand of 
God, which employs such instruments for the execution of his 
divine vengeance ; although not one of the executioners was 
satisfied with Nadir Shah, yet nobody dared to disobey his 
commands: — a father beheaded his son, and a brother 
a brother, and yet presumed not to complain. — Abdul 

KuilREM. 



Behold his lowly home. 
By yonder broad-bough' d Plane o'ershaded. — IX. 3, p. 582. 

The plane-tree, that species termed the Platanus Orientalis, 
is commonly cultivated in Cashmire, where it is said to arrive 
at a greater perfection than in other countries. This tree, 
I which, in most parts of Asia, is called the Chinur, grows to 
jthe size of an oak, and has a taper, straight trunk, with a 
silver-colored bark; and its leaf, not unlike an expanded 
hand, is of a pale green. When in full foliage, it has a grand 
and beautiful appearance : and, in the hot weather, it affords 
a refreshing shade. — Forster. 



TJie marriage boioer. — IX. 4, p. 583, 

The Pandal is a kind of arbor or bower raised before the 
doors of young married women. They set up two or three 
poles, seven or eight foot in length, round which the leaves 
of the Pisan-tree, the symbol of joy, are entwined. These 
poles support others that are laid crossways, which are cov- 
ered with leaves, in order to form a shade. The Siriperes are 
allowed to set up no more than three pillars, and the infringing 
of this custom would be sufficient to cause an insurrection. — 
A. Roger, in Picart. 



The marketrflag. — IX. 6, p. 583. 

Many villages have markets on particular days, when not 
only fruits, grain, and the common necessaries of life are sold, 
butoccasionally manufactures of various descriptions. These 
markets are well known to all the neighboring country, being 
on appointed days of the week, or of the lunar month ; but, 
to remind those, who may be travelling, of their vicinity to the 
means of supply, a naugaarah, or large kettle-drum, is beat 
during the forenoon, and a small flag, usually of white linen, 
with some symbolical figures in colors, or with a colored 
border, is hoisted on a very long bamboo, kept upright by 
means of ropes fastened to pins driven into the ground. The 
flags of Hindoo villages are generally square and plain ; 
those of the Mussulman's towns are ordinarily triangular, and 
bear the type of their religion, viz. a doubie-bladed cimeter. 
— Oriental Sports, vol, i. p. 100. 



There, from the intolerable heat, 
Tlie buffaloes retreat.— IX. 7, p. 583. 

About noon, in hot weather, the buffalo throws herself into 
tlie water or mud of a tank, if there be one accessible at a 
convenient distance ; and leaving nothing above water but her 
nose, continues there for five or six hours, or until the heat 
abates. — Buchanan. 

In the hot season, when M-ater becomes very scarce, the 
buffaloes avail themselves of any puddle they may find among 
the covers, wherein they roll and rub themselves, so as in a 
very short time to change what was at first a shallow flat, into 
a deep pit, sufficient to conceal their own bulk. The humid- 
ity of the soil, even when the water may have evaporated, is 
particularly gratifying to these animals, which cannot bear 
heat, and which, if not indulged in a free access to the water, 
never thrive. — Oriental Sports, vol. i. p. 259. 

The buflFalo not only delights in the water, but will not 
thrive unless it have a swamp to wallow in. There, rolling 
themselves, they speedily work deep hollows, wherein they 
lay immersed. No place seems to delight the buffalo more 
than the deep verdure on the confines of jiels and marshes, 
especially if surrounded by tall grass, so as to afford conceal- 
ment and shade, while the body is covered by the water. In 
such situations they seem to enjoy a perfect ecstasy, having, 
in general, nothing above the surface but their eyes and nos- 
trils, the horns being kept low down, and, consequently, en- 
tirely hidden from view. — Oriental Sports, vol. ii. p. 49. 

Captain Beaver describes these animals as to be found 
during the heat of the day in the creeks and on the shores of 
the Island of Bulama, almost totally immerged in water, little 
more than their heads appearing above it. 



Mount Meru. — X. p. 584. 

According to the orthodox Hindus, the globe is divided 
into two hemispheres, both called Meru; but the superior 
hemisphere is distinguished by the name of Sumeru, which 
implies beauty and excellence, in opposition to the lower 
hemisphere, or Citmerw, which signifies the reverse: hy Meru, 
without any adjunct, they generally mean tne higher or 
northern hemisphere, which they describe, with a profusion of 
poetic imagery, as the seat of delights ; while they represent 
Cumeru as the dreary habitation of demons, in some parts 
intensely cold, and in others so hot that the waters are con- 
tinually boiling. In strict propriety, Mei-ti denotes the pole 
and the polar regions ; but it is the celestial north pole round 



628 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



which they place the gardens and metropolis of Indra, while 
Yama holds his court in the opposite polar circle, or the sta- 
tion of jlsuras, who warred witli the Suras, or gods of the 
firmament. — Wilford. Adatic Researches. 

In the Vaya Purdna, we are told, that the water or OgJia 
of the ocean, coming down from heaven like a stream of 
Amrita upon Meru, encircles it through seven channels, for 
the space of 84,000 Yojanas, and then divides into four 
streams, which, falling from the immense height of Meru, 
rest themselves in four lakes, from which they spring over the 
mountains through the air, just brushing the summits. This 
wild account was not unknown in the west ; for this passage 
is translated almost verbally, by PUny and Q,. Curtius, in 
speaking of the Ganges. Cam magna fragore ipsius statim 
foiitis Ganges erumpit, et magnorum montium juga recto alveo 
stringit, et uhl primum mollis planities contingat, in quodam lacu 
hospitatur. The words in Italics are from Pliny, (vi. c. 18,) 
the others from Curtius, (viii. c. 9.) — Capt. Wilford. As. 
Res. vol. viii. p. 322. Calcutta edition. 

The Swarganga, or Mandacini, rises from under the feet of 
Veeshno, at the polar star, and, passing through the circle of 
the moon, it falls upon the summit of Meru ; where it divides 
into four streams, flowing towards the four cardinal points. 
These four branches pass through four rocks, carved into the 
shape of four heads of different animals. The Ganges, run- 
ning towards the south, passes through a cow's head : to the 
west is a horse's head, from which flows the Chaashu or Oxus ; 
towards the east, is the head of an elephant, from which flows 
the river Sita ; and to the north, is a lion's head, from which 
flows the Bhadrasama. — Wilfokd. ^s. iJes. v. viii. p. 317. 
Calc. edition. 

The mountains through which the Ganges flows at Hurd- 
war, present the spectator with the view of a grand natural 
amphitheatre ; their appearance is rugged, and destitute of 
verdure ; they run in ridges and bluff points, in a direction 
east and west: at the back of the largest range rise, towering 
to the clouds, the loftymountainsofHimmalayah, whose tops 
are covered with perpetual snow, which, on clear days, present 
a most sublime prospect. Theirlarge jagged masses, broken 
into a variety of irregular shapes, added to their stupendous 
height, impress the mind with an idea of antiquity and 
grandeur, coeval with the creation ; and the eternal frost with 
which they are incrusted, appears to preclude the possibility 
of mortals ever attaining their summit. 

In viewing this grand spectacle of nature, the traveller may 
easily yield his assent to, and pardon the superstitious venera- 
tion of, the Hindoo votary, who, in the fervor of his imagi- 
nation, assigns the summit of these icy regions as the abode 
of the great Mahadeo, or First Cause, where, seated on liis 
throne of ice, he is supposed to receive the homage of the 
surrounding universe. — Franklin's Life of George Thomas, 
p. 41. 

At Gangottara, three small streams fall down from im- 
passable snowy precipices, and unite into a small basin below, 
which is considered by the Hindus as the source of the 
Ganges, over which, at that place, a man can step. Tliis is 
one of the five Tirthas, or stations, more eminently sacred 
than the rest upon this sacred river. Narayana Shastri, who 
gave this account, had visited it. — Buchanan. 

The mountain, called Cailasa Cungri, is exceedingly lofty. 
On its summit there is a Bhowjputr tree, from the root of 
which sprouts or gushes a small stream, which the people say 
is the source of the Ganges, and that it comes from Vaicont'ha, 
or Heaven, as is also related in the Pur^nas ; although this 
source appears to the sight to flow from the spot where grows 
this Bhowjputr tree, which is at an ascent of some miles ; and 
yet above this there is a still loftier summit, where no one 
goes : but I have heard that, on that uppermost pinnacle, 
tliere is a fountain or cavity, to which a Jogui somehow pene- 
trated, wlio, having immersed his little finger in it, it became 
petrified. — Purana Poora. Asiatic Researches. 

Respecting the true source of the Ganges much uncer- 
tainty still prevails. In vain one of the most powerful sove- 
reigns of Indostan, the emperor Acbar, at the close of the 
sixteenth century, sent a number of men, an army of dis- 
coverers, provided with every necessary, and the most potent 
recommendations, to explore the course of the mighty river 
which adorned and fertilized tlie vast extent of his dominions. 
They were not able to penetrate beyond the famous Mouth of 



the Cow. This is an immense aperture, in a ridge of the 
mountains of Thibet, to which the natives of India have given 
this appellation, from the fancied or real resemblance of the 
rocks which form the stupendous chasm, to the mouth of an 
animal esteemed sacred throughout Indostan from the remotest 
antiquity. From this opening, the Ganges, precipitating itself 
into a large and deep basin at the foot of the mountains, forms 
a cataract, which is called Gangotri. The impracticability of 
scaling these precipitous rocks, and advanchig beyond this 
formidable pass, has prevented the tracing whence this rushing 
mass of water takes its primary rise. — Wilcocke, JVbte to 
Stavorinus. 



The Urth of Ganges. — X. 2, p. 584. 

I am indebted to Sir William Jones's Hymn to Ganga, for 
this fable : — 

" Above the stretch of mortal ken, 

On bless'd Cailasa^s top, where every stem 
Glow'd with a vegetable gem, 
Mahe'sa stood, the dread and joy of men ; 
While Polrvati, to gain a boon, 
Fix'd on his locks a beamy moon, 
And hid his frontal eye in jocund play, 
With reluctant sweet delay. 
All nature straight was lock'd in dim eclipse, 
Till Brahmans pure, with hallow'd lips, 
And warbled prayers, restored the day ; 
When Ganga from his brow, by heavenly fingers press'd, 
Sprang radiant, and, descending, graced the caverns of the' 
west." 

The descent of the Ganges is related in the Ramayuna, 
one of the most celebrated of the sacred books of the Bramins. 
This work the excellent and learned Baptist missionaries at 
Serampore are at this time employed in printing and trans- 
lating ; one volume has arrived in Europe, and from it I ara 
tempted here to insert an extract of considerable lengt^i. The 
reader will be less disposed to condemn the fictions of Kehama 
as extravagant, when he compares them with this genuine 
specimen of Hindoo fable. He will perceive, too, that no 
undue importance has been attributed to the Horse of the 
Sacrifice in the Poem. 

" The son of Kooshika having, in mellifluous accents, re- 
lated these things to Rama, again addressed the descendant of 
Kakootitha. Formerly, O hero ! there was a king of Hyood- 
hya, named Sugura, the Sovereign of Men, virtuous, desirous ■ 
of children, but childless ; O Rama ! the daughter of Vidur- - 
bhakeshinee, virtuous, attached to truth, was his chief con- - 
sort, and the daughter of Urishtunemi, Soomuti, unequalled i 
in beauty, his second spouse. With these two consorts, the ) 
great king, going to Himuvat, engaged in sacred austerities . 
on the mountain in whose sacred stream Bhrigoo constantly -i 
bathed. A hundred years being completed, the sage Bhrigoo, , 
clothed with truth, rendered propitious by his austerities, , 
granted him this blessing : O sinless One ! thou shalt obtain i 
a most numerous progeny ; thy fame, O chief of men ! will be ' 
unparalleled in the universe. From one of thy consorts, O ') 
sire ! shall spring the founder of thy race, and, from the other, ^ 
sixty thousand sons. 

" The queens, pleased, approached the chief of men who : 
was thus speaking, and, with hands respectfully joined, asked, , 
O Brahman ! who shall be the one son, and who shall pro- 
duce the multitude ? We, O Brahman ! desire to hear. 
May thy words be verified. Hearing their request, the most 
virtuous Bhrigoo replied in these admirable words : Freely say 
which of these favors ye desire, whether the one, founder of 
the family, or the multitude of valiant, renowned, energetic 
sons. O Rama ! son of Rughoo, Keshinee hearing the words 
of the sage, in the presence of the king accepted the one son, 
the founder of the family ; and Soomuti, sister of Soopurna, 
accepted the sixty thousand sons, active and renowned. The 
king, O son of Rughoo ! having respectfully circumambulated 
the sage, bowing the head, returned with his spouses to his 
own city. 

" After some time had elapsed, his eldest spouse Keshinee |i 
bore to Sugura a son, named Usumunja ; and Soomuti, O } 
chief of men ! brought forth a gourd, from which, on its being 
opened, came forth sixty thousand sons. These, carefully 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



brougth up by their nurses, in jars filled with clarified butter, 
in process of time attained the state of youth j * and, after a 
long period, tlie sixty thousand sons of Sugura, possessed of 
youth and beauty, became men. The eldest son, the offspring 
of Sugura, O son of Rughoo ! chief of men, seizing children" 
would throw them into the waters of the Suruyoo, and sport 
himself with their drowning pangs. This evil person, the 
distresser of good men, devoted to the injury of the citizens, 
was by his lather expelled from the city. The son of Usu- 
niunja, the heroic Ungshooman, in conversation courteous and 
art'ectionate, was esteemed by all. 

" After a long time, O chief of men ! Sugura formed the 
steady resolve, • I will perform a sacrifice.' Versed in the 
Veda, the king, attended by his instructors, having determined 
the things relating to the sacrificial work, began to prepare 
the sacrifice. 

" Hearing the words of Vishwa-mitra, the son of Rughoo, 
highly gratified in the midst of the story, addressed the sage, 
bright as the ardent flame. Peace he to Thee : I desire, O 
Brahman, to hear this story at large, how my predecessors 
performed the sacrifice. Hearing his words, Vishwa-mitra 
smiling, pleasantly replied to Rama : ' Attend, then, O 
Rama! to the story of Sugura, repeated at full length. 
Where the great mountain Himuvat, tlie happy father-in-law 
of Shunkura, and the mountain Bindhyo, overlooking the 
country around, proudly vie with each other, there was the 
sacrifice of the great Sugura performed. That land, sacred 
and renowned, is the habitation of Rakshuses. At the com- 
mand of Sugura, the hero Ungshooman, O Rama ! eminent in 
archery, a miglity charioteer, was the attendant (of the 
horse.f) While the king was performing the sacrifice, a ser- 
pent, assuming the form of Ununta, rose from the earth, and 
seized the sacrificial horse. The sacrificial victim being 
stolen, all the priests, O son of Ruglioo ! going to the king" 
said, Thy consecrated horse has been stolen by some one fn 
the form of a serpent. Kill the thief, and bring back the 
sacred horse. This interruption in the sacrifice portends evil 
to us all. Take those steps, O king ! which may lead to the 
completion of the sacrifice. Having heard the advice of his 
instructors, the king, calling his sixty thousand sons into the 
assembly, said, I perceive that the Rakshuses have not been 
to this great sacrifice. A sacrifice of the Nagas is now per- 
forming by the sages, and some god, in the form of a serpent, 
has stolen the devoted horse. Whoever he be, who, at tlie 
time of the Deeksha, has been the cause of this afllictive 
circumstance, this unhappy event, whetiier he be gone to 
Patala, or whether he remain in the waters, kill him, O sons ! 
and bring back my victim. May success attend you, O my 
sons ! At my command traverse the sea-girt earth, dio-o-in<r 
with mighty labor, till you obtain a sight of the horse ; "each 
one piercing the earth to the depth of a yojuna, go you in 
search of him who stole the sacred horse. Being consecrated 
by the Deeksha, T, with my grandson, and my teachers, will 
remain with the sacrifice unfinished, till I again behold my 
devoted horse.' 

" Thus instructed by their father Sugura, they, in obedi- 
ence to him, went with cheerful mind, O Rama ! to the bot- 
tom of the earth. The strong ones, having gone over the earth 
without obtaining a sight of the horse, each of these mighty 
men pierced the earth to the depth of a yojuna, with their 
mighty arm, the stroke of which resembled the thunderbolt. 
jPierced by Kooddalas,t by Purighas,§ by Shoolas,|| by Moos- 
hulas,Tr and Shuktis,** the earth cried out as in darkness. 
Then arose, O Raghuva ! a dreadful cry of the serpents, the 
U.^ooras, the Rakshuses, and other creatures, as of beings 
suffering death. These angry youths, O son of Rughoo ! dug 
the earth even to Patala, to the extent of sixty thousand 
yojunas. Thus, O prince ! the sons of the sovereign of men 
traversed Jumboodweepa, enclosed with mountains, di 



629 



wherever they came. The gods now, with tlie Gundhurwas 
and the great serpents, struck with astonishment, went all of 
them to Bruhma, and, bowing even to the foot of the o-reat 
spirit, they, full of terror, with dejected countenance, ad- 
dressed him thus : ' O Deva ! O divine One ! the whole 
earth, covered with mountains and woods, with rivers and 
continents, the sons of Sugura are now digging up. By these 
digging, O Bruhma ! the mightiest beings are killed. This is 
the stealer of our consecrated victims ; by this (fellow) our 
horse was taken away.' Thus saying, these sons of Sugura 
destroy all creatures. O most Powerful ! having heard this, 
it becomes thee to interpose, before these horse-seekers de- 
stroy all thy creatures endued with life." 

Thus far the thirty-second Section, describing the digging 
of earth. 



* The Hindoos call a child Bala, till it attains the age of fifteen years 
old. From the sixteenth year to the fiftieth, Youvuna, or a state of youth, 
is supposed to continue. Each of these has several subdivisions ; and in 
certain cases the period admits of variation, as appears to have been the 
case here, 

t Tlie horse intended for the sacrifice. 

t The Indian spade, formed like a hoe, with a short handle. 

§ An instrument said to be formed like an ox's yoke. 

II A dart, or spear. ^ A club, or crow. 

** A weapon now unknown. 



SECTION THIRTY-THREE. 

" Hearing the words of the gods, the divine Bruhma replied 
to these affrighted ones, stupefied with the Yuma-like power 
of these youtlis : The wise Vasoo-deva, the great Madhuva, 
who claims the earth for his spouse, that divine one, residing 
in the form of Kupila, supports the earth. By the fire of his 
wrath he will destroy the sons of the king. This piercing of 
the earth must, I suppose, be perceived by him, and he will 
(eff"ect) the destruction of the long-sighted sons of Sugura. 
The thirty-three gods,* enemy subduing, having heard the 
words of Bruhma, returned home full of joy. The sons of 
Sugura highly renowned, thus digging the earth, a sound was 
produced resembling that of conflicting elements. Having 
encompassed and penetrated the whole earth, the sons of 
Sugura, returning to their flither, said. The whole earth has 
been traversed by us ; and all the powerful gods, the Danu- 
vas, the Ruckshuses, the Pishachas, the serpents, and hydras 
aref killed ; but we have not seen thy horse, nor the thief. 
What shall we do.? Success be to thee: be pleased to de- 
termine what more is proper. The virtuous king, having 
heard the words of his sons, O son of Rughoo ! angrily re- 
plied, Again commence digging. Having penetrated the earth, 
and found the stealer of the horse, having accomplished your 
intention, return again. Attentive to the words of their 
father, the great Sugura, the sixty tlionsand descended to 
Patala, and tliere renewed their digging. There, O chief of 
men ! they saw the elephant of that quarter of the globe, in 
size resembling a mountain, with distorted eyes, supportin<^ 
with his head this earth, with its mountains and forests, cov- 
ered with various countries, and adorned with numerous 
cities. When, for the sake of rest, O Kakootsha! the great 
elephant, through distress, refreshes himself by moving his 
head, an earthquake is produced. 

" Having respectfully circumambulated this mighty ele- 
phant, guardian of the quarter, they, O Rama ! praising him, 
penetrated into Patala. After they had thus penetrated the' 
east quarter, they opened their way to the south. Here they 
saw that great elephant Muha-pudma, equal to a huge moun- 
tain, sustaining the earth with his head. Beholding him, they 
were filled with surprise ; and, after the usual circumambu- 
lation, the sixty thousand sons of the great Sugura perforated 
the west quarter. In this these mighty ones saw the elephant 
Soumunusa, of equal size. Having respectfully saluted him, 
and inquired respecting his health, these valiant ones digging, 
arrived at the north. In this quarter, O chief of Ruo-l,oo'''the''y 
saw the snow-M-hite elephant Bhudra, supporting^this earth 
with his beautiful body. Circumambulating him, they again 
penetrated the earth, and proceeding north-east to that" re- 
nowned quarter; all the sons of Sugura, through an-^er 
pierced the earth again. There all those magnanimous ones, 
terrible in swiftness, and of mighty prowess, saw Kupila, 
Vasodeva the eternal,! and near him the horse feeding. 
Filled, O son of Rughoo ! with unparalleled joy, they all, 
knowing him to be the stealer of the horse, with eyes starting 
with rage, seizing their spades and their langulas, and even 

* The eight Vusoos, the eleven Roodras, the twelve Adityas, and Ush- 
winee and Koomara. 

t This seems to have been spoken by these youths in the warmth of 
their imagination. 

J The Hindoos say, that Kupila, or Vasoo-deva, is an incarnation of 
Vishnoo, whom they describe as having been thus partially incarnate, 
twenty-four times. 



630 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



trees and stones, ran towards him full of wrath, calling out. 
Stop, stop ! thou art the stealer of our sacrificial horse : Thou 
stupid one, know that we who have found thee are the sons 
of Rughoo. Kupila, filled with excessive anger, uttered from 
his nostrils a loud sound, and instantly, O Kakoostha ! by 
Kupila of immeasurable power, were all the sons of Sugura 
turned to a heap of ashes." 

Thus far the thirty-third Section, describing the interview 
with Kupila. 

SECTION THIRTY-FOUR. 

" O son of Rughoo! Sugura, perceiving that his sons had 
been absent a long time, thus addressed his grandson, illus- 
trious by his own might : Thou art a hero, possessed of science, 
in prowess equal to thy predecessors. Search out the fate of 
thy paternal relatives, and the person by whom the horse was 
stolen, that we may avenge ourselves on these subterraneous 
beings, powerful and great. Take thy cimeter and bow, O 
beloved one ! and finding out thy deceased paternal relatives, 
destroy my adversary. The proposed end being thus accom- 
plished, return. Bring me happily through this sacrifice. 

" Thus particularly addressed by the great Sugura, TJngshoo- 
man, swift and powerful, taking his bow and cimeter, depart- 
ed. Urged by the king, the chief of men traversed the sub- 
terraneous road dug by his great ancestors. There the mighty 
one saw the elephant of the quarter, adored by the gods, the 
Danuvas and Rukshuses, the Pishachas, the birds and tlie ser- 
pents. Having circumambulated him, and asked concerning 
his welfare, Ungshooman inquired for his paternal relatives, 
and the stealer of the sacred victim. The mighty elephant of 
the quarter hearing, replied, O son of Usumunja ! thou wilt 
accomplish thine intention, and speedily return with the horse. 
Having heard this, he, with due respect, inquired, in regular 
succession, of all the elephants of the quarters. Honored by 
all these guardians of the eight sides of the earth, acquainted 
with speech, and eminent in eloquence, he was told, Thou 
wilt return with the horse. Upon this encouraging declara- 
tion, he swiftly went to the place where lay his paternal rel- 
atives, the sons of Sugura, reduced to a heap of ashes. (At 
this sight) the son of Usumunja, overwhelmed with sorrow on 
account of their death, cried out with excess of grief. In this 
state of grief, the chief of men beheld, grazing near, the sacri- 
ficial horse. The illustrious one, desirous of performing the 
funeral obsequies of these sons of the king, looked around for 
a receptacle of water, but in vain. Extending his eager view, 
he saw, O Rama ! the sovereign of birds, the uncle of Iiis pa- 
ternal relatives, Soopurna, in size resembling a mountain. 
Vinuteya, of mighty prowess, addressed him thus : Grieve not, 
O chief of men! this slaughter is approved by the universe. 
These great ones were reduced to ashes by Kupila of un- 
measurable might. It is not proper for thee, O wise one ! to 
pour common water upon these ashes. Gunga, O chief of 
men ! is the eldest daughter of Himuvut. With her sacred 
stream, O valiant one ! perform the funeral ceremonies for 
thine ancestors. If the purifier of tlie world flow on them, 
reduced to a heap of ashes, these ashes being wetted by Gunga, 
the illuminator of the world, the sixty thousand sons of thy 
grandfather will be received into heaven. May success attend 
thee ! Bring Gunga to the earth from the residence of the gods. 
If thou art able, O chief of men ! possessor of the ample share, 
let the descent of Gunga be accomplished by thee. Take the 
horse, and go forth. It is thine, O hero ! for to complete the 
great paternal sacrifice. 

" Having heard these words of Soopurna, Ungshooman, the 
heroic, speedily seizing the horse, returned. Then, O son of 
Rughoo ! being come to the king, who was still performing the 
initiatory ceremonies, he related to him the whole afi"air, and 
the advice of Soopurna. 

" After hearing the terror-inspiring relation of Ungshooman, 
the king finished the sacrifice, in exact conformity to the tenor 
and spirit of the ordinance ; having finished his sacrifice, the 
sovereign of the earth returned to his palace. The king, how- 
ever, was unable to devise any way for the descent of Gunga 
from heaven : after a long time, unable to fix upon any method, 
he departed to heaven, having reigned thirty thousand years. 

" Sugura having, O Rama ! paid the debt of nature, tlie 
people chose Ungshooman, the pious, for tlieir sovereign. 
Ungshooman, O son of Ruglioo ! was a very great monarch. 



His son was called Dwileepa. Having placed him on the 
throne, he, O Raguva ! retiring to the pleasant top of Mount 
Himuvut, performed the most severe austerities. This excel- 
lent sovereign of men, illustrious as the immortals, was ex- 
ceedingly desirous of the descent of Gunga 3 but not obtaining 
his wish, the renowned monarch, rich in sacred austerities, 
departed to heaven, after having abode in the forest sacred to 
austerities thirty-two thousand years. Dwileepa, the highly 
energetic, being made acquainted with the slaughter of his pa- 
ternal great-uncles, was overwhelmed with grief j but was still 
unable to fix upon a way of deliverance. How shall I accom- 
plish the descent of Gunga .'' How shall I perform the fune- 
ral ablutions of these relatives ? How shall I deliver them ? 
In such cogitations was liis mind constantly engaged. While 
these ideas filled the mind of the king, thoroughly acquainted 
with sacred duties, there was born to him a most virtuous son, 
called Bhugee-rutha. The illustrious king Dwileepa per- 
formed many sacrifices, and governed the kingdom for thirty 
thousand years ; but, O chief of men ! no way of obtaining 
the deliverance of his ancestors appearing, he, by a disease, 
discharged the debt of nature. Having installed his own son 
Bhugee-rutha in the kingdom, the lord of men departed to the 
paradise of Indra, through the merits of his own virtuous 
deeds. 

" The pious, the royal sage, Bhugee-rutha, O son of Rug- 
hoo '. was childless. Desirous of offspring, yet childless, 
the great monarch intrusted the kingdom to the care of his 
counsellors ; and, having his heart set on obtaining the descent 
of Gunga, engaged in a long course of sacred austerities upon 
the mountain Gokurna. With hands erected, he, O son of 
Rughoo ! surrounded in the hot season with five fires,* ac- 
cording to the prescribed ordinance in the cold season lying in 
water J and in the rainy season exposed to the descending 
clouds, feeding on fallen leaves, with his mind restrained, and 
his sensual feelings subdued, this valiant and great king con- 
tinued a thousand years in the practice of the most severe 
austerities. The magnanimous monarch of mighty arm having 
finished this period, the divine Bruhma, the lord of creatures, 
the supreme governor, was highly pleased ; and with the gods, 
going near to the great Bhugee-rutha, employed in sacred 
austerities, said to him, I am propitious. O performer of 
sacred vows ! ask a blessing. The mighty, the illustrious 
Bhugee-rutha, with hands respectfully joined, replied to the 
sire of all, O divine one ! if thou art pleased with me, if the 
fruit of my austerities may be granted, let all the sons of Su- 
gura obtain water for their funeral rites. The ashes of the 
great ones being wetted by the water of Gunga, let all my an- 
cestors ascend to the eternal heaven. f Let a child, O divine 
one ! be granted to us, that our family become not extinct. O 
God ! let this great blessing be granted to the family of Iksh- 
wakoo. The venerable sire of all replied to the king thus re- 
questing in the sweetest and most pleasing accents : Bhugee- 
rutha, thou mighty charioteer, be this great wish of thine heart 
accomplished. Let prosperity attend thee, thou increaser of 
the family of Ikshwakoo ! Engage Hura, O king ! to receive 
(in her descent) Gunga the eldest daughter of the mountain 
Himuvut. The earth, O king ! cannot sustain the descent of 
Gunga, nor beside ShooleeJ do I behold any one, O king ! 
able to receive her. The creator having thus replied to the 
king, and spoken to Gunga, returned to heaven with Macroots 
and all the gods." 

Thus far the thirty-fourth Section, describing the gift of the 
blessing to Bughee-rutha. 



SECTION THIRTY-FIVE. 

" Pruja-puti being gone, Bhugee-rutha, O Rama ! with up- ^ 
lifted arm, without support, without a helper, immovable a 
dry tree, and feeding on air, remained day and night on the 
tip of his great toe upon the affiicted earth. A full year hav- 
ing now elapsed, the husband of Coma, and the lord of ani- 
mals, who is reverenced by all worlds, said to the king, I am 
propitious to thee, O chief of men ! I will accomplish thy 

* One towards each of the cardinal points, and the sun over his headf 
towards which he was constantly looking. 

t The heaven from which (here can he no fnll. 
:J: Sliivii, from Shoola, the spear which he held. 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



631 



utmost desire. To him the sovereign replied, O Hura, receive 
Guiigu ! Bhurga,* thus addressed, replied, I will perform thy 
desire ; I will receive her on my head, the daughter of the 
mountain. Muhesliwra then, mounting on the summit of 
Himuvut, addressed Gunga, the river flowing in the ether, 
saying, Descend, O Gunga ! The eldest daughter of Himuvut, 
adored by the universe, having heard the words of the lord of 
Ooma, was filled with anger, and assuming, O Rama ! a form 
of amazing size, witii insupportable celerity, fell from the air 
upon the auspicious head of Shiva. The goddess Gunga, ir- 
resistible, thought within herself, I will bear down Shunkura 
with my stream, and enter Patala. The divine Hura, tJie 
three-eyed God, was aware of her proud resolution, and, being 
angry, determined to prevent her design. The purifier, fallen 
upon the sacred head of Roodra, was detained, O Rama ! in 
the recesses of the orb of his Juta, resembling Himuvut, and 
was unable, by the greatest efforts, to descend to the earth. 
From the borders of the orb of his Juta, the goddess could not 
obtain regress, but wandered there for many series of years. 
Thus situated, Bhugee-rutha beheld her wandering there, and 
again engaged in severe austerities. 

" With these austerities, O son of Rughoo ! Hura being 
greatly pleased, discharged Gunga towards the lake Vindoo. 
In her flowing forth seven streams were produced. Three of 
these streams,! beautiful, filled with water conveying happi- 
ness, Hladinee,J Pavunee,$ and Nulinee,|| directed their 
course eastward ; while Soochukohoo,ir Seeta,** and Sind- 
hoo,tt three pellucid mighty rivers, flowed to the west. The 
seventh of these streams followed king Bhugee-rutha. The 
royal sage, the illustrious Bhugee-rutha, seated on a resplen- 
dent car, led the way, while Gunga followed. Pouring down 
from the sky upon the head of Shunkura, and afterwards 
upon the earth, her streams rolled along with a shrill sound. 
The earth was willingly chosen by the fallen fishes, the turtles, 
the porpoises, and the birds. The royal sages, the Gundhur- 
vas, the Yukshas, and the Siddhas, beheld her falling from the 
ether to the earth ; yea, the gods, immeasurable in power, 
filled with surprise, came thither with chariots resembling a 
city, horses, and elephants, and litters, desirous of seeing the 
wonderful and unparalleled descent of Gunga into the world. 
Irradiated by the descending gods, and the splendor of their 
ornaments, the cloudless atmosphere shone with the splendor 
of a hundred suns, while, by the uneasy porpoises, the ser- 
pents, and the fishes, the air was coruscated as with lightning. 
Througli the white foam of the waters, spreading in a thousand 
directions, and the flights of water-fowl, the atmosphere ap- 
peared filled with autumnal clouds. The water, pure from 
defilement, falling from the head of Shunkura, and thence to 
the earth, ran in some places with a rapid stream, in others in 
a tortuous current ; here widely spreading, there descending 
into caverns, and again spouting upward j in some places it 
moved slowly, stream uniting with stream; while repelled 
in others, it rose upwards, and again fell to the earth. Know- 
ing its purity, the sages, the Gundhurvas, and the inhabitants 
of the earth, touched tlie water fallen from the body ofBhuva.J| 
Those who, through a curse, had fallen from heaven to earth, 
having performed ablution in this stream, became free from 
sin ; cleansed from sin by this water, and restored to happi- 
ness, they entered the sky, and returned again to heaven. 
By this illustrious stream was the world rejoiced, and by per- 
forming ablution in Gunga, became free from impurity. 

" The royal sage, Bhugee-rutha, full of energy, went before, 
seated on his resplendent car, while Gunga followed after. 
The gods, O Rama ! with the sages, the Dityas, the Danuvas, 
the Rakshuses, the chief Gundhurvas, and Yukshas, with the 
Kinnuras, the chief serpents, and all the Upsuras, together, 
with aquatic animals, following the chariot of Bhugee-rutha, 
attended Gunga. Whither king Bhugee-rutha went, thither 
went the renowned Gunga, the chief of streams, the destroyer 
of all sin. 

"After this, Gunga, in her course, inundated this sacrificial 



* Shiva. 

T Literally, three Gun^as. Wherever a part of Gunga flows, it is digni- 
fied with her name : thus the Hindoos say, the Gunga of Pouyaga, &c. 

t The river of joy. § Tlie purifier. 

■' II Abounding with water. IT Beautiful eyed. 

"White. tt Probably the Indus. 

tt Shiva, the existent. 



ground of the great Juhnoo of astonishing deeds, who was 
then offering sacrifice. Juhnoo, O Rughuva ! perceiving her 
pride enraged, drank up the whole of the water of Gunga — 
a most astonishing deed ! At this the gods, the Gundhurvas, 
and the sages, exceedingly surprised, adored the great Juh- 
noo, the most excellent of men, and named Gunga the daugh- 
ter of this great sage. 

" The illustrious chief of men, pleased, discharged Gunga 
from his ears. Having liberated her, he, recognizing the 
great Bhugee-rutha, the chief of kings, then present, duly 
honored him, and returned to the place of sacrifice. From 
this deed Gunga, the daughter of Jahnoo, obtained the name 
Jahnuvee. 

" Gunga now went forward again, following the chariot of 
Bhugee-rutha. Having reached the sea, the chief of streams 
proceeded to Patala, to accomplish the work of Bughee-rutha. 
The wise and royal sage, having, with great labor, conducted 
Gunga thither, there beheld his ancestors reduced to ashes. 
Then, O chief of Rughoo's race, that heap of ashes, bathed 
by the excellent waters of Gunga, and purified from sin, the 
sons of the king obtained heaven. Having arrived at the sea, 
the king, followed by Gunga, entered the subterraneous re- 
gions, where lay the sacred ashes. After these, O Rama ! 
had been laved by the water of Gunga, Bruhma, the lord of 
all, thus addressed the king: O chief of men ! thy predeces- 
sors, the sixty thousand sons of the great Sugura, are all de- 
livered by thee ; and the great and perennial receptacle of 
water, called by Sugura's name, shall henceforth be univer- 
sally known by the appellation of Sagura.* As long, O king ! 
as the waters of the sea continue in the earth, so long shall 
the sons of Sugura remain in heaven, in all the splendor of 
gods. 

" This Gunga, O king ! shall be thy eldest daughter, known 
throughout the three worlds (by the name) Bhagee-ruthee ; 
and because she passed through the earth, the chief of rivers 
shall be called Gunga ] throughout the universe. (She shall 
also be) called Triputhaga, on account of her proceeding for- 
ward in three different directions, watering the three worlds. 
Tims is she named by the gods and sages. She is called 
Gunga, O sovereign of the Vashyas ! on account of her flow- 
ing through Gang ; J and her third name, O thou observer of 
vows ! is Bhagee-rutliee. O, accomplished one ! through 
affection to thee, and regard to me, these names will remain ; 
as long as Gunga, the great river, shall remain in the world, 
so long shall thy deathless fame live throughout the universe. 

lord of men ! O king ! perform here the funeral rites of all 
thine ancestors. Relinquish thy vows,§ O king ! this devout 
wish of theirs was not obtained by thine ancestors highly re- 
nowned, chief among the pious ; not by Ungshooman, unpar- 
alleled in the universe, so earnestly desiring the descent of 
Gunga, O beloved one ! was this object of desire obtained. 
Nor, O possessor of prosperity ! O sinless one! could she bs 
(obtained) by thine illustrious father Dwileepa, the Rajurshi 
eminently accomplished, whose energy was equal to that of a 
Muhurshi, and who, established in all the virtues of the 
Kshutras, in sacred austerities equalled myself. This great 
design has been fully accomplished by thee, O chief of men ! 
Thy fame, the blessing so much desired, will spread through- 
out the world. O subduer of enemies ! this descent of Gunga 
has been eff'ected by thee. This Gunga is the great abode of 
virtue ; by this deed thou art become possessed of the divini- 
ty itself. In this stream constantly bathe thyself, O chief of 
men ! Purified, O most excellent of mortals ! be a partaker 
of the fruit of holiness ; perform the funeral ceremonies of all 
thy ancestors. May blessings attend thee, O chief of men ! 

1 return to heaven. 

" The renowned one, the sovereign of the gods, the sire of 
the universe, having thus spoken, returned to heaven. 

" King Bhugee-rutha, the royal sage, having performed the 
funeral ceremonies of the descendants of Sugura, in proper 
order of succession, according to the ordinance ; the renowned 
one having also, O chief of men ! performed the customary 

* Sagura is one of the most common names for the sea which the 
Hindoos have. 

t From the root gum, signifying motion. 

X Tlie earth. 

§ The end of thy vows is accomplished, therefore now relinquish thy 
vows of being an ascetic. 



632 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



ceremonies, and purified himself, returned to his own city, 
where he governed the kingdom. Having (again,) O Rag- 
hura ! possessed of abundant wealth, obtained their king, his 
people rejoiced ; their sorrow was completely removed ; they 
increased in wealth and prosperity, and were freed from 
disease. 

" Thus, O Rama ! has the story of Gunga been related at 
large by me. May prosperity attend thee : may every good 
be thine. The evening is last receding. He who causes tJiis 
relation, securing wealth, fame, longevity, posterity, and 
heaven, to be heard among the Brahmans, the Kshutriyas, or 
the otlier tribes of men, his ancestors rejoice, and to him are 
the gods propitious : and he who hears tliis admirable story 
of the descent of Gunga, ensuring long life, shall obtain, O 
Kakootstha ! all the wishes of his heart. All his sins shall 
be destroyed, and his life and fame be abundantly prolonged." 

End of the thirty-fifth Section, describing the descent of 
Gunga, 

Parvati. — X. % J). 584. 

All the Devatas, and other inhabitants of the celestial re- 
gions, being collected at the summons of Bhagavat, to arrange 
the ceremonials of the marriage of Seeva and Parvati, first 
came Brahma, mounted on his goose, with the Reyshees at his 
stirrup ; next Veeshnu, riding on Garoor, his eagle, with the 
chank, the chakra, the club, and the pedive in his hands ; 
Eendra also, and Yama, and Cuvera, and Varuna, and the 
rivers Ganga and Jumna, and the seven Seas. The Gandarvas 
also, and Apsaras, and Vasookee, and other serpents, in obe- 
dience to the commands of Seeva, all dressed in superb chains 
and habits of ceremony, were to be seen in order amidst the 
crowded and glittering cavalcade. 

And now, Seeva, after the arrival of all the Devetas, and 
the completion of the preparations for the procession, set out, 
in the utmost pomp and splendor, from the mountain Kilas. 
His third eye flamed like the sun, and the crescent on his 
forehead assumed the form of a radiated diadem ; his snakes 
were exchanged for chains and necklaces of pearls and rubies, 
his ashes for sandal and perfume, and his elephant's skin for 
a silken robe, so that none of the Devetas in brilliance came 
near his figure. The bridal attendants now spread wide 
abroad the carpet of congratulation, and arranged in order the 
banquet of bliss. Nature herself assumed the appearance of 
renovated youth, and the sorrowing universe recalled its long- 
forgotten happiness. The Gandarvas and Apsaras began their 
melodious songs, and the Genes and Keeners displayed the 
magic of their various musical instruments. The earth and 
its inhabitants exulted with tongues of glorification and tri- 
umph ; fresh moisture invigorated the withered victims of 
time ; a thousand happy and animating conceptions inspired 
the hearts of the intelligent, and enlightened the wisdom of the 
thoughtful : The kingdom of external forms obtained gladness 5 
the world of intellect acquired brightness. The dwellers upon 
earth stocked the casket of their ideas with the jewels of de- 
light, and reverend pilgrims exchanged their beads for pearls. 
The joy of those on earth ascended up to heaven, and the 
Tree of the bliss of those in Heaven extended its auspicious 
branches downwards to the earth. The eyes of the Devetas 
flamed like torches on beholding these scenes of rapture, and 
the hearts of the just kindled like touchwood on hearing these 
ravishing symphonies. Thus Seeva set off like a garden in 
full blow, and paradise was eclipsed by his motion. — Mau- 
TuicEjf rojn the Seeva-Pooraun. 



Thereat the heart of the Universe stood still. — X. 2, p. 584. 

Long after these lines were written, I was amused at find- 
ing a parallel passage in a sermon : 

Quando Sol parou ds vozes de Josiii, aconteceram no mundo 
todas aquellas consequencias, que •paraudo movimento celeste, 
consideram os Filosofos. As plantas por todo aquelle tempo nam 
creceram ; as calidades dos elementos, e dos niiztos, nam se alte- 
raram ; a geragam e corrupgam com que se conserva mundo, 
cessou ; as artes e os cxerciclos de hum e outro Emisferio estive- 
ram suspensos ; os Antipodas nam trabalhavam, porque, Ihesfal- 
tava a luz, os de cima cangados de tarn, comprido dia deizavam 
trabalho ; estes pasmados de verem Sol que se nam movia ; 



aquelles tambem pasmados de esperarem pelo Sol, que nam che- 
gava, cuidavam que se acabdra para elles a lui ; imaginavam 
que se acabava mundo .• tudo era lagrimas, tudo assombros, tudo 
horrores, tudo confusoens, — Vie yra, Sermoens, tom. ix. p. 505. 



Surya. — X. 16, p. 586. 

Su7-ija, the Sun. The poets and painters describe his car as 
drawn by seven green horses, preceded by Arun, or the Dawn, 
who acts as his charioteer, and followed by thousands of genii, 
worshipping him, and modulating his praises. Surya is be- 
lieved to have descended frequently from his car in a human 
shape, and to have left a race on earth, who are equally re- 
nowned in the Indian stories with the Heliadai of Greece. It 
is very singular that his two sons, called Aswinaa or Aswini- 
cumarau, in the Dnal, should be considered as twin brothers, 
and painted like Castor and Pollux ; but they have each the 
character of iEsculapius among the gods, and are believed to 
have been born of a nymph, who, in the form of a mare, was 
impregnated with sunbeams. — Sir W. Jones. 

That sun, O daughter of Ganga ! than which nothing is 
higher, to which nothing is equal, enlightens the summit of 
the sky — with the sky enlightens the earth — with the earth 
enlightens the lower worlds ; enlightens the higher worlds, 
enlightens other worlds 5 — it enlightens the breast, — en- 
lightens all besides the breast. — Sir W. Jones, from the Veda. 



Forgetful of his Dragon foe X. 16, p. 586. 

Rd'hu was the son of Cas^yapa and Dity, according to some 
authorities ; but others represent Sinhica' (perhaps the sphinx) 
as his natural mother. He had four arms ; his lower parts 
ended in a tail like that of a dragon ; and his aspect was grim 
and gloomy, like the darkness of the chaos, whence he had also 
the name of Tamas. He was the adviser of all mischief among 
the Daily as, who had a regard for him ; but among the Z)e'- 
vetas it was his chief delight to sow dissension ; and when the 
gods had produced the amrit, by churning the ocean, he dis- 
guised himself like one of them, and received a portion of it ; 
but the Sun and Moon having discovered his fraud, Vishnu 
severed his head and two of his arms from the rest of liis 
monstrous body. That part of the nectareous fluid which he 
had time to swallow secured his immortality : his trunk and 
dragon-like tail fell on the mountain of Malaya, where Mini, a 
Brahman, carefully preserved them by the name of CeHu ; and, 
as if a complete body had been formed from them, like a dis- 
membered polype, he is even said to have adopted Ce^tu as liis 
own child. The head, with two arms, fell on the sands of 
Barbara, where PiH'he^na's was then walking with Sinhlca', 
by some called his wife : They carried the Daitya to their 
palace, and adopted him as their son ; whence he acquired the 
name of Paite he'nasi. This extravagant ftible is, no doubt, 
astronomical ; Ra^hu and Ce'tu being clearly the iiodcs, or what 
astrologers call the head and tail of the dragon. It is added, 
that they appeased Vishnu, and obtained re-admission to the 
firmament, but were no longer visible from the earth, their 
enlightened sides being turned from it ; that Ra'hu strives, 
during eclipses, to wreak vengeance on the Sun and Moon, 
who detected him ; and that CeHu often appears as a comet, 
a whirlwind, a fiery meteor, a water-spout, or a column of 
sand. — WiLFOED. Asiatic Researches. 



Suras. — X. 18, p. 586. 

The word Sura, in Sanscrit, signifies both wine and true 
wealth ; hence, in the first Chand of the Ramayan of Valmic, 
it is expressly said that the Devetas, liaving received the Sura, 
acquired the title of Suras, and the Daityas that of Asura, 
from not having received it. The Veda is represented as that 
wine and true wealth. — Paterson. Asiat. Researches. 



Camdeo.—X. 19, p. 586. 

Eternal Cama ! or doth Smara bright. 
Or proud Ananga, give the more delight ? 

Sir W. Jones. 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



633 



He was the son of Maya, or the general attracting' power, 
and married to Retty, or Jlffection, and his bosom friend is 
Bessent, or Spring. He is represented as a beautiful youth, 
sometimes conversing with his mother and consort in the 
midst of his gardens and temples j sometimes riding by moon- 
light on a parrot or lory, and attended by dancing girls or 
nymphs, the foremost of whom bears his colors, which are a 
fish on a red ground. His favorite place of resort is a large 
tract of country round Agra, and principally the plains of 
Malra, where Krishen also, and the nine Gopia, who are 
clearly the Apollo and Muses of the Greeks, usually spend the 
night with music and dance. His bow of sugar-cane or 
flowers, with a string of bees, and his five arrows, each 
pointed with an Indian blossom of a heating quality, are alle- 
gories equally new and beautiful. 

It is possible that the words Dipuc and Cupid, which have 
the same signification, may have the same origin ; since we 
know tliat the old Hetrurians, from whom great part of the 
Roman language and religion was derived, and whose system 
had a near affinity with that of the Persians and Indians, used 
to write their lines alternately forwards and backwards, as 
furrows are made by the plough. — Sir W. Jones. 

Mahadeva and Parvati were playing with dice at the ancient 
game of Chaturanga, when tlicy disputed, and parted in wrath ; 
the goddess retiring to the forest of Gauri, and the god repair- 
ing to Cushadwip. They severally performed rigid acts of 
devotion to the Supreme Being ; but the fires which they kin- 
dled blazed so vehemently as to threaten a general conflagra- 
tion. The Devas, in great alarm, hastened to Brahma, who 
led them to Mahadeva, and supplicated him to recall his con- 
sort J but the wrathful deity only answered. That she must 
come by her own free choice. They accordingly despatched 
Ganga, the river goddess, who prevailed on Parvati to return 
to him, on condition that his love for her should be restored. 
The celestial mediators then employed Cama-Deva, who 
wounded Mahadeva with one of his flowery arrows ; but the 
angry divinity reduced him to ashes with a flame from his eye. 
Parvati soon after presented herself before him in the form of 
a Cirati, or daughter of a mountaineer, and, seeing him en- 
amored of her, resumed her own sjiape. In the place where 
they were reconciled, a grove sprang up, which was named 
Camavana ; and tlie relenting god, in the character of Ca- 
meswara, consoled the afflicted Reti, the widow of Cama, by 
assuring her that she should rejoin her husband when he 
should be born again in the form of Pradyumna, son of 
Crishna, and should put Sambara to death. This favorable 
prediction was in due time accomplished, and Pradyumna 
having sprung to life, he was instantly seized by the demon 
Sambaro, who placed him in a chest, which he throw into the 
ocean \ but a large fish, wliich had swallowed tlie chest, was 
caught in a net, and carried to the palace of a tyrant, where 
the unfortunate Reti had been compelled to do menial service. 
It was her lot to open the fish, and seeing an infant in the 
chest, she nursed him in private, and educated him, till he 
had sufficient strength to destroy the malignant Sambara. He 
had before considered Reti as his mother ; but the minds of 
them both being irradiated, the prophecy of Mahadeva was 
remembered, and the God of Love was again united with the 
Goddess of Pleasure. — Wilford. Asiatic Researches. 



Eating his very core of life away. — XI. 5, p. 5S8. 

One of the wonders of this country is the Jiggerkhar, (or 
liver-eater.) One of this class can steal away the liver of an- 
other by looks and incantations. Other accounts say, that, by 
looking at a person, he deprives him of his senses, and then 
steals from him somctldng resembling the seed of a pomegran- 
ate, which he liides in tlie calf of his leg. The Jiggcrlihar 
throws on the fire the grain before described, which tliercupon 
spreads to the size of a dish, and he distributes it amongst his 
fellows, to be eaten 5 which ceremony concludes the life of 
the fascinated person. A Jiggerkhar is able to communicate 
his art to another, which he does by learning him the incan- 
tations and by making him eat a bit of the liver-cake. If any 
one cut open the calf of the magician's leg, extract the grain, 
and give it to the afflicted person to eat, he immediately 
recovers. Those Jiggerkhar s are mostly women. It is said, 
moreover, that they can bring intelligence from a great dis- 
80 



tanco in a short space of time ; and if they are thrown into a 
river, with a stone tied to them, they nevertheless will not 
sink. In order to deprive any one of this wicked power, they 
brand his temples, and every joint in his body, cram his eyes 
with salt, suspend him for forty days in a subterraneous 
cavern, and repeat over him certain incantations. In this 
state he is called Detche-reh. Although, after having under- 
gone this discipline, he is not able to destroy the liver of any 
one, yet he retains the power of being able to discover another 
Jiggerkhar, and is used for detecting those disturbers of man- 
kind. They can also cure many diseases, by administering a 
potion, or by repeating an incantation. Many other marvel- 
lous stories are told of these people. — Ayeen Acbery. 

An Arabian old woman, by name Meluk, was thrown in 
prison, on a charge of having bewitched, or, as they call it, 
eaten the heart of a young native of Ormuz, who had lately, 
from being a Christian, turned Mahommcdan. The cause of 
offence was, that the young man, after keeping company some 
time with one of her daughters, had forsaken her : he him- 
self, who was in a pitiable condition, and in danger of his 
life, was one of her accusers. This sort of witchcraft, which 
the Indians call eating the heart, and which is what we call 
bewitching as sorcerers do by their venomous and deadly 
looks, is not a new thing, nor unheard of elsewhere ; for 
many persons practised it formerly in Sclavonia, and the 
country of the Triballes, as we learn from Ortelius, who took 
the account from Pliny, who, upon the report of Isigones, 
testifies, that this species of enchantment was much in use 
among these people, and many others whom he mentions, as 
it is at present here, especially among the Arabians who in- 
habit the western coast of the Persian gulf, where this art 
is common. The way in which they do it is only by the eyes 
and the mouth, keeping the eyes fixed steadily upon the person 
whose heart they design to eat, and pronouncing, between 
their teeth, I know not what diabolical words, by virtue of 
which, and by the operation of the devil, the person, how hale 
and strong soever, falls immediately into an unknown and 
incurable disease, which makes him appear phthisical, con- 
sumes him little by little, and at last destroys him. And this 
takes place faster or slower as the heart is eaten, as they say ; 
for these sorcerers can either eat the whole or a part only ; 
that is, can consume it entirely and at once, or bit by bit, as 
they please. The vulgar give it this name, because they 
believe that the devil, acting upon the imagination of the 
witch when she nmtters her wicked words, represents invis- 
ibly to her the heart and entrails of the patient, taken out of 
his body, and makes her devour them. In which these 
wretches find so deliglitful a task, that very often, to satisfy 
their appetite, without any impulse of resentment or enmity, 
they will destroy innocent persons, and even their nearest 
relatives, as there is a report that our prisoner killed one of 
her own daughters in this manner. 

This was confirmed to me by a similar story, which 1 heard 
at Ispahan, from the mouth of P. Sebastian de Jesus, a Por- 
tuguese Augustinian, a man to be believed, and of singular 
virtue, who was prior of their convent when I departed. He 
assured me, that, in one of the places dependent upon Portu- 
gal, on the confines of Arabia Felix, 1 know not whether it 
was at Blascate or at Ormuz, an Arab having been taken up 
for a similar crime, and convicted of it, for he confessed the 
fact, the captain, or governor of the place, who was a Portu- 
guese, that he might better understand the truth of these 
black and devilish actions, of which there is no doubt in this 
country, made the sorcerer be brought before him before he 
was led to his punishment, and asked him, if he could eat the 
inside of a cucumber without opening it, as well as the heart 
of a man ? The sorcerer said yes ; and, in order to prove it, 
a cucumber v/as bronglit : he looked at it, never touching it, 
steadily for some time, with his usual enchantments, and 
then told the captain he had eaten the whole inside ; and 
accordingly when it was opened, nothing was found but the 
rind. This is not impossible ; for the devil, of whom they 
make use in these operations, having, in the order of nature, 
greater power than all inferior creatures, can, M-ith God's 
permission, produce these eff'ects, and others more mar- 
vellous. 

The same father told me, that one of these sorcerers, 
whether it was the same or not I do not know, having been 
taken for a similar offence, was asked if he could eat the 



634 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



heart of the Portuguese captain ? and he replied no ; for the 
Franks had a certain thing upon the breast, which covered 
them like a cuirass, and was so impenetrable, that it was 
proof against all his charms. This can be nothing else but 
the virtue of baptism, the armor of the faith, and the privi- 
leges of the sons of the church, against which the gates of hell 
cannot prevaiL 

To return, however, to my first subject : — This witch of 
Combru made some difficulty at first to confess her guilt ; but 
seeing herself pressed with threats of death, and being led, in 
fact, to the public square, where I saw her with the sick 
young man, she said, that though she had not been the cause 
of his complaint, perhaps she could cure it, if they would let 
her remain alone with him, in his house, without interrup- 
tion ; by which she tacitly confessed her witchcraft : for it is 
held certain in these countries, that these wicked women can 
remove the malady which they have caused, if it be not come 
to the last extremity. And of many remedies which they use 
to restore health to the sufl'erers, there is one very extraor- 
dinary, which is, that the witch casts something out of her 
mouth, like the grain of a pomegranate, which is believed to 
be a part of the heart she had eaten. The patient picks it up 
immediately, as part of his own intestines, and greedily swal- 
lows it ; and by this means, as if liis heart was replaced in 
his body, he recovers by degrees his health. 1 dare not as- 
sure you of these things as certainly true, not having myself 
seen them, surpassing as they do the course of nature. If 
they are as is said, it can be only in appearance, by the illu- 
sions of the devil ; and if the afflicted recover actually their 
health, it is because the same devil ceases to torment them. 
Without dwelling longer upon these curious speculations, — 
the witch having given hopes that she would cure the patient, 
the officers promised that she should receive no injury, and 
they were both sent home ; but an archer was set over her as 
a guard, that she might not escape. — Pietro Della Valle. 



The Calls. — XI. 6, p. 588. 

The Calls and Pandaris are the protectresses of cities ; 
each city has its own. They address prayers to these tutelary 
divinities, and build temples to them, offering to them blood 
in sacrifice, and sometimes human victims. These objects of 
worship are not immortal, and they take their name from the 
city over which they preside, or from the form in which they 
are represented. They are commonly framed of a gigantic 
stature, having several arms, and the head surrounded with 
flames; several fierce animals are also placed under their 

feet. — SONNERAT. 



Sani, the dreadful Ood, who rides abroad 
Upon the King of the Ravens. — XI. 6, p. 588. 

Major Moor has a cvu-ious remark upon this subject : — 
" Sani being among the astrologers of India, as well as with 
their sapient brethren of Europe, a planet of malignant as- 
pects, the ill-omened raven may be deemed a fit Vahan for 
such a dreaded being. But this is not, I think, a sufficient 
reason for the conspicuous introduction of the raven into the 
mythological machinery of the Hindu system, so accurate, so 
connected, and so complete in all its parts ; although the 
investigations that it hath hitherto undergone have not fully 
developed or reached such points of perfection. Now let me 
ask the reason, why, both in England and in India, the raven 
is so rare a bird ? It breeds every year, like the crow, and is 
much longer lived ; and while the latter bird abounds every 
where, to a degree bordering on nuisance, a pair of ravens, 
for they are seldom seen singly or in trios, are scarcely found 
duplicated in any place. Perhaps, take England or India 
over, two pair of ravens will not be found, on an average, in 
the extent of five hundred or a thousand acres. I know not, 
for I write where I have no access to books, if our naturalists 
have sought the theory of this ; or whether it may have first 
occurred to me, which it did while contemplating the char- 
acter and attributes of Sani, that the raven destroys its young ; 
and if this notion be well founded, and on no other can I ac- 
count for the rareness of the annual-breeding, long-lived raven, 
we shall at once see the propriety of symbolizing it with 



Saturn, or Kronos, or Time, devouring or destroying his owa., 
offspring." — Moor's Hindu Pantheon, p. 311. | 

" It is remarked by Naturalists, that young ravens are for- 
saken before they are fledged ; and therefore they would j 
starve, if Providence had not appointed that the scraps of j 
raw meat dropped round the nest should engender maggots and 
worms which serve to support them till they are in a condi- 
tion to rove for food. And thus it is he feedeth the ravens." i 
From an old Masaiine. \ 



A thousand eyes toere quenched in endless night 
To form that magic globe. — XI. 8, p. 588. 

A similar invention occurs in Dr. Beaumont's Psyche, one 
of the most extraordinary poems in our language. I am far 
from claiming any merit for such inventions, which no man 
can value more cheaply, — but such as it is, I am not be- 
holden for it to this forgotten writer, whose strange, long, but 
by no means uninteresting work I had never read till after -, 
two editions of Kehama were printed : — ' 

A stately mirror's all-enamell'd case 

The second was ; no crystal ever yet 
Smiled with such pureness : never ladies' glass 

Its owner flattered with so smooth a cheat. 
Nor could Narcissus' fount with such delight 
Into his fair destruction him invite. 

For He in that and self-love being drown'd, 

Agenor from him pluck'd his doting eyes, 
And, shuffled in her fragments, having found 

Old Jezabels, he stole the dog's due prize. 
Goliah's staring bacins too he got. 
Which he with Pharaoh's all together put. 

But not content with these, from Phaeton, 

From Joab, Icarus, Nebuchadnezzar, 
From Philip and his world-devouring son, 

From Sylla, Catiline, Tully, Pompey, Caesar, 
From Herod, Cleopatra, and Sejanus, 
From Agrippina and Domitianus, 

And many surly stoics, theirs he puU'd ; 

Whose proudest humors having drained out, 
He blended in a large and polish'd mould ; 

Which up he fill'd with what from heaven he brought. 
In extract of those looks of Lucifer, 
In which against his God he breathed war. 

Then to the North, that glassy kingdom, where 

Establish'd frost and ice forever reign. 
He sped his course, and meeting Boreas there, 

Pray'd him this liquid mixture to restrain. 
When lo ! as Boreas oped his mouth and blew 
For his command, the slime all solid grew. 

Thus was the mirror forged, and contain'd 

The vigor of those self-admiring eyes 
Agenor's witchcraft into it had strain'd ; 

A dangerous juncture of proud fallacies ; 
Whose fair looks so inamored him, that he. 
Thrice having kiss'd it, named it Philanty. 

Inchanted Psyche ravish'd was to see 

The Glass herself upon herself reflect 
With trebled majesty. The sun, when he 

Is by Aurora's roseat fingers deck'd. 
Views not his repercussed self so fair 
Upon tlie eastern main, as she did here. 



Be true unto yourselves. — XII. 3, p. 590. 

The passage in which Menu exhorts a witness to speak 
the truth is one of the few sublime ones in his Institutes. 
" The soul itself is its own witness ; the soul itself is its own 
refuge ; offend not thy conscious soul, the supreme internal 
witness of men ! — The sinful have said in their hearts. None 
see us. Yes, the gods distnictly see them, and so does the 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



635 



spirit witliin their breasts Tlio guardian deities of the fir- 
mament, of the earth, of the waters, of the human heart, of 
the moon, of the sun, and of fire, of punislnnent after death, of 
the winds, of night, of both twilights, and of justice, perfectly 
know the state of all spirits clothed with bodies — O friend to 
virtue ! that supreme Spirit, johich thou bellevest one and the 
same with thyself, resides in thy bosom perpetually, and is an 
all-knowing inspector of thy goodness or of thy wickedness. 
If thou beest not at variance, by speaking falsely, with Yama, 
the subduer of all, with Vaivaswata the punisher, with that 
frcat Divinity who dwells in thy breast, — go not on a pil- 
grimage to the river Ganga, nor to the plains of Curu, for thou 
hast no need of expiation. — Ch. viii. pp. 84, 85, 86. 91, 93. 



The Aunnay Birds. — XII. 6, p. 590. 

The Aunnays act a considerable part in the history of the 
Nella Rajah, an amusing romance, for a translation of which 
we are indebted to Mr. Kindcrsley. They are milk-white, 
and remarkable for the gracefulness of their walk. 



The Bannian Tree. — XIII. 5, p. 591. 

The Bm-ghut, or Bannian, often measures from twenty-four 
to thirty feet in girth. It is distinguished from every other 
tree hitherto known, by the very peculiar circumstance of 
throwing out roots from all its branches. These, being pen- 
dent, and perfectly lax, in time reach the ground, which they 
penetrate, and ultimately become substantial props to the very 
massy horizontal boughs, which, but for such a support, must 
either be stopped in their growth, or give way, from their own 
weight. Many of these quondam roots, changing their out- 
ward appearance from a brown, rough rind to a regular bark, 
not unlike that of the beech, increase to a great diameter. 
They may be often seen from four to five feet in circumfer- 
ence, and in a true perpendicular line. An observer, ignorant 
of their nature, might think them artificial, and that they had 
been placed for the purpose of sustaining the boughs from 
which they originated. They proceed from all the branches 
indiscriminately, whether near or far removed from the 
ground. They appear like new swabs, such as are in use on 
board ships : however, few reach sufficiently low to take a 
hold of the soil, except those of the lower branches. I have 
Been some do so from a great height, but they were tiiin, and 
did not promise well. Many of the ramifications pendent from 
the higher boughs are seen to turn round the lower branches, 
but without any obvious effect on either ; possibly, however, 
they may derive sustenance even from that partial mode of 
communication. The height of a full-grown Bannian may be 
from sixty to eighty feet ; and many of them, I am fully con- 
fident, cover at least two acres. Their leaves are similar to, 
ibut rather larger than those of the laurel. The wood of the 
|trunk is used only for fuel; it is light and brittle; but the 
jpillars formed by the roots are valuable, being extremely 
elastic and light, working with ease, and possessing great 
toughness : it resembles a good kind of ash. — Oriental Field 
Sports, vol. ii. p. 113. 



the Well 

Which they, with sacrifice of rural pride. 
Have wedded to the cocoa-grove beside, — XIII. 6, p. 592. 

It is a general practice, that, when a plantation is made, a 
well should be dug at one of its sides. The well and the tope 
are married ; a ceremony at which all the village attends, and 
in which often much money is expended. The well is con- 
sidered as the husband, as its waters, which are copiously 
furnished to the young trees during the first hot season, are 
mpposed to cherish and impregnate them. Though vanity 
ind superstition are evidently the basis of these institutions, 
yet we cannot help admiring their eflFects, so beautifully or- 
iiamenting a torrid country, and affording such general con- 
venience. — Oriental Sports, p. 10. 



Tanks. — XIU. 



592. 



Some of these tanks are of very great extent, often cover- 
ing eight or ten acres ; and, besides having steps of masonry, 
perhaps fifty or sixty feet in breadth, are faced with brick- 
work, plastered in the most substantial manner. The corners 
are generally ornamented with round or polygon pavilions of 
a neat appearance. — Oriental Sports, vol. ii. p. 116. 

There are two kinds of tanks, which we confound under one 
common name, though nothing can be more different. The 
first is the Eray, which is formed by throwing a mound or 
bank across a valley or hollow ground, so that the rain water 
collects in the upper part of the valley, and is let out on the 
lower part by sluices, for the purposes of cultivation. The 
other kind is the Culam, which is formed by digging out the 
earth, and is destined for supplying the inhabitants with water 
for domestic purposes. The Ctdams are very frequently lined 
on all the four sides with cut stone, and are the most elegant 
works of the natives. — Buchanan. 

Where there are no springs or rivers to furnish them with 
water, as it is in the northern parts, where there are but two 
or three springs, tiiey supply this defect by saving of raia 
water ; which they do by casting up great banks in convenient 
places, to stop and contain the rains that fall, and so save it 
till they have occasion to let it out into the fields. They are 
made rounding like a ( , or half moon. Every town has one 
of these ponds, which if they can but get filled with water, 
tiiey count their corn is as good as in the barn. It was no 
small work to the ancient inhabitants to make all these banks, 
of which there is a great number, being some two, some 
three, fathoms in height, and in length some above a mile, 
some less, not all of a size. They are now grown over with 
great trees, and so seem natural hills. When they would use 
the water, they cut a gap in one end of the bank, and so draw 
the water by little and little, as they have occasion, for the 
watering their corn. 

These ponds, in dry weather, dry up quite. If they should 
dig these ponds deep, it would not be so convenient for them. 
It would, indeed, contain the water well, but would not so 
well, nor in such plenty, empty out itself into their grounds. 
In these ponds are alligators, which, when the water is dried 
up, depart into the woods and down to the rivers, and, in the 
time of rains, come up again into the ponds. They are but 
small, nor do use to catch people, nevertheless they stand in 
some fear of them. 

The corn they sow in these parts is of that sort that is 
soonest ripe, fearing lest their waters should fail. As the 
water dries out of these ponds, they make use of them for 
fields, treading the mud with buffaloes, and then sowing rice 
thereon, and frequently casting up water with scoops on it. 
— Knox, p. 9. 



TJie Lotus. — XIII. 6, p. 592. 

The lotus abounds in the numerous lakes and ponds of the 
province of Garah ; and we had the pleasure of comparing 
several varieties ; single and full, white, and tinged with deep 
or with faint tints of red. To a near view, the simple ele- 
gance of the white lotus gains no accession of beauty from the 
multiplication of its petals, nor from the tinge of gaudy hue ; 
but the richest tint is most pleasing, when a lake, covered 
with full-blown lotus, is contemplated. — Journey from Mirza- 
put to JVagpur. — Asiatic Annual Register, 1806. 



They built them here a Bower, &c. — XIII. 7, p. 592. 

The materials of which these houses are made are always 
easy to be procured, and the structure is so simple, that a 
spacious, and by no means uncomfortable dwelling, suited to 
the climate, may be erected in one day. Our habitation, con- 
sisting of three small rooms, and a hall open to the north, in 
little more than four hours was in readiness for our reception ; 
fifty or sixty laborers completed it in that time, and on emer- 
gency could perform the work in much less. Bamboos, grass 
for thatching, and the ground ratan, are all the materials 
requisite : not a nail is used in the whole edifice. A row of 
strong bamboos, from eight to ten feet high, are fixed firm in 
the ground, which describe the outline, and arc the supporters 



636 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



of the building : smaller bamboos are then tied horizontally, 
by strips of the ground ratan, to these upright posts; the 
walls, composed of bamboo mats, are fastened to the sides with 
similar ligatures : bamboo rafters are quickly raised, and a 
roof formed, over which thatch is spread in regular layers, 
and bound to the roof by filaments of ratan. A floor of bam- 
boo grating is next laid in the inside, elevated two or three 
feet above the ground: this grating is supported on bamboos, 
and covered with mats and carpets. Thus ends the process, 
which is not more simple than effectual. When the work- 
men take pains, a house of this sort is proof against very in- 
clement weather. We experienced, during our stay at Mee- 
day, a severe storm of wind and rain, but no water penetrated, 
nor thatch escaped : and if the tempest should blow down the 
house, the inhabitants would run no risk of having their brains 
knocked out, or their bones broken ; the fill of the whole fab- 
ric would not crush a lady's lap-dog. — Symes's Embassy to 



Jungle-grass. — XIII. 7, p. 592. 
In this district the long grass called jungle is more prevalent 
than I ever yet noticed. It rises to the height of seven or 
eight feet, and is topped with a beautiful white down, resem- 
bling a swan's feather. It is the mantle with which nature 
here covers all the uncultivated ground, and at once veils the 
indolence of the people and the nakedness of their land. It 
has a fine showy appearance, as it undulates in the wind, like 
the waves of the sea. Nothing but the want of greater va- 
riety to its color prevents it from being one of the finest and 
most beautiful objects in that rich store of productions with 
which nature spontaneously supplies the improvident natives. 
— Tennant. 

In such libations, poursd in open glades, 
Beside clear streams and solitary shades, 

The Spirits of the virtuous dead delight. — XIII. 7, p. 59a. 

The Hindoos are enjoined by the Teds to offer a cake, which 
is called Peenda, to the ghosts of their ancestors, as far back 
as the third generation. This ceremony is performed on the 
day of the new moon in every month. The offering of water 
is in like manner commanded to be performed daily ; and this 
ceremony is called Tarpan, to satisfy, to appease. The souls 
of such men as have left children to continue their generation, 
are supposed to be transported, immediately upon quitting 
tlieir bodies, into a certain region called the Petree Log, where 
they may continue in proportion to their former virtues, pro- 
vided these ceremonies be not neglected ; otherwise they are 
precipitated into J^ark, and doomed to be born again in the 
bodies of unclean beasts ; and until, by repeated regenera- 
tions, all their sins are done away, and they attain such a de- 
gree of perfection as will entitle them to what is called Mooktee, 
eternal salvation, by which is understood a release from future 
transmigration, and an absorption in the nature of the godhead, 
who is called Brahm. — Wilkins. JVote to the Bhagvat 
Oeeta. 

The divine manes are always pleased with an oblation in 
empty glades, naturally clean, on the banks of rivers, and in 
solitary spots. — Inst, of Menu. 

Parva petunt Manes ; pietas pro divite grata est 
Munere ; non avidos Styx habet ima Deos. 

Ovid. Fast. II. 535. 



Voomdavee. — XIII. 8, p. 592. 

This wife of Veeshnoo is the Goddess of the Earth and of 
Patience. No direct adoration is paid her ; but she is held to 
be a silent and attentive spectator of all that passes in the 

world. KiNDERSLEY. 



Tassel-grass. — ILWl. 11, p. 592. 

The Surput, or tassel-grass, which is much the same as the 
guinea-grass, grows to the height of twelve or fourteen feet. 
Its stem becomes so thick as to resemble in some measure a 
reed. It is very strong, and grows very luxuriantly : it is 



even used as a fence against cattle ; for which purpose, it is 
often planted on banks excavated from ditches, to enclose 
fields of corn, &c. It grows wild in all the uncultivated parts 
of India, but especially in the lower provinces, in which it 
occupies immense tracts ; sometimes mixing with, and rising 
above, coppices ; affording an asylum for elephants, rhinoce- 
roses, tigers, &c. It frequently is laid by high winds, of 
which breeding sows fail not to take advantage, by forming 
their nests, and concealing their young under the prostrate 
grass. — Oriental Spo7-ts, vol. i. p. 32. 



Lo! from his trunk, upturn'' d, aloft he flings 

The grateful shower ; and now, 

Plucking the broad-leaved bough 

Of yonder plane, he moves it to and fro. — XIII. 11, p. 592. 

Nature has provided the elephant with means to cool its 
heated surface, by enabling it to draw from its throat, by the 
aid of its trunk, a copious supply of saliva, which the animal 
spurts with force very frequently all over its skin. It also 
sucks up dust, and blows it over its back and sides, to keep 
off the flies, and may often be seen fanning itself with a large 
bough, which it uses with great ease and dexterity. — Orien- 
tal Sports, vol. i. p. 100. 



Till his strong temples, lathed with sudden dews, 
Their fragrance of delight and love diffuse. — XIII. 11, p. 592. 

The Hindoo poets frequently allude to the fragrant juice 
which oozes, at certain seasons, from small ducts in the tem- 
ples of the male elephant, and is useful in relieving him from \ 
the redundant moisture, with which he is then oppressed ; and 
they even describe the bees as allured by the scent, and mis- 
taking it for that of the sweetest flowers. When Crishna 
visited Sanc'ha-dwip, and had destroyed the demon who in- 
fested that delightful country, he passed along the bank of a 
river, and was charmed with a delicious odor, which its waters 
diffused in their course. He was eager to view the source of 
so fragrant a stream, but was informed by the natives that it j 
flowed from the temples of an elephant, immensely large, 
milk-white, and beautifully formed ; that he governed a nu- 
merous race of elephants ; and that the odoriferous fluid which 
exuded from his temples in the season of love had formed the 
river ; that the Devas, or inferior gods, and the Apsaras, or 
nymphs, bathed and sported in its waters, impassioned and 
intoxicated with the liquid perfume. — Wilford. Asiatic 
Researches. 



The antic Monkeys, whose icild gambols late 
Shook the whole wood. — XIII. 12, p. 593. 
They are so numerous on the island of Bulama, says Captain 
Beaver in his excellent book, that I have seen on a calm even- 
ing, when there was not an air sufficiently strong to agitate a 
leaf, the whole surrounding wood in as much motion, from 
their playful gambols among its branches, as if it had blown a^ 
strong wind. 



JVot that in emulous skill that sweetest bird 
Her rival strain would try. — XIII. 12, p. 593. 

I have been assured by a credible eye-witness, that two 
wild antelopes used often to come from their woods to the 
place where a more savage beast, Sirajuddaulah, entertained 
himself with concerts, and that they listened to the strains 
with an appearance of pleasure till the monster, in whose soul 
there was no music, shot one of them, to display his archery. 
A learned native of this country told me that he had frequent- 
ly seen the most venomous and malignant snakes leave theii 
holes, upon hearing tunes on a flute, which, as he supposed,: 
gave them peculiar delight. An intelligent Persian, who re- 
peated his story again and again, and permitted me to write il 
down from his lips, declared, he had more than once l 
present when a celebrated lutanist, Mirta Mohammed, sur 
named Bulbul, was playing to a large company, in a grove nea:; 
Shiraz, where he distinctly saw the nightingales trying to vi< 
with the musician ; sometimes warbling on the trees, some 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



637 



times fluttering from branch to branch, as if they wished to 
approach the instrument whence the melody proceeded, and 
at length dropping on the ground, in a kind of ecstasy, from 
which they were soon raised, lie assured me, by a change of 
the mode. I hardly know, says Sir William Jones, how to 
disbelieve the testimony of men who had no system of their 
own to support, and could have no interest in deceiving me. 
— Asiatic Researches. 

JVo idle ornaments deface 
Her natural grace. — XIII. 13, p. 593. 
The Hindoo Wife, in Sir William Jones's poem, describes 
her own toilet tasks : — 

Nor were my night thoughts, I confess, 

Fr§e from solicitude for dress j 

How best to bind my flowing hair 

With art, yet with an artless air, — 

My hair, like musk in scent and hue. 

Oh ! blacker far, and sweeter too 1 

In what nice braid, or glossy curl. 

To fix a diamond or a pearl. 

And where to smooth the love-spread toils 

With nard or jasmin's fragrant oils ; 

How to adjust the golden Tele,* 

And most adorn my forehead sleek ; 

What Condals\ should emblaze my ears. 

Like Se'da's\ waves, or Seita's'^ tears ; 

How elegantly to dispose 

Bright circlets for my well-formed nose ; 

With strings of rubies how to deck, 

Or emerald rows, my stately neck ; 

While some that ebon tower embraced, 

Some pendent sought my slender waist ; 

How next my purfled veil to choose 

From silken stores of varied hues, 

Which would attract the roving view, 

Pink, violet, purple, orange, blue ; 

The loveliest mantle to select, 

Or unembellish'd or bedeck'd ; 

And how my twisted scarf to place 

With most inimitable grace, 

(Too thin its warp, too fine its woof. 

For eyes of males not beauty-proof 5) 

What skirts the mantle best would suit. 

Ornate, with stars, or tissued fruit. 

The flower-embroider'd or the plain, 

With silver or with golden vein ; 

The Churij |{ bright, which gayly shows 

Fair objects aptly to compose ; 

How each smooth arm, and each soft wrist, 

By richest Cosecs TT might be kiss'd, 

While some my taper ankles round, 

With sunny radiance tinged the ground, 

See how he kisses the lip of my rival, and imprints on her 
forehead an ornament of pure musk, black as the young an- 
telope on the lunar orb ! Now, like the husband of Reti, he 
fixes white blossoms on her dark locks, where they gleam like 
flashes of lightning among the curled clouds. On her breasts, 
like two firmaments, he places a string of gems like a radiant 
constellation ; he binds on her arms, graceful as the stalks of 
the water-lily, and adorned with hands glowing like the petals 
of its flower, a bracelet of sapphires, which resemble a cluster 
of bees. Ah ! see how he ties round her waist a rich girdle 
illumined with golden bells, which seem to laugh as they 
tinkle, at the inferior brightness of the leafy garlands which 
lovers hang on their bowers, to propitiate the god of desire. 
He places her soft foot, as he reclines by her side, on his 
ardent bosom, and stains it with the ruddy hue of Yavaca. — 
Songs of Jayadeva, 

* Properly Teica, an ornament of g'old placed above the nose. 

t Pendents. 

X Seita Cund, or the Pool of Seita, the wife of Rani, is the name given 
jto the wonderful spring at Mangeir, with boiling water of exquisite clear- 
ness and purity. 

§ Her tears, when she was made captive by the giant Rawan. 

il A small mirror worn in & ring. IF Bracelets, 



Saiidal-streak. — XlU. 13, p. 593. 

The Hindoos, especially after bathing, paint their faces 
with ochre and sandal-wood ground very fine into a pulp. 

The custom is principally confined to the male sex, though 
the women occasionally wear a round spot, either of sandal, 
which is of a light dun color, or of singuiff, that is, a prepara- 
tion of vermilion, between the eyebrows, and a stripe of the 
same running up the front of the head, in the furrow made 
according to the general practice of dividing all the frontal 
hair equally to the right and left, where it is rendered smooth, 
and glazed by a thick mucilage, made by steeping linseed for 
awhile in water. When dry, tlie hair is all firmly matted to- 
gether, and will retain its form for many days togetlier. — 
Oriental Sports, vol. i. p. 271. 



JVor arm nor anMc-ring. — XIII. 13, p. 593. 

Glass rings are universally worn by the women of the Decan, 
as an ornament on the wrists ; and their applying closely to 
the arm is considered as a mark of delicacy and beauty, for 
they must of course be passed over the hand. In doing this, a 
girl seldom escapes without drawing blood, and rubbing part 
of the skin from her hand ; and as every well-dressed girl haa 
il number of rings on each arm, and as these are frequently 
breaking, the poor creatures suffer much from their love of 
admiration. — Buchanan. 



The dear retreat. — XIII. 13, p. 593. 

There is a beautiful passage in Statins, which may 1 
quoted here : it is in that poet's best manner : — 

Qiialis vicino volucris jam sedula partu, 
Jamquc timens qu&fronde domum suspendat inanem, 
Providct hinc ventos, hinc anxia cogitat angues, 
Hinc homines ; tandem duhioi placet umbra, novisque 
Fix stctlt in 7-amis, et protinus arbor amatur. 

Achil. ii. 212. 



Jaga-KauL — XlY. p. 593. 

This temple is to the Hindoos what Mecca is to the Mahom- 
m.edans. It is resorted to by pilgrims from every quarter of 
India. It is the chief seat of Brahminical power, and a 
strong-hold of their superstition. At the annual festival of 
the Butt Jattra, seven hundred thousand persons (as has been 
computed by the Pundits in College) assemble at this place. 
The number of deaths in a single year, caused by voluntary 
devotement, by imprisonment for non-payment of the demands 
of the Brahmins, or by the scarcity of provisions for such a 
multitude, is incredible. The precincts of the place are cov- 
ered with bones. — Claudius Buchanan. 

Many thousands of people are employed in carrying water 
from Hurdwar to Juggernat, for the uses of that temple. It 
is there supposed to be peculiarly holy, as it issues from what 
is called the Cow's Mouth. This superstitious notion is the 
cause of as much lost labor as would long since have con- 
verted the largest province of Asia into a garden. The 
numbers thus employed are immense ; they travel with two 
flasks of the Avater slung over the shoulder by means of an 
elastic piece of bamboo. The same quantity which employs, 
perhaps, fifteen thousand persons, might easily be carried 
down the Ganges in a few boats annually. Princes and 
families of distinction have this water carried to them in all 
parts of Hindostan 5 it is drank at feasts, as well as upon 
religious occasions. — Tennant. 

A small river near Kinouge is held by some as even more 
efficacious in washing away moral defilement than the Ganges 
itself. Dr. Tennant says, that a person in Ceylon drinks 
daily of this water, though at the distance ofj perhaps, three 
thousand miles, and at the expense of five thousand rupees 
per month ! 

No distinction of castes is made at this temple, but all, like 
a nation descended from one common stock, eat, drink, and 
make merry together. — Stavorinus. 



638 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



The seven-headed Idol. 



XIV. 1, p. 593. 
: like a serpent, with seven 



The idol oi Jaggernat is in si] 
heads ; and on the cheeks of each head it hath the form of a 
wing upon each cheek, which wings open, and shut, and flap, as 
it is carried in a stately chariot, and the idol in the midst of 
it ; and one of the moguls sitting behind it in the chariot, 
upon a convenient place, with a canopy, to keep the sun from 
injuring of it. 

When I, with horror, beheld these strange things, I called 
to mind the eighteenth chapter of the Revelations, and the 
first verse, and likewise the sixteenth and seventeenth verses 
of the said chapter, in which places there is a beast, and such 
idolatrous worship mentioned ; and those sayings in that text 
are herein truly accomplished in the sixteenth verse ; for the 
Brahmins are all marked in the forehead, and likewise all 
that come to worship the idol are marked also in their fore- 
heads. — Bruton. ChurchiWs Collection. 



The Chariot of the God. — XIV. 2, p. 593. 

The size of the chariot is not exaggerated. Speaking of 
other such, Niecamp says, Currus tarn horrendae magnitudinis 
sunt, ut vel mille homines uni trahendo vix sufficiant. — V. i. 
10, $ 18. 

•They have built a great chariot, that goeth on sixteen 
wheels of a side, and every wheel is live feet in height, and 
the chariot itself is about thirty feet high. In this chariot, 
on their great festival days, at night, they place their wicked 
god Jaggarnat ; and all the Brainins, being in number nine 
thousand, then attend this great idol, besides of ashmen and 
fackeires some thousands, or more than a good many. 

The chariot is most richly adorned with most rich and cost- 
ly ornaments ; and the aforesaid wheels are placed very com- 
plete in a round circle, so artificially that every wheel doth 
its proper office without any impediment ; for the chariot is 
aloft, and in the centre betwixt the wheels : they have also 
more than two thousand lights with them. And this chariot, 
with the idol, is also drawn with the greatest and best men 
of the town ; and they are so eager and greedy to draw it, 
that whosoever, by shouldering, crowding, shoving, heaving, 
thrusting, or any violent way, can but come to lay a hand 
upon the ropes, they think themselves blessed and happy; 
and when it is going along the city, there are many that will 
offer themselves as a sacrifice to this idol, and desperately lie 
down on the ground, that the chariot-wheels may run over 
them, whereby they are killed outright; some get broken 
arms, some broken legs ; so that many of tliem are so de- 
stroyed, and by this means they think to merit heaven.— 
Bruton. CharchilPs Collection. 

They sometimes lie down in the track of this machine a 
few hours before its arrival, and, taking a soporiferous 
draught, hope to meet death asleep — Claudius Buchanan. 



^ harlot-hand. — XIV. 8, p. 594. 

There are in India common women, called Wives of the 
Idol. When a woman has made a vow to obtain children, if 
she brings into the world a beautiful daugliter, she carries her 
to Bod, so their idol is called, with whom she leaves her. 
This girl, when she is arrived at a proper age, takes an apart- 
ment in the public place, hangs a curtain before the door, and 
waits for those who are passing, as well Indians as those of 
other sects among whom this debauchery is permitted. She 
prostitutes herself for a certain price, and all that she can 
thus acquire she carries to the priest of the idol, that he may 
apply it to the service of tlie temple. Let us, says the Mo- 
hammedan relater, bless the almighty and glorious God, that 
he has chosen us, to exempt us from all the crimes into which 
men are led by their unbelief. — Anciennes Relations. 

Incited, unquestionably, says Mr. Maurice, by the hiero- 
glyphic emblem of vice so conspicuously elevated, and so 
strikingly painted in the temples of Mahadco, the priests of 
that deity industriously selected the most beautiful females 
that could be found, and, in their tenderest years, with great 
pomp and solemnity, consecrated them (as it is impiously 
called) to the service of the presiding divinity of the pagoda. 



They were trained up in every art to delude and to delight ; 
and to the fascination of external beauty, their artful betrayers 
added the attractions arising from mental accomplishments. 
Thus was an invariable rule of the Hindoos, that loomen have 
no concern with literature, dispensed with upon this infamous 
occasion. The moment these hapless victims reached maturity, 
they fell victims to the lust of the Brahmins. They were 
early taught to practise the most alluring bhindishments, to 
roll the expressive eye of wanton pleasure, and to invite to 
criminal indulgence, by stealing upon the beholder the tender 
look of voluptuous languishing. They were instructed to 
mould their elegant and airy forms into the most enticing 
attitudes and the most lascivious gestures, while the rapid and 
graceful motion of their feet, adorned with golden bells, and 
glittering with jewels, kept unison with the exquisite melody 
of their voices. Every pagoda has a band of these young 
sirens, whose business, on great festivals, is to dance in public 
before the idol, to sing hymns in his honor, and in private to 
enrich the treasury of that pagoda with the wages of pros- 
titution. These women are not, however, regarded in a dis- 
honorable light; they are considered as wedded to the idol, 
and they partake of the veneration paid to him. They are 
forbidden ever to desert the pagoda where they are educated, 
and are never permitted to marry ; but the offspring, if any, 
of their criminal embraces are considered as sacred to the 
idol : the boys are taught to play on the sacred instruments 
used at the festivals, and the daughters are devoted to the 
abandoned occupations of their mothers. — Indian .Antiquities. 
These impostors take a young maid, of the fairest they cau 
m.eet with, to be the bride, (as they speak and bear the be- 
sotted people in hand,) of Jagannat, and they leave her all 
night in the temple (whither they have carried her) with the 
idol, making her believe that Jao-annaf himself will come and 
embrace her, and appointing her to ask him, whether it will 
be a fruitful year, what kind of processions, feasts, prayers, 
and alms he demands to be made for it. In the mean time 
one of these lustful priests enters at night by a little back door 
into the temple, deflowereth this young maid, and maketh her 
believe any thing he pleaseth ; and the next day, being trans- 
ported from this temple into another, with the same magnifi- 
cence she was carried before upon the chariot of triumph, on 
the side of Jagannat, her bridegroom : these Brahmans make 
her say aloud, before all the people, whatsoever she hath been 
taught of these cheats, as if she had learnt it from the very 
mouth of Jagannat. — Beeniee. 



^aZi/.— XV. p. 595. 

The fifth incarnation was in a Bramin dwarf, under the 
name of Vamen ; it was wrought to restrain the pride of the 
giant Baly. The latter, after having conquered the gods, 
expelled them from Sorgon ; he was generous, true to his 
word, compassionate, and charitable. Vichenou, under the 
form of a very little Bramin, presented himself before him 
while he was sacrificing, and asked him for three paces of land 
to build a hut. Baly ridiculed the apparent imbecility of the 
dwarf, in telling him that he ought not to limit his demand 
to a bequest so trifling ; that his generosity could bestow a 
much larger donation of land. Vamen answered, that being 
of so small a stature, what he asked was more than sufficient. 
The prince immediately granted his request, and, to ratify his 
donation, poured water into his right hand ; which was no 
sooner done, than the dwarf grew so prodigiously, that his 
body filled the universe ! He measured the earth with one 
pace, and the heavens with another, and then summoned Baly 
to give him his word for the third. The prince than recog- 
nized Vichenou, adored him, and presented his head to him ; 
but the god, satisfied with his submission, sent him to govern 
the Padalon, and permitted him to return every year to the 
earth, the day of the full moon, in the month of November. 
— Sonnerat's Voyages, vol. i, p. 24. 



The Sacred Cord. — XV. 4, p. 596. 

The Brahmans who officiate at the temple generally go 
with their heads uncovered, and the upper part of the body 
naked. The Zennar, or sacred string, is hung round the body 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



639 



from the left shoulder ; a piece of white cotton cloth is 
wrapped round the loins, which descends under the knee, hut 
lower on the left side than on the other ; and in cold weather 
they sometimes cover their hodies wath a shawl, and their 
heads with a red cap. The Zennar is made of a particular 
kind of perennial cotton, called Verma-. it is composed of a 
certain number of threads of a fixed lengtli. The Zennar worn 
by the Khatries has fewer threads than that worn by the Brah- 
mans ; and that worn by the Bliyse fewer than that worn by 
the Kliatries ; but those of the Soodra caste are excluded from 
this distinction, none of them being permitted to wear it. — 
Craufurd. 



The city of Baly. — XV. 7, p. 595, 
Ruins of Maha.balipur, the City of the great Baly. 

A rock or rather hill of stone, is that which first engrosses 
the attention on approaching the place ; for as it rises abruptly 
out of a level plain of great extent, consists chiefly of one 
single stone, and is situated very near to the sea-beach, it is 
such a kind of object as an inquisitive traveller would natu- 
rally turn aside to examine. Its shape is also singular and ro- 
mantic, and, from a distant view, has an appearance like some 
antique and lofty edifice. On coming near to the foot of the 
rock from the north, works of imagery and sculpture crowd so 
thick upon the eye, as might seem to favor the idea of a pet- 
rified town, like those that have been fabled in different parts 
of the world, by too credulous travellers. Troceeding on by 
the foot of the hill, on the side facing the sea, there is a pa- 
goda rising out of the ground, of one solid stone, about sixteen 
or eighteen feet high, which seems to have been cut upon the 
spot, out of a detached rock, that has been found of a proper 
size for that purpose. The top is arched, and the style of 
architecture, according to which it is formed, different from 
any now used in those parts. A little farther on, there ap- 
pears upon a huge surface of stone that juts out a little from 
the side of the hill, a numerous group of human figures, in 
bass-relief, considerably larger than life, representing the most 
remarkable persons whose actions are celebrated in the Ma- 
hSibharit, each of them in an attitude, or with weapons, or 
other insignia, expressive of his character, or of some one of 
bis most famous exploits. All tJiese figures are doubtless 
much less distinct than they were at first ; for upon comparing 
these and the rest of the sculptures that are exposed to the sea- 
air, with others at the same place, wliose situation has afforded 
them protection from that element, the difteronce is striking — 
the former being every where much defaced, while the others 
are fresh as recently finished. An excavation in another part 
of the east side of the great rock appears to have been made 
on the same plan, and for the same purpose that (Jhowltries 
are usually b«ilt in that country, that is to say, for the accom- 
modation of travellers. The rock is hollowed out to the size 
of a spacious room, and two or three rows of pillars are left, 
as a seeming support to the mountainous mass of stone which 
forms the roof. 

The ascent of the hill oir the noith is, from its natural 
shape, gradual and easy at first, and is in other parts rendered 
more so by very excellent steps, cut out in several places 
where the corumunication would be difficulL.or impracticable 
without them. A winding stair of this sort leads to a kind 
of temple cut out of the solid rock, with some figures of idols 
in high relief upon the walls, very well finished. From ibis 
temple there are fliglits of steps, that seem to have led to some 
edifice formerly standing upon the hill; nor does it seem ab- 
surd to suppose that this may have been a palace, to which 
this temple may have appertained ; for besides the small 
detached ranges of stairs that are here and there cut in the 
rock, and seem as if they had once led to different parts of one 
great building, there appear in many places small water 
channels cut also in the rock, as if for drains to a house ; 
and the whole top of the hill is strewed with small round 
pieces of brick, which may be supposed, from their appear- 
ance, to have been worn down to their present form during the 
lapse of many ages. On a plain surface of the rock, which may 
once have served as the floor of some apartruent, there is a 
platform of stone, about eight or nine feet long, by three or 
faur wide, in a situation rather elevated, witli two or three 



steps leading up to it, perfectly resembling a couch or bed, 
and a lion very well executed at the upper end of it, by way 
of pillow : the whole of one piece being part of the hill itself. 
This tiie Bramins, inhabitants of the place, call the bed of 
Dhermarajah, or Judishter, the eldest of the five brothers, 
whose exploits are the leading subject in the Mahabh§Lrit. 
And at a considerable distance from this, at such a distance, 
indeed, as the apartruents of the women might be supposed to 
be from that of the men, is a bath, excavated also from the 
rock, with steps in the inside, which the Bramins call the 
Bath of Dropedy, the wife of Judishter and his brothers. 
How much credit is due to this tradition, and whether this 
stone couch may not have been anciently used as a kind of 
throne, rather than a bed, is matter for future inquiry. A 
circumstance, however, which may seem to favor this idea is, 
that a throne, in the Sanscrit and other Hindoo languages, is 
called Singh&sen, which is corupounded of Sing, a lion, and 
asen, a seat. 

But though these works may be deemed stupendous, they 
are surpassed by others that are to be seen at the distance of 
about a mile, or a mile and half, to the south of the hill. They 
consist of two pagodas, of about thirty feet long, by twenty 
feet wide, and about as many in height, cut out of the solia 
rock, and each consisting originally of one single stone. Their 
form is different from the style of architecture according to 
which idol temples are now built in that country. These 
sculptures approach nearer to the Gothic taste, being sur- 
mounted by arched roofs or domes, not semicircular, but com- 
posed of two segments of circles meeting in a point at top. 
Near these also stand an elephant full as big as life, and a lion 
much larger than the natural size, both hewn also out of one 
stone. 

The great rock is about fifty or one hundred yards from the 
sea ; but close to the sea are the remains of a pagoda built of 
brick, and dedicated to Sib, the greatest part of which has 
evidently been swallowed up by that element ; for the door of 
the innermost apartment, in which the idol is placed, and be- 
fore which there are always two or three spacious courts sur- 
rounded with walls, is now washed by the wav«s, and the 
pillar used to discover the meridian at the time of founding 
the pagoda, is seen standing at some distance in the sea. In 
the neighborhood of this building there are some detached 
rocks, washed also by the waves, on which there appear 
sculptures, though now much worn and defaced. And the 
natives of the place declared to the writer of this account, 
that the more aged people among them remembered to have 
seen the tops of several pagodas far out in the sea, which, 
being covered with copper, (probably gilt,) were particularly 
visible at sunrise, as their shining surface used then to reflect 
the sun's rays, but that now that effect was no longer pro- 
duced, as the copper had since become incrusted with mould 
and verdigris. — Chambers. Asiatic Researches. 



Thou hast been calVd, Sleej) ! Vie friend of Woe, 
But His the happy who have caWd thee so. — XV. 12, p. 597. 

Daniel has a beautiful passage concerning Richard II. — 
sufficiently resembling this part of the poem to be inserted 



To Flint, from thence, into a restless bed, 
That miserable night he comes conveyed ; 
Poorly provided) poorly followed, 
Uncourted, unrespected, unobey'd ; 
Where, if uncertain Sleep but hovered 
Over the drooping cares that heavy weigh'd, 
Millions of figures Fantasy presents 
Unto that sorrow wakcn'd grief augments. 

His new misfortune makes deluded Sleep 
Say 'twas not so : — false dreams the truth deny : 
Wherewith he starts ; feels waking cares do creep 
Upon his soul, and give his dreams the lie, 
Then sleeps again ; — and then again as deep 
Deceits of darkness mock his misery. 

Civil War, Book IT, st. 52, 58. 



640 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



Thejlullay. — XVI. 2, p. 598. 

This monster of Hindoo imagination is a horse with the 
trunk of an elephant, but bearing about the same proportion 
to the elephant in size, that the elepliant itself does to a com- 
mon sheep. In one of the prints to Mr. Kindersley's "Spe- 
cimens of Hindoo Literature;" an aullay is represented taking 
up an elephant with his trunk. 



Did then the Ocean wage 
His war for love and envy, not in rage, 
O thou fair City, that he sjjared thee thus ? — XVI. 3, p. 598. 

Malecheren, (which is probably another name for Baly,) in 
an excursion which he made one day alone, and in disguise, 
came to a garden in the environs of his city Mahabalipoor, 
■where was a fountain so inviting, that two celestial nymphs 
had come down to bathe there. The Rajah became enamored 
of one of them, who condescended to allow of his attachment 
to her ; and she and her sister nymph used thenceforward to 
have frequent interviews with him in that garden. On one 
of those occasions they brought with them a male inhabitant 
of the heavenly regions, to whom they introduced the Rajah, 
and between him and Malecheren a strict friendsliip ensued ; 
in consequence of which he agreed, at the Rajah's earnest 
request, to carry him in disguise to see the court of the divine 
Inder — a favor never before granted to any mortal. The 
Rajah returned from thence with new ideas of splendor and 
magnificence, which he immediately adopted in regulating his 
court and his retinue, and in beautifying his seat of government. 
By this means Mahabalipoor became soon celebrated beyond 
all the cities of the earth ; and an account of its magnificence 
having been brought to the gods assembled at the court of 
Inder, their jealousy was so much excited at it, that they 
sent orders to the God of the Sea to let loose his billows, and 
overflow a place which impiously pretended to vie in splendor 
with their celestial mansions. This command he obeyed, 
and the city was at once overflowed by tliat furious element ; 
nor has it ever since been able to rear its head. — Chambers. 
Asiatic Researches. 



Round those strange waters they repair. — XVI. 6, p. 599. 

In the Bahia dos Artifices, whicli is between the river Ja- 
goarive and S. Miguel, there are many springs of fresh water, 
which may be seen at low tide, and these springs are fre- 
quented by fish and by the sea-cow, which they say comes to 
drink there. — JVoticias do Brazil. MSS. i. 8. 

The inhabitants of the Feroe Islands seek for cod in places 
where there is a fresh water spring at the bottom. — Landt. 



The Sheckra. — XVm. I, p. 602. 

This weapon, which is often to be seen in one of the wheel- 
spoke hands of a Hindoo god, resembles a quoit: the external 
edge is sharp ; it is held in the middle, and being whirled 
along, cuts wherever it strikes. 



Tlie writing which, at thy nativity. 
All-knowing Mature wrought upon thy irahi. 

XVIII. 7, p. 603. 

Brahma is considered as the immediate creator of all things, 
and particularly as the disposer of each person's fate, which 
he inscribes within the skull of every created being, and 

which the gods themselves cannot avert Kindersley, 

p. 21. NiECAMP, vol. i. p. 10, $ 7. 

It is by the sutures of the skull that these lines of destiny 
are formed. See also a note to Thalaba (Book V. p. 273,) 
upon a like superstition of the Mahommedans. 

Quand on leur reproche quelque vice, ou qu^on les reprend 
d'une mauvaise action, ils rdpondentfroidement, que cela est ecrit 
stir leur tete, et quails n'ont pu faire autrement. Si vous pa- 
roissez etonne de ce langage nouveau, et que vous demandiez a 
voir ott cela est ecrit, ils vous montrent les diverses jointures du 



crane de leur tite, pretendant que les sutures iniine sont les carac- 
tcres de cette ecritare mysterieiise. Si vous lespre^sez de dechif- 
frer ces caracteres, ct de vous faire connoHre ce qu'' ils signifient, 
ils avouent quails ne le sgavcnt pas. Mais puisque vous ne 
sgavez pas lire cette ecritare, disois-je quelquefuis d ces gens 
entetes, qui cst-cc dmic qui vous la lit 7 qui est-ce qui vous en 
explique le seas, et qui vous fait connottre ce qit'elle conticnt ? | 
D^allieurs ces pretendus caracteres etant les mimes sur la tete i 
de tons les hommes, d'ou vient quHls agissent si differemment, et 
qitHls sont si contraires les uns aux autres dans leurs vues, dans 
leurs desscins, et dans leurs projets 7 

Les Brumes in'ecoiLtoient de sang froid, et sans s'inquieter ni 
des contradictions ou ils tomboient, ni des consequences ridicules 
qu'ils etoicnt obliges d^avouer. Enfin, lorsqu'ils se sentoient 
vivement presses, touts leur ressource etoit de se retirer sans rien 
dire. — P. Mauduit. Lettres Edifiantes, t. x. p. 248. 



The Seven Earths.— XIX. 6, p. 605. 

The seas which surround these earths are, 1. of salt water, 
enclosing our inmost earth ; 2. of fresh water ; 3. of tyi-e, cur- 
dled milk 3 4. of ghee, clarified butter ; 5. of cauloo, a liquor 
drawn from the pullum tree ; 6. of liquid sugar ; 7. of milk. 
The whole system is enclosed in one broad circumference 

of pure gold, beyond which reigns impenetrable darkness 

Kindersley. 

I know not whether the following fable was invented to ac- 
count for the saltness of our sea : — 

" Agastya is recorded to have been very low in stature ; and 
one day, previously to the rectifying the too oblique posture of 
the earth, walking with Veeshnu on the shore of the ocean, the 
insolent Deep asked the god who that dwarf was strutting by 
his side. Veeshnu replied, it was the patriarch Agastya go- 
ing to restore the earth to its true balance. The sea, in utter 
contempt of his pygmy form, dashed him with his spray as he 
passed along ; on which the sage, greatly incensed at the de- 
signed affront, scooped up some of the water in the hollow of 
his hand, and drank it off: he again and again repeated the 
draught, nor desisted till he had drained the bed of the ocean 
of the entire volume of its waters. Alarmed at this effect of 
his holy indignation, and dreading an universal drought, the 
Devetas made intercession with Agastya to relent from his 
anger, and again restore an element so necessary to the ex- 
istence of nature, both animate and inanimate. Agastya, 
pacified, granted their request, and discharged the imbibed 
fluid in a way becoming the histories ofa gross physical people 
to relate, but by no means proper for this page ; a way, how- 
ever, that evinced his sovereign power, while it marked his 
ineffable contempt for the vain fury of an element, contending 
with a being armed with the delegated power of the Creator 
of all things. After this miracle, the earth being, by the 
same power, restored to its just balance, Agastya and Veesh- 
nu separated ; when the latter, to prevent any similar acci- 
dent occurring, commanded the great serpent (that is, of the 
sphere) to wind its enormous folds round the seven continents, 
of which, according to Sanscreet geography, the earth con- 
sists, and appointed, as perpetual guardians, to Avatch over 
and protect it, the eight powerful genii, so renowned in the 
Hindoo system of mythology, as presiding over the eiglit 
points of the world." — Maurice. 

The Pauranics (said Ramachandra to Sir William Jones) 
will tell you that our earth is a plane figure, studded with 
eight mountains, and surrounded by seven seas of milk, nec- 
tar, and other fluids ; that the part which we inhabit is one of 
seven islands, to which eleven smaller isles are subordinate ; 
that a god, riding on a huge elephant, guards each of the 
eight regions ; and that a mountain of gold rises and gleams 
in the centre. — Asiatic Researches. 

" Eight original mountains and seven seas, Brahma, Indra, 
the Sun, and Rudra, these are permanent; not thou, not I, 
not this, or that people. Wherefore then should anxiety be 
raised in our minds ? " — Asiatic Researches. 



Mount Calasay. — XIX. 6, p. 605. 

The residence of Ixora is upon the silver mount Calaja, to 
the south of the famous mountain Mahameru, being a most 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



641 



delicious place, planted with all sorts of trees, that bear fruit 
all the year round. The roses and other flowers send forth a 
most odoriferous scent ; and the pond at the foot of the mount 
is enclosed with pleasant walks of trees, that aiFord an agreea- 
ble shade, whilst the peacocks and divers other birds entertain 
the ear with their harmonious noise, as the beautiful women 
do the eyes. The circumjacent woods are inJiabitcd by a 
certain people called Miinls, or Rixis, who, avoiding the con- 
versation of others, spend their time in offering daily sacrifices 
to their god. 

It is observable that, though these pagans are generally 
black themselves, they do represent these Rixis to be of a fair 
complexion, with long, white beards, and long garments hang- 
ing crossways, from about the neck down over the breast. 
They are in such high esteem among them, they believe that 
whom they bless are blessed, and whom they curse are 
cursed. 

Within the mountain lives another generation, called Jex- 
aquinnera a/id Quendra, who are free from all trouble, spend 
their days in continual contemjjlation, praises, and prayers to 
God. Eound about the mountain stand seven ladders, by 
which you ascend to a spacious plain, in the middle whereof 
is a bell of silver, and a square table, surrounded with nine 
precious stones, of divers colors. Upon this table lies a sil- 
ver rose, called Tainora Pua, which contains two women as 
bright and fair as a pearl : one is called Brigasiri, i. e. the 
Lady of the Mouth ; the other Tarasiri, i. e. the Lady of the 
Tongue, — because they praise God with the mouth and 
tongue. In the centre of this rose is the triangle of Quive- 
linga, which they say is the permanent residence of God. — 
Bald^us. 

all-containing Mind, 
Thou who art every where ! — XIX. 10, p. 605. 

" Even I was even at first, not any other thing ; that which 
exists, unperceived, supreme ; afterwards I am that which is ; 
and he who must remain, am I. 

" Except the First Cause, whatever may appear, and may 
not appear, in the mind, know that to be the mind's Maya, or 
delusion, as light, as darkness. 

" As the great elements are in various beings entering, yet 
not entering, (that is, pervading, not destroying,) thus am I 
in them, yet not in them. 

" Even thus far may inquiry be made by him who seeks to 
know the principle of mind in union and separation, which 
must be every ichcre, always.^'' — Asiatic Researches. Sir W. 
Jones, //-om the Bhagavat. 

I am the creation and the dissolution of the whole universe. 
There is not any thing greater than I, and all things hang on 
me, even as precious gems upon a string. I am moisture in 
the water, light in the sun and moon, invocation in the Veds, 
sound in the firmament, human nature in mankind, sweet- 
smelling savor in the earth, glory in the source of light: in 
all things I am life ; and I am zeal in the zealous ; and know, 
O Arjoon ! tliat I am the eternal seed of all nature. I am 
the understanding of the wise, the glory of the proud, the 
strength of the strong, free from lust and anger ; and in ani- 
mals I am desire, regulated by moral fitness. — Kreeshna, 
in the Bhagavat Oeeta. 



Heart cannot think, nor tongue declare, 
JVor eyes of Angel hear 
Tliat glory unimaginably bright. — XIX. 12, p. 605. 

Being now in the splendorous lustre of the divine bliss and 
glory, I there saw in spirit the choir of the holy angels, the 
choir of the prophets and apostles, who, with heavenly tongues 
and music, sing and play around the throne of God ; yet not 
in just such corporeal forms or shapes as are those we now 
bear and walk about in ; no, but in shapes all spiritual ; the 
holy angels in the shape of a multitude of flames of fire, the 
souls of believers in the shape of a multitude of glittering or 
luminous sparkles, God's throne in the shape or under the ap- 
pearance of a great splendor. — Hans Engelbrecht. 

Something analogous to this unendurable presence of Seeva 
is found amid the nonsense of Joanna Southcott. Apollyon 
is there made to say of the Lord, " Thou knowest it is written, 
81 



He is a consuming fire, and who can dwell in everlasting burn- 
ings? who could abide in devouring flames.'' Our backs are 
not ])ras8, nor our sinews iron, to dwell with God in heaven." 
— Dispute between the Woman and the Powers of Darkness. 



The Sun himself had seemed 
A speck of darkness there. — XIX. 12, p. 605. 

" There the sun shines not, nor the moon and stars : these 
lightnings flash not in that place : how should even fire blaze 
there ? God irradiates all this bright substance, and by its 
effulgence the universe is enlightened." — From the Yujur- 
veda. Asiatic Researches. 

Hcec ait, et sese radiorum nocte suoruni 

Claudit inaccessum. — Carrara. 



Whose cradles from some tree 

Unnatural hands suspended. — XXI. 5, p. 607. 

I heard a voice crying out under my window ; I looked out, 
and saw a poor young girl lamenting the unhappy case of her 
sister. On asking what was the matter, the reply was. Boot 
Laggeeosa, a demon has seized her. These unhappy people 
say Boot Laggeeosa, if a child newly born will not suck 3 and 
they expose it to death in a basket, hung on the branch of a 
tree. One day, as Mr. Thomas and I were riding out, we 
saw a basket hung in a tree, in which an infant had been ex- 
posed, the skull of whicli remained, the rest having been 
devoured by ants. — Periodical Accounts of the Baptist Mis- 
sionaries. 



That strange Indian Bird. — XXI. 6, p. 607. 

The Chatookee. They say it never drinks at the streams 
below, but, opening its bill when it rains, it catches the drops 
as they fall from the clouds. — Periodical Accounts of the 
Baptist Missionaries, vol. ii. p. 309. 



The footless Fowl of Heaven. — XXI. 6, p. 607. 

There is a bird that falls down out of the air dead, and is 
found sometimes in the Molucca Islands, that has no feet at 
all. The bigness of her body and bill, as likewise the form 
of them, is much the same as a swallow's ; but the spreading 
out of her wings and tail has no loss compass than an eagle's. 
She lives and breeds in the air, comes not near the earth but 
for her burial, for the largeness and lightness of her wings and 
tail sustain her without lassitude. And the laying of her 
eggs, and breeding of her young, is upon the back of the male, 
which is made hollow, as also the breast of the f?male, for the 
more easy incubation. Also two strings, like two shoemaker's 
ends, come from the hinder parts of the male, wherewith it is 
conceived that he is fastened closer to the female, while she 
hatches her eggs on the hollow of his back. The dew of 
heaven is appointed her for food, her region being too far 
removed from the approach of flies and such like insects. 

This is the entire story and philosophy of this miraculous 
bird in Cardan, who professes himself to have seen it no less 
than thrice, and to have described it accordingly. The con- 
trivances whereof, if the matter wore certainly true, are as 
evident arguments of a Divine Providence, as that copper- 
ring, with the Greek* inscription upon it, was an undeniable 
monument of the artifice and finger of man. 

But that the reproach of over-much credulity may not lie 
upon Cardan alone, Scaliger, who lay at catch with him to 
take him tripping wherever he could, cavils not with any thing 
in the whole narration but the bigness of wings and the little- 
ness of the body ; which he undertakes to correct from one of 
his own which was sent him by Orvesanus from Java. Nay, 
he confirms what his antagonist has wrote, partly by history 

* The inscription riins thus : Ei/it SKeTvos Ixdos Tavrr] Xifivr] 
iravTOTrpoiToq E-rriTedels 6ia rov Koanrirov ^eSripiKOV /3 ras 
X£ipag EV TY] i. f}jiEpa rov 'OktcoSplov. a. a. X. This pike was 
taken about Hailprun, the imperial city of Suevia, in the year 1497. — 
Gesner. 



642 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA, 



and partly by reason; affirming, tl)at liimself, in his own 
garden, found two little birds with membranaceous wing-s ut- 
terly devoid of legs ; their form was near to that of a bat's. 
Nor is he deterred from the belief of the perpetual flying of 
the Manucodiata, by the gaping of the feathers of her wings, 
which seem thereby less fit to sustain her body, but further 
makes the narration probable by what he has observed in kites 
hovering in the air, as he saith, for a whole hour together 
without flapping of her wings, or changing place. And he 
has found also how she may sleep in the air, from the exam- 
ple of fishes, which he has seen sleeping in the water without 
sinking themselves to the bottom, and without changing place, 
but lying stock still, pinmilis tantum nescia quid motiuncule 
meditantes, only wagging a little their fins, as heedlessly and 
unconcernedly as horses while they are asleep wag their ears 
to displace the flies that sit upon them. Wherever Scaliger 
admitting that the Manucodiata is perpetually on the wing in 
the air, he must of necessity admit also that manner of incu- 
bation that Cardan describes, else how could their generations 
continue ? 

Fraticiscus Hernandeo aflirms the same with Cardan ex- 
pressly in every thing; as also Eusebius Nierembergius, who 
IS so taken with the story of this bird, that he could not ab- 
stain from celebrating her miraculous properties in a short 
but elegant copy of verses; and does after, though confidently 
opposed, assert the main matter again in prose. 

Such are the suflFrages of Cardan, Scaliger, Hernandeo, 
Nierembergius. But Aldrovandus rejects that fable of her 
feeding on the dew of heaven, and of her incubiture on the 
back of the male, with much scorn and indignation. And as 
for the former, his reasons are no ways contemptible, he al- 
leging that dew is a body not perfectly enough mixed, or 
heterogeneal enough for food, nor the hard bill of the bird 
made for such easie uses as sipping this soft moisture. 

To which 1 know not what Cardan and the rest would an- 
swer, unless this, that they mean by dew the more unctuous 
moisture of the air, which as it may not be alike every where, 
so these birds may be fitted with a natural sagacity to find it 
out where it is. That there is dew in this sense day and 
night, (as well as in the morning,) and in all seasons of the 
year; and therefore a constant supply of moisture and spirits 
to their perpetual flying, which they more copiously imbibe 
by reason of their exercise : That the thicker parts of this 
moisture stick and convert into flesh, and that the lightness of 
their feathers is so great, that their pains in sustaining them- 
selves are not over-much. That what is homogeneal and sim- 
ple to our sight is fit enough to be the rudiments of genera- 
tion, all animals being generated of a kind of clear crystalline 
liquor ; and that, therefore, it may be also of nutrition ; that 
orpine and sea-house-leek are nourished and grow, being hung 
in the air, and that dock-weed has its root no deeper than 
near the upper parts of the water ; and, lastly, that the bills 
of these birds are for their better flying, by cutting the way, 
and for better ornament ; for the rectifying also and composing 
of their feathers, while they swim in the air with as much 
ease as swans do in rivers. 

To his great impatiency ngainst their manner of incubation, 
they would happily return this answer : That the way is not 
ridiculous ; but it may be rather necessary from what Aldro- 
vandus himself not only acknowledges but contends for, name- 
ly, that they have no feet at all. For hence it is manifest that 
they cannot light upon the ground, nor any where rest on 
their bellies, and be able to get on wing again, because they 
cannot creep out of holes of rocks, as swifts and such like 
short-footed birds can, they having no feet at all to creep 
with. Besides, as Aristotle well argues concerning the long 
legs of certain water-fowl, that they were made so long, be- 
cause they were to wade in the water and catch fish, adding 
that excellent aphorism, to. yap opyava npos to tpyov h 
(pvffii noiEL dXX' ov to Ipyov Kpdg to. opyava, so may we 
rationally conclude, will they say, that as the long legs of 
these water-fowl imply a design of their haunting the water, 
so want of legs in these Manucodiatas argue they are never 
to come down to the earth, because they can neither stand 
there nor get oft' again. And if they never come on the earth, 
or any other resting-place, where can their eggs be laid or 
hatched but on the back of the male .' 

Besides that Cardan pleases himself with that Antiphonie in 
nature, that as the Ostrich being a bird, yet never flies in the 



air, and never rests upon the earth. And as for Aldrovandus, 
his presumption from the five several Manucodiatas that he 
had seen, and in which he could observe no such figuration 
of parts as implied a fitness for such a manner of incubation, 
Cardan will answer. Myself has seen three, and Scaliger one, 
who both agree against you. 

However, you see that both Cardan, Aldrovandus, and the 
rest, do jointly agree in allowing the Manucodiata no feet, as 
also in furnishing her with two strings, hanging at the hinder 
parts of her body, which Aldrovandus will have to be in the 
female as well as in the male, though Cardan's experience 
reacheth not so far. 

But Pighafetta and Clusius will easily end this grand con- 
troversy betwixt Cardan and Aldrovandus, if it be true which 
they report, and if they speak of the same kind of Birds of 
Paradise. For they both affirm that they have feet a palm 
long, and that with all confidence imaginable ; but Nierem- 
bergius on the contrary affirms, that one that was an eye-wit- 
ness, and that had taken up one of these birds newly dead, 
told him that it had no feet at all. Johnston also gives his 
suff'rage with Nierembergius in tliis, though with Aldrovandus 
he rejects the manner of their incubation. 

But unless they can raise themselves from the ground by 
the stiffness of some of the feathers of their wings, or rather by 
virtue of those nervous strings which they may have a power 
to stiffen when they are alive, by transfusing spirits into them, 
and making them serve as well instead of legs to raise them 
from the ground as to hang upon the boughs of trees, by a 
slight thing being able to raise or hold up their light-feathered 
bodies in the air, as a small twig will us in the water, I should 
rather incline to the testimony of Pighafetta and Clusius than 
to the judgment of the rest, and believe those mariners that 
told him that the legs are pulled off by them that take them, 
and exenterate them and dry them in the sun for either their 
private use or sale. 

Which conclusion would the best solve the credit of Aris- 
totle, who long since has so peremptorily pronounced, vtl 
TrTYjvdv novov ovSev tariu coTtep vevcriKov fxovov eariv t'x^of j — 
that there is not any bird that only flies as the fish only swims. 

But thus our Bird of Paradise is quite flown and vanished 
into a figment or fable. But if any one will condole the loss 
of so convincing an argument for a Providence that fits one 
thing to another, I must take the freedom to tell him, that, 
unless he be a greater admirer of novelty than a searcher 
into the indissoluble consequences of things, I shall supply his 
meditation with what of this nature is as strongly conclusive, 
and remind, that it will be his own reproach if he cannot spy 
as clear an inference from an ordinary truth as from either 
an uncertainty or a fiction. And in this regard, the bringing 
this doubtful narration into play may not justly seem to no 
purpose, it carrying so serious and castigatory a piece of 
pleasantry with it. 

The Manucodiata's living on the dew is no part of the con- 
victiveness of a Providence in this story : But the being excel- 
lently well provided of wings and feathers, taji.ta Icvitatis su- 
pellectth exornata, as Nierembergius speaks, being so well 
furnished with all advantages for lightnes3, that it seems 
harder for her to sink down, as he conceits, than to be borne 
up in the air ; that a bird thus fitted for that region should 
have no legs to stand on the earth, this would be a considera- 
ble indication of a discriminating Providence, that on purpose 
avoids all uselessness and superfluities. 

The other remarkable, and it is a notorious one, is the cav- 
ity on the back of the male and in the breast of the female, 
for incubation ; and the third and last, the use of those 
strings, as Cardan supposes, for the better keeping them to- 
gether in incubiture. 

Ifthese considerations of this strange story strike so strongly 
upon thee as to convince thee of a Providence, think it humor, 
and not judgment, if what I put in lieu of them, and is but 
ordinary, have not the same force with thee. 

For is not the fish's wanting feet, (as we observed before,) 
she being suflficiently supplied with fins in so thick an ele- 
ment as the water, as great an argument for a Providence as 
so light a bird's wanting feet in that thinner element of the 
air, the extreme lightness of her furniture being appropriated 
to the thinness of that element.' And is not the same Provi- 
dence seen, and that as conspicuously, in allotting but very 
short legs to those birds that are called Apodeo both in Plinia 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA. 



643 



and Aristotle, upon whom she has bestowed such large and 
strong wings, and a power of flying so long and swift, as in 
giving no legs at all to the Manucodiata, who has still a 
greater power of wing and lightness of body ? 

And as for the cavities on the back of the male and in the 
breast of the female, is that design of nature any more certain 
and plain than in the genital parts of the male and female in 
all kinds of animals ? What greater argument of counsel and 
purpose of fitting one thing for another can there be than 
that? And if we should make a more inward search into the 
contrivances of these parts in an ordinary hen, and consider 
liow or by what force an egg of so great a growth and bigness 
is transmitted from the ovarium through tlie infundibulum 
into the processus of the uterus, the membranes being so thin 
and the passage so very small, to see to the principle of that 
motion cannot be thought less than divine. 

And if you would compare the protuberant paps of teats in 
the females of beasts witli that cavity in the breast of the she- 
Manucodiata, whether of them, think you, is the plainer 
pledge of a knowing and designing Providence ? 

And, lastly, for the strings that are conceived to hold to- 
gether the male and female in their incubilure, what a toy is 
it, if compared with those invisible links and ties that engage 
ordinary birds to sit upon their eggs, they having no visible 
allurement to such a tedious service ? — Henry More's An- 
tidote against Atheism, b. ii. ch. 11. 

" Mankind," says Jeremy Taylor, " now taken in his whole 
constitution and design, are like the Birds of Paradise, which 
travellers tell us of in the Molucca Islands, born without legs, 
but by a celestial power they have a recompense made to them 
for that defect, and they always hover in the air and feed on 
the dew of Heaven : so are we Birds of Paradise, but cast out 
from thence, and born without legs, — without strength to 
walk in the laws of God, or to go to Heaven ; but by a Power 
from above, we are adopted in our new birth to a celestial 
conversation ; we feed on the dew of Heaven ; ' the just does 
live by faith,' and breathes in this new life by the Spirit of 
God." — "Vol. ix. 339. Heber's edition. 



Yamen. — XXTI. 4, 



G09. 



Yawa was a child of the Sun, and thence named Vaicas- 
wataj another of his titles was Dhermaraja, or King of Jus- 
tice ; and a third Pitripeti, or Lord of the Patriarchs : but he 
is chiefly distinguished as Judge of departed souls ; for the 
Hindus believe that, when a soul leaves its body, it imme- 
diately repairs to Yamapur, or the city of Yaina, where it re- 
ceives a just sentence from him, and thence either ascends to 
Swerga, or the first Heaven ; or is driven down to JVamc, the 
region of serpents ; or assumes on earth the form of some 
animal, unless its offence lias been such, that it ought to be 
condemned to a vegetable, or even to a mineral i)rison. — Sir 
W. Jones. 

There is a story concerning Yamen wliich will remind the 
reader, in its purport, of the fable of Love and Death. " A 
famous penitent, Murrugandumagurcxi by name, had, during 
a long series of years, served the gods with uncommon and 
most exemplary piety. This very virtuous man, having no 
children, was extremely desirous of having one, and therefore 
daily besought tiie god Xiven, (or Seeva,) to grant him one. 
At length the god heard his desire, but, before he indulged it 
him, he asked him, whether he would have several children, 
who should be long-lived and wicked, or one virtuous and 
prudent, who should die in his sixteenth year. The penitent 
chose the latter : his wife conceived, and was happily deliv- 
ered of the promised son, whom they named Marcandem. The 
boy, like his father, zealously devoted himself to the worship 
of Xiven ; but as soon as he had attained his sixteenth year, 
the officers of Yhamen, god of death, were sent on the earth, 
to remove him from thence. 

" Young Marcandem, being informed on what errand they 
were come, told them, with a resolute air, that he was resolved 
not to die, and that they might go back, if they pleased. They 
returned to their master, and told liim the whole affair. Yha- 
men immediately mounted his great buffle, and set out. Being 
come, he told the youth that he acted very rashly in refusing 
to leave the world, and it was unjust in him, for Xiven had 
p-romisod Jiim a life only of sixteen years, and the term was 



expired. But this reason did not satisfy Marcandem, who 
persisted in his resolution not to die j and, fearing lest the 
god of death should attempt to take him away by force, he 
ran to his oratory, and taking the Lingam, clasped it to his 
breast. Meantime Yhamen came down from his buffle, threw 
a rope aliout the youth's neck, and held him fast therewith, 
as also the Lingam, which Marcandem grasped with all his 
strength, and was going to drag them both into hell, when 
Xiven issued out of the Lingam, drove back the king of the 
dead, and gave him so furious a blow that he killed him on 
the spot. 

" The god of death being thus slain, mankind multiplied 
so that the earth was no longer able to contain them. The 
gods represented this to Xiven, and he, at their entreaty, re- 
stored Yhamen to life, and to all the power he had before 
enjoyed. Yhamen immediately despatched a herald to all parts 
of the world, to summon all the old men. The herald got 
drunk before he set out, and, without staying till the fumes of 
the wine were dispelled, mounted an elephant, and rode up 
and down the world, pursuant to his commission ; and, instead 
of publishing this order, he declared, that it was the will and 
pleasure of Yhamen that, from this day forward, all the 
loaves, fruits, and flowers, whether ripe or green, should fall 
to the ground. This proclamation was no sooner issued than 
men began to yield to death. But before Yhamen was killed, 
only the old were deprived of life, and now people of all ages 
are summoned indiscriminately." — Picart. 



And Brama''s region, where the heavenly Hours 
Weave the vast circle of his age-lovg day. 

XX[IL5, p. 611. 

They who are acquainted with day and night know that the 
day of Brahma is as a thousand revolutions of the Yoogs, and 
that his night extendeth for a thousand more. On the coming 
of that day all things proceed from invisibility to visibility ; so, 
on the approach of night, they are all dissolved away in that 
which is called invisible. The universe, even, having existed, 
is again dissolved ; and now again, on the approach of day, 
liy divine necessity, it is reproduced. That which, upon the 
dissolution of all things else, is not destroyed, is superior and 
of another nature from that visibility : it is invisible and 
eternal. He who is thus called invisiljle and incorruptible is 
even he who is called the Supreme Abode ; which men having 
once obtained, they never more return to earth : that is my 
mansion. — Kreeshna, in the Bhagavat Gccta. 

The guess, that Brama and his wife Saraswadi may be 
Abraham and Sarah, has more letters in its favor than are 
usually to be found in such guesses. — Niecamp, p. i. c. 10, 

The true cause why there is no idol of Dr-ima, (except the 
head, which is his share in the Trimonrter,) is probably to be 
found in the conquest of his sect. A diflerent reason, how- 
ever, is implied in the Veda : " Of Ilim, it says, whose glory 
is so great, there is no image : — He is the incomprehensible 
Being which illumines all, delights all, whence all proceeded ; 
— that by which tlioy live when born, and that to which all 
must return." — Moou's Hindu Pantheon, p. 4. 



Two forms inseparable in unity, 

Hath Yamen. — XXUl. 1*3, p. 612. 

The Dharma-Rnja, or king of justice, has two counte- 
nances ; one is mild and full of benevolence ; those alone who 
abound with virtue see it. He holds a court of justice, where 
are many assistants, among whom are many just and pious 
kings ; Chitragupta acts as chief secretary. These holy men de- 
termine what is dharma and adharma, just and unjust. His 
{Dhar ma- Rajahs) servant is called Carmala .- he brings the 
righteous on celestial cars, which go of themselves, when- 
ever holy men are to be brought in, according to the directions 
of the Dharma-Raja, who is the sovereign of the Pitris. This 
is called his divine covntenance, and the lighteous alone do see 
it. His other countenance, or form, IS called Yama ; this the 
wicked alone can see: it has large teeth and a monstrous 
body. Yama is the lord of Patala ; there he orders some to 
be beaten, some to be cut to pieces, some to be devoured by 



(i44 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA, 



monsters, &c. His servant is called Cashmalu, who, with 
ropes round their necks, drags the wicked over rugged paths, 
and throws them headlong into hell. He is unmerciful, and 
hard is his heart; every body trembles at the sight of him. — 
WiLFORD. Asiatic Researches. 



Black of aspect, red of e?/e. — XXITI. 13, p. 613. 

Punishment is the Magistrate ; Punishment is the Inspirer 
of Terror ; Punishment is the Defender from Calamity ; Pun- 
ishment is the Guardian of those that sleep ; Punishment, 
with a black aspect and a red eye, tempts the guilty. — Hal- 
hed's Qentoo Code, oh. xxi. sect. 8. 



Jlzyonica, — XXIII. 15, p. 613. 

In Patala (or the infernal regions) resides the sovereign 
dueen of the Nagas, (large snakes or dragons :) she is beau- 
tiful, and her name is Asyoruca. There, in a cave, she per- 
formed Taparya with such rigorous austerity, that fire sprang 
from her body, and formed numerous agnitiraths (places of 
sacred fire) in Patala. Tliese fires, forcing their way through 
the earth, waters, and mountains, formed various openings or 
mouths, called from thence the flaming mouths, or juala muihi. 
By Samudr (Oceanus) a daughter was born unto her, called 
Rama-Devi. She is most beautiful ; she is Lacshmi ; and 
her name is Asyotcarsha, or Asyotcrishta. Like a jewel she 
remains concealed in the Ocean. — Wilfokd. Jlsiat. Res. 



He came in all his might and majesty. — XXIV. 2, p. 613. 

What is this to the coming of Seeva, as given us by Mr. 
Maurice, from the Seeva Paurana ? 

" In the place of the right wheel blazed the Sun, in the 
place of the left was the Moon; instead of the brazen nails 
and bolts, which firmly held the ponderous wheels, were dis- 
tributed Bramins on the right hand, and Reyshees on the left ; 
in lieu of the canopy on the top of the chariot was overspread 
the vault of Heaven ; the counterpoise of the wheels was on 
the east and west, and the four Semordres were instead of the 
cushions and bolsters ; the four Vedas were placed as the 
horses of the chariot, and Sarasvvaty was for the bell ; the 
piece of wood by which the horses are driven was the three- 
lettered Blantra, while Brama himself was the charioteer, and 
the Nacsbatras and stars were distributed about it by way of 
ornaments. Sumaru was in the place of a bow, the serpent 
Seschanaga was stationed as the string, Veeshnu instead of 
an arrow, and fire was constituted its point. Ganges and 
other rivers were appointed its precursors ; and the setting 
out of the chariot, with its appendages and furniture, one 
would affirm to be the year of twelve months gracefully mov- 
ing forwards. 

"When Seeva, with his numerous troops and prodigious 
army, was mounted, Brama drove so furiously, that thought 
itself, which, in its rapid career, compasses Heaven and Earth, 
could not keep pace with it. By the motion of the chariot 
Heaven and Earth were put into a tremor ; and, as the Earth 
was not able to bear up under this burden, the Cow of the 
Earth, Kam-deva, took upon itself to support the weight, 
Seeva went with intention to destroy Treepoor ; and the mul- 
titude of Devetas, and Reyshees, and Apsaras who waited on 
his stirrup, opening their mouths, in transports of joy and 
praise, exclaimed, Jaya ! Jaya ! so that Parvati, not being 
able to bear his absence, set out to accompany Seeva, and in 
an instant was up with him ; while the light which brightened 
on his countenance, on the arrival of Parvati, surpassed all 
imagination and description. The Genii of the eight regio; 
armed with all kinds of weapons, but particularly with agnrj- 
astra, or fire-darts, like moving mountains, advanced in front 
of the army ; and Eendra and other Devatas, some of them 
mounted on elephants, some on horses, others on chariots, or 
on camels or buffaloes, were stationed on each side, while all 
the other order of Devetas, to the amount of some lacks 
formed the centre. The Munietuvaras, with long hair on their 
heads, like Saniassis, holding their staves in their hands 
danced as they went along ; the Syddylias, who revolve about 



the heavens, opening their mouths in praise of Seeva, rained 
flowers upon his head ; and the vaulted heaven, which is like 
an inverted goblet, being appointed in the place of a drum, 
exalted his dignity by its majestic resounding." 

Throughout the Hindoo fables there is the constant mistake 
of bulk for sublimity. 



By the attribute of Deity, 

self -multiplied, 

Tlie Almighty Man appeared on every side. 

XXIV. 2, p. 613. 

This more than polypus power was once exerted by Krishna 
on a curious occasion. 

It happened in Dwarka, a splendid city built by Viswakarma, 
by command of Krishna, on the sea-shore, in the province of 
Guierat, that his musical associate, JsTareda, had no wife or 
substitute ; and he hinted to his friend the decency of sparing 
him one from his long catalogue of ladies. Krishna gene- 
rously told him to win and wear any one he chose, not imme- 
diately in requisition for himself. JVareda accordingly went 
wooing to one house, but found his master there ; to a second, 
— he was again forestalled; a third, the same; to a fourth, 
fifth, the same : in fine, after the round of sixteen thousand 
of these domiciliary visits, he was still forced to sigh and keep 
single ; for Krishna was in every house, variously employed, 
and so domesticated, that each lady congratulated herself on 
her exclusive and uninterrupted possession of the ardent dei- 
ty. — Moor's Hindu Pantheon, p. 204. 

Eight of the chief gods have each their sacti, or energy, 
proceeding from them, differing from them in sex, but in every 
other respect exactly like them, with the same form, the same 
decorations, the same weapons, and the same vehicle. — Asiat. 
Res. 8vo edit. vol. viii. p. 68, 82. 

The manner in which this divine power is displayed by 
Kehama,in his combat with Yamen, will remind some readers 
of the Irishman, who brought in four prisoners, and being 
asked how he had taken them, replied, he had surrounded 
them. 



The Amreeta, or Drink of Immortality. 

XXIV. 9, p. 614. 

Mr. Wilkins has given the genuine history of this liquor, 
which was produced by churning the sea with a mountain. 

" There is a fair and stately mountain, and its name is 
Meroo, a most exalted mass of glory, reflecting the sunny rays 
from the splendid surface of its gilded horns. It is clothed 
in gold, and is the respected haunt of Dews and Oandharvas. 
It is inconceivable, and not to be encompassed by sinful man ; 
and it is guarded by dreadful serpents. Many celestial medi- 
cinal plants adorn its sides ; and it stands, piercing the heaven 
with its aspiring summit, a mighty hill, inaccessible even by 
the human mind. It is adorned with trees and pleasant 
streams, and resoundeth with the delightful songs of various 
birds. 

" The Soars, and all the glorious hosts of heaven, having 
ascended to the summit of this lofty mountain, sparkling with 
precious gems, and for eternal ages raised, were sitting in 
solemn synod, meditating the discovery of the Amrecta, the 
Water of Immortality. The Dew JVarayan being also there, 
spoke unto Brahma, whilst the Soors were thus consulting 
together, and said, ' Let the Ocean, as a pot of milk, be churned 
by the united labor of the Soors and Asoors ; and when the 
mighty waters have been stirred up, the Amreeta shall be 
found. Let them collect together every medicinal herb, and 
every precious thing, and let them stir the Ocean, and they 
shall discover the Amreeta,^ 

" There is also another mighty mountain, whose name is 
Mandar, and its rocky summits are like towering clouds. It 
is clothed in a net of the entangled tendrils of the twining 
creeper, and resoundeth with the harmony of various birds. 
Innumerable savage beasts infest its borders ; and it is the 
respected haunt of Kennars, Dews, and Apsars. It standeth 
eleven thousand Yojan above the earth, and eleven thousand 
more below its surface. 

" As the united bands of Dews were unable to remove this 



NOTES TO THE CURSE OF KEHAMA 



645 



mountain, they went before Vr.eshnoo, who was sitting with 
Brahma^ and addressed them in these words : ' Exert, O mas- 
ters ! your most superior wisdom to remove the mountain 
Mandar, and employ your utmost power for our good.' 

" Veeshnoo and Brahma having said, ' It sliall be according 
to your wish,' lie with the lotus eye directed the King of 
Serpents to appear ; and Jlnanta arose, and was instructed in 
that work by Brahma, and commanded by J\''araijan to per- 
form it. Then Ananta, by his power, took up that king of 
mountains, together with all its forests and every inhabitant 
thereof J and the Suois accompanied him into the presence of 
the Ocean, whom they addressed, saying, ' We will stir up 
thy waters to obtain the jimreeta.^ And the Lord of the 
Waters replied, ' Let me also have a share, seeing I am to 
bear the violent agitation that will be caused by the whirling 
of the mountain ! ' Then the Soars and Asoors spoke unto 
Koorma-raj, the King of the Tortoises, upon the strand of the 
Ocean, and said, ' My lord is able to be the supporter of this 
mountain.' The Tortoise replied, 'Be it so ; ' and it was 
placed upon his back. 

" So the mountain being set upon the back of the Tortoise, 
Eendra began to whirl it about as it were a machine. The 
mountain Mandar served as a churn, and the serpent Vasoalcce 
for the rope ; and thus in former days did the Dews, and 
Asoors, and the Danoos, begin to stir up the waters of the 
ocean for the discovery of the Amreeta. 

" The mighty Asoors were employed on the side of the ser- 
pent's head, whilst all the Soars assembled about liis tail. 
Ananta, that sovereign Dew, stood near JVarayan. 

" They now pull forth the serpent's head repeatedly, and as 
often let it go ; whilst there issued from his moutli, thus vio- 
lently drawing to and fro by tlie Soars and Asoors, a continual 
stream of fire and smoke and wind, which ascending in thick 
clouds, replete with lightning, it began to rain down upon the 
heavenly bands, who were already fatigued with their labor ; 
whilst a shower of flowers was sliaken from the top of the 
mountain, covering the lieads of all, both Soars and Asoors. 
In the mean time the roaring of the ocean, whilst violently 
agitated with the whirling of the mountain Mandar by the 
Soars and Asaors, was like the bellowing of a mighty cloud. 
Thousands of the various productions of the waters were torn 
to pieces by the mountain, and confounded with the briny 
flood ; and every specific being of the deep, and all the in- 
habitants of the great abyss which is below the earth, were 
annihilated ; whilst, from the violent agitation of the moun- 
tain, the forest trees were dashed against each other, and 
precipitated from its utmost height, with all the birds thereon ; 
from whose violent confrication a raging fire was produced, 
involving the whole mountain with smoke and flame, as with 
a dark-blue cloud, and tlie lightning's vivid flash. The lion 
and the retreating elepliant are overtaken by the devouring 
flames, and every vital being and every specific thing are 
consumed in the general conflagration. 

" The raging flames, thus spreading destruction on all sides, 
■were at length quenched by a shower of cloud-borne water, 
poured down by the immortal Eendra. And now a hetero- 
geneous stream of the concocted juices of various trees and 
plants ran down into the briny flood. 

" It was from this milk-like stream of juices, produced 
from those trees and plants and a mixture of melted gold, that 
the Soars obtained their immortality. 

" The waters of the Ocean now being assimilated with 
those juices, were converted into milk, and from that milk a 
kind of butter was presently produced ; when the heavenly 
bands went again into the presence of Brahma, the granter of 
boons, and addressed him, saying, ' Except J^Tarayan, every 
other Soar and Asoor is fatigued with his labor, and still the 
Amreeta doth not appear ; wherefore the churning of the 
Ocean is at a stand.' Then Brahma said unto J\rarayaji, 
' Endue them with recruited strength, for thou art their sup- 
port.' And JVarayan answered and said, ' I will give fresh 
vigor to such as cooperate in the work. Let Mandar be 
"whirled about, and the bed of the ocean be kept steady.' 

" When they heard the words of JVarrt?/a?i,they all returned 
again to the work, and began to stir about with great force 
that butter of the ocean, when there presently arose from out 
the troubled deep, first the Moon, with a pleasing counte- 
nance, shining with ten thousand beams of gentle light ; next 
fbllowed Sree, the goddess of fortune, whose seat is the white 



lily of the waters ; then Soora-Devee, the goddess of wine, 
and the white horse called Onhisrava. And after these there 
was produced from the unctuous mass the Jewell Kotostoobh, 
that glorious sparkling gem worn by Narayan on his breast j 
also Parecjat, the tree of plenty, and Soorabhce, the cow that 
granted every heart's desire. 

" The moon, Suora-Devce, the goddess of Sree, and the 
Horse, as swift as thought, instantly marched away towards 
the Dews, keeping in the path of the Sun. 

" Then the Dew Dhanwantaree, in human shape, came 
forth, holding in his hand a white vessel filled with the im- 
mortal juice Amreeta. When the Asoors beheld these won- 
drous things appear, they raised their tumultuous voices for 
the Amreeta, and each of them clamorously exclaimed, ' This 
of right is mine.' 

" In the mean time Travat, a mighty elephant, arose, now 
kept by the god of thunder; and as they continued to churn 
the ocean more than enough, that deadly poison issued from 
its bed, burning like a raging fire, whose dreadful fumes in a 
moment spread througlioiU the world, confounding the three 
regions of the universe with the mortal stench, until Seev, at 
the word of Brahma, swallowed the fatal drug, to save man- 
kind ; which, remaining in the throat of that sovereign Dew 
of mngic form, from that time he hath been called JSTeel-Kant, 
because his throat was stained blue. 

"When the Asaors beheld this miraculous deed, they be- 
came desperate, and ihe Amreeta and the goddess Sree became 
the source of endless hatred. 

" Then JVai-ayan assumed the charact(!r and person of Mo- 
heence Maya, the power of enchantment, in a female form of 
wonderful beauty, and stood before the Asoors, wliose minds 
being fascinated by her presence, and deprived of reason, they 
seized the Amreeta, and gave it unto her. 

" The Asoors now clothe themselves in costly armor, and, 
seizing their various weai)ons, rush on together to attack the 
Soai-s. In the mean time JSTarayan, in the female form, having 
obtained the Amreeta from tlie liands of their leader, the hosts 
o^ Soars, during the tumult and confusion of the ./3ioor5, drank 
of the living water. 

" And it so fell out, that whilst the Soars were quenching 
their thirst for immortality, Rahoo, an Asoor, assumed the 
form of a Soar, and began to drink also : and the water had 
but reached his throat, when the Sun and Moon, in friendship 
to tlie Soors, discovered the deceit ; and instantly JVai-ayan 
cut oflT his head as he was drinking, with his splendid weapon 
Chalira. And the gigantic head of the Asoor, emblem of a 
mountain's summit, being thus separated from his body by 
the Chakrd's edge, bounded into the heavens with a dreadful 
cry, whilst his ponderous trunk fell, cleaving the ground 
asunder, and shaking the whole earth unto its foundation, 
vvith all its islands, rocks, and forests ; and from that time 
the head of Rahoo resolved an eternal enmity, and continueth, 
even unto this day, at times to seize upon the Sun and Moon. 

" Now Narayan, having quitted the female figure he had 
assumed, began to disturb the Asaors with sundry celestial 
weapons ; and from that instant a dreadful battle was com- 
menced, on the ocean's briny strand, between the Asoors and 
the Soors. Innumerable sharp and missile weapons were 
hurled, and thousands of piercing darts and battle-axes fell 
on all sides. The Asoors vomit blood from the wounds of 
the Cholera, and fall upon the ground pierced by the sword, 
the spear, and spiked club. Heads, glittering with polished 
gold, divided by the Pattees'' blade, drop incessantly; and 
mangled bodies, wallowing in their gore, lay like fragments of 
mighty rocks, sparkling with gems and precious ores. Mil- 
lions of sighs and groans arise on every side ; and the sun is 
overcast with blood, as they clash their arms, and wound each 
other with their dreadful instruments of destruction. 

"Now the battle is fought with the iron-spiked club, and, 
as they close, with clinched fist ; and the din of warascendetb 
to the heavens. They cry, ' Pursue ! strike I fell to the 
ground ! ' so that a horrid and tumultuous noise is heard on 
all sides. 

" In the midst of this dreadful hurry and confusion of the 
fight, Mar and JVarayan entered the field together. J^arayan^ 
beholding a celestial bow in the hand of JVar, it reminded him 
of his Chakra, the destroyer of the Asoors. The faithful 
weapon, by name Soodarsan, ready at the mind's call, flew 
down from heaven with direct and refulgent speed, beautiful. 



646 PREFACE TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



yet terrible to behold : and being arrived, glowing like the 
sacrificial flame, and spreading terror around, JSTarayan, with 
his right arm formed like the elephantine trunk, hurled forth 
the ponderous orb, the speedy messenger and glorious ruin of 
hostile towns ; who, laging like the final all-destroying fire, 
shot bounding with desolating force, killing thousands of the 
^soors in his rapid flight, burning and involving, like the lam- 
bent flame, and cutting down all that would oppose him. 
Anon he climbeth the heavens, and now again darteth into 
the field like a Peesach, to feast in blood. 

" Now the dauntless Asoors strive, with repeated strength, 
to crush the Soars with rocks and mountains, which, hurled in 
vast ntfmbers into the heavens, appeared like scattered clouds, 
and fell, with all the trees thereon, in millions of fear-exciting 
torrents, striking violently against each other with a mighty 
noise ; and in their fall the earth, with all its fields and forests, 
is driven from its foundation : they thunder furiously at each 
other as they roll along the field, and spend their strength in 
mutual conflict. 

"Now JVar, seeing the Soors overwhelmed with fear, filled 
up the path to Heaven with showers of golden-headed arrows. 



and split the mountain summits with his unerring shafts ; and 
the ^soors, finding themselves again sore pressed by the SoorSy 
precipitately flee ; some rush headlong into the briny waters 
of the ocean, and others hide themselves within the bowels 
of the earth. 

" The rage of the glorious Ckakra, Soodarsan, which for a 
while burnt like the oil-fed fire, now grew cool, and he retired 
into the heavens from whence he came. And the Soors hav- 
ing obtained the victory, the mountain Mandar was carried 
back to its former station with great respect, wliilst the waters 
also retired, filling the firmament and the heavens with their 
dreadful roarings. 

" The Soors guarded the Amreeta with great care, and re- 
joiced exceedingly because of their success. And Eendra, 
with all his immortal bands, gave the water of life unto JVa- 
rayan, to keep it for their use." — Mahabharat. 

Amrita, or Immortal, is, according to Sir William Jones, 
the name which the mythologists of Tibet apply to a celestial 
tree, bearing ambrosial fruit, and adjoining to four vast rocks, 
from which as many sacred rivers derive their several 
streams. 



A TRAGIC POEM. 



Tanto acrior apud majores, sicut virtutibus gloria, ita flagitiis pcenitentia, fuit. Sed haec aliaque, ex veteri memori^ 
petita, quotiens res locusque exempla recti, aut solatia mali, poscet, hand absurde memorabimus. 

Taciti Hist. lib. 3, c. 51. 



TO GROSVENOR CHARLES BEDFORD, 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
IN LASTING MEMORIAL OF A LONG AND UNINTERRUPTED FRIENDSHIP, 

BY HIS OLD SCHOOLFELLOW, 



ROBERT SOU THEY, 



As the ample Moon, 
In the deep stillness of a summer even 
Rising behind a thick and lofty Grove, 
Burns like an unconsuming fire of light 
In the green trees ; and kindling on all sides 
Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
Into a substance glorious as her own. 
Yea, with her own incorporated, by power 
Capacious and serene ; — like power abides 
In Man's celestial Spirit ; Virtue thus 
Sets forth and magnifies herself; thus feeds 
A calm, a beautiful and silent fire. 
From the encumbrances of mortal life, 
From error, disappointment, — nay, from guilt ; 
And sometimes, so relenting Justice wills. 
From palpable opjiressions of Despair, 

Wordsworth. 



PREFACE 



This poem was commenced at Keswick, Dec. 2, 
1809, and finished there July 14, 1814. 



A French translation, by M. B. de S., in three 
volumes 12mo., was published in 1820, and another 
by M. le Chevalier* * *, in one volume 8vo., 1821. 
Both are in prose. 

When the latest of these versions was nearly 
ready for publication, the publisher, who was also 
the printer, insisted upon having a life of the author 
prefixed. The French public, he said, knew noth- 
ing of M. Southey, and in order to make the 
book sell, it must be managed to interest them for 
the writer. The Chevalier represented as a con 
elusive reason for not attempting any thing of the 
kind, that he was not acquainted with M. Southey's 
private history. " Would you believe it? " says a 
friend of the translator's, from whose letter I trans- 
scribe what follows ; " this was his answer verba- 
tim : ' JTimporte, ecrivez toujour s ; brodez, brodez- 
la un peu ; que ce soit vrai ou non ce ne fait ri&n ; 
qui prendra la peine de s' informer 9 ' " Accord- 
ingly a Notice sur M. Southey was composed, not 
exactly in conformity with the publisher's notions 



PREFACE TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 647 



of biography, but from such materials as could be 
collected from magazines and other equally unau- 
thentic sources. 

In one of these versions a notable mistake occurs, 
occasioned by the French pronunciation of an 
English word. The whole passage indeed, in both 
versions, may be regarded as curiously exemplify- 
ing the difference between French and English 
poetry. 

"The lamps and tapers now grew pale. 
And through the eastern windows slanting fell 
The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls 
Returning day restored no cheerful sounds 
Or joyous motions of awakening life ; 
But in the stream of light the speckled motes 
As if in mimicry of insect play, 
Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down 
Over the altar pass'd the pillar'd beam, 
And rested on the sinful woman's grave 
As if it enter'd there, alight from Heaven. 
So be it ! cried Pelayo, even so ! 
As in a momentary interval. 

When thought expelling thought, had left his mind 
Open and passive to the influxes 
Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there, — 
So be it. Heavenly Father, even so ! 
Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed 
Forgiveness there ; for let not thou the groans 
Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers 
Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain ! 
And thou, poor soul, who from the dolorous house 
Of weeping and of pain, dost look to me 
To shorten and assuage thy penal term. 
Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts 
And other duties than this garb, this night 
Enjoin, should thus have past ! Our mother-land 
Exacted of my heart the sacrifice ; 
And many a vigil must thy son perform 
Henceforth in woods and mountain fastnesses. 
And tented fields, outwatching for her sake 
The starry host, and ready for the work 
Of day, before the sun begins his course." * 

R se livrait a toutes ces rtjiexions^ quand la lu- 
mUre des lampes et des cicrges commenga a pdlir, 
et que les premieres tcintes de Vaurore se monirtrent 
a travers les hautes croisees tournees vers Vorient. 
Le retour du jour ne ramena point dans ces murs 
des sons joijeux ni les mouvemens de la vie qui se 
riveille ; les seuls papillons de nuit, agitant leurs 
ailes pesantes^ bourdonnaient encore sous les voutes 
tdnihreuses. BientSt le premier rayon du soldi 
glissant ohliquement par-dessus I'autel, vint sarrS- 
ter sur la tombe de lafemmepdcheresse, etla lumiere 
du del sembla y p6n6trer. " Que ce presage s'ac- 
complisse,'' s'ecria Pelage, qui absorbd dans ses m6- 
ditations, fixait en ce momejit ses yeux sur le tombeau 
de sa mere ; " Dicu de misericorde, quHl en soit ainsi ! 
Puisse ta bontd vivifiante y verser de me me le pardon ! 
Que les sanglots de la penitence expirante, et que mes 
prihres ameres ne montent point en vain devant 
le trdne iternel. Et toi, pauvre dme, qui de ton 
sijour douloureux de souffrances et de 

* See page 667, col. 2. 



esperes en moi pour abriger et adoudr ton supplice, 
temporaire, pardorine moi d' avoir ^ sous ces habits et 
dans cettc nuit, detourn6 mes pensecs sur d'autres 
devoirs. J\^otre ptatrie commune a cxig6 de moi ce 
sacrifice, ct ton fils doit dorinavant accomplir plus 
d'une ville dans la profondeur desforets sur la cime 
des monts, dans les plaines couvertes de tcntcs, ob- 
servant, pour V amour de VEspagne, la marche des 
astrcs de la nuit, et prtparant Vouvrage de sajournie 
avant que le soldi ne commence sa course.'' — T. i. 
pp. 175 — 177. 

In the other translation the motes are not con- 
verted into moths, — but the image is omitted. 

Consumd cs dans des soins parcils les rajndcs heures 
s'ecouloicnt, les lampes et les torches commengoient 
d pdlir, et V oblique rayon du matin doroit dejd les 
vitraux dleves qui regardoient vers V Orient: le 
retour du jour ne ramcnoit point, dans cette sombre 
enceinte, les sons joyeux, ni le tableau mouvant de 
la vie qui se reveille ; mais, tombant d'en haut, le 
cileste rayon, passarit au-dessus de Vautcl, vintfrap- 
pcr le tombeau de la femme jjecheresse. '■'■Ainsi 
soit-il," s'ecria Pelage; '■'■ainsi soit-il, 6 divin 
Createur ! Puisse ta vivifiante bont6 verser ainsi 
le jiardon en ce lieu ! Que les gemissemens d'une 
mort pdnitejite, que mes amdres prieres ne soient 
pas arrivces en vain devant la trone de misericorde ! 
Et toi, qui, de ton sejour de souffrances et de larmes^ 
regardes vers ton fils, jjour abreger ct soulager tes 
peines, pardonne, si d'autres devoirs ont rempli les 
heures que cette nuit ct cet habit m' enjoignoient de 
te consacrcr ! Kotre patrie exigeoit ce sacrifice ; 
d'autres vigiles m'attendent dans les bois et les 
defiiUs de nos montagnes ; et bientot sous la tente^ 
il me faudra veiller, le soir, avant que le del ne se 
couvre d'dtoiles, etre prtt pour le travail du jour, 
avant que le soldi ne commence sa course." — Pp. 
92, 93. 

A very good translation, in Dutch verse, was 
published in two volumes, 8vo, 1823-4, with this 
title: — " Rodrigo de Goth, Koning van Spanje. 
Naar het Engelsch van Southey gevolgd, door 
Vrouwe Katharina Wilhelmina Bilderdijk. Te 
's Gravenhage." It was sent to me with the 
following epistle from her husband, Mr. Willera 
Bilderdijk. 

" Roberto Southey, viro spectatissimo, 
Gulielmus Bilderdijk, S. P. D. 

" Etsi ea nunc temporis passim invaluerit opinio, 
poetarum genus quam maxima glorise cupiditate 
flag-rare, mihi tamen contraria semper insedit per- 
suasjo, qui divinae Poeseos altitudinem veramque 
laudem non nisi ab iis cognosci putavi quorum 
prse caBteris e meliori luto finxerit prsecordia Titan, 
neque aut vere aut juste judicari vatem nisi ab iis 
qui eodem afflatu moveantur. Sexagesimus autera 
jam agitur annus ex quo et ipse meos inter cequales 
poeta salutor, eumque locum quem ineunte ado- 
lescentia occupare contigit, in hunc usque diem 
tenuisse videor, popularis aurse nunquam captator, 
quin immo pei'petuus contemptor ; parens ipse 
laudator, censor gravis et nonnunquam molestus. 



648 PREFACE TO RODERICK, THE LAST OP THE GOTHS. 



Tuum vero nomen, Vir celeberrime ac spectatis- 
sime, jam antea veneratus, perlecto tuo de Roderi- 
co rege poemate, non potui non summis extollere 
laudibus, quo doctissimo simul ac venustissimo 
opere, si minus divinam Aeneida^ saltem immor- 
talem Tassonis Epopeiam tentassc^ quin et certo 
respectu ita superasse videris, ut majorum perpau- 
cos, aequalium neminem, cum vera fide ac pietate 
in Deum, tum ingenio omnique poetica dote tibi 
comparandum existimem. Ne mireris itaque, car- 
minis tui gravitate ac dulcedine captam, meoque 
judicio fultam, non illaudatam in nostratibus Mu- 
sara tuum illud nobile poema foeminea manu sed 
non insueto labore attrectasse, Belgicoque sermone 
reddidisse. Hanc certe, per quadrantem seculi et 
quod excurrit felicissimo connubio mihi junctam, 
meamque in Divina arte alumnam ac sociam, ni- 
mium in eo sibi sumpsisse nemo facile arbitrabitur 
cui vel minimum Poeseos nostrse sensum usurpare 
contigerit ; nee ego hos ejus conatus quos illustri 
tuo nomini dicandos putavit, tibi mea manu ofFerre 
dubitabam. Hsbc itaque utriusque nostrum in te 
observantisB specimina accipe, Vir illustrissime, ac 
si quod communium studiorum, si quod verse pie- 
tatis est vinculum, nos tibi ex animo liabe addic- 
tissimos. Vale. 

" Dabam Lugduni in Batavis. Ipsis idib. 
Februar. CIOIOCCCXXIV." 

I went to Leyden in 1825, for the purpose of 
seeing the writer of this epistle, and the lady who 
had translated my poem, and addressed it to me in 
some very affecting stanzas. It so happened, that 
on my arrival in that city, I was laid up under a 
surgeon's care ; they took me into their house, and 
made the days of my confinement as pleasurable 
as they were memorable. I have never been ac- 
quainted with a man of higher intellectual power, 
nor of greater learning, nor of more various and 
extensive knowledge than Bilderdijk, confessedly 
the most distinguished man of letters in his own 
country. His wife was worthy of him. I paid 
them another visit the following year. They are 
now both gone to their rest, and I shall not look 
upon their like again. 

Soon after the publication of Roderick, I re- 
ceived the following curious letter from the Ettrick 
Shepherd, (who had passed a few days with me in 
the preceding autumn,) giving me an account of 
his endeavors to procure a favorable notice of the 
poem in the Edinburgh Review. 

" Edinburgh, Dec. 15, 1814. 
"My DEAR Sir, 

*' I was very happy at seeing the post-mark of 
Keswick, and quite proud of the pleasure you make 
me believe my " Wake " has given to the beauteous 
and happy grovip at Greta Hall. Indeed, few 
things could give me more pleasure, for I left my 
heart a sojourner among them. I have had a 
higher opinion of matrimony since that period than 
ever I had before ; and I desire that you will posi- 
tively give my kindest respects to each of them 
individually. 

" The Pilgrim of the Sun is published, as you will 



see by the Papers, and if I may believe some com- 
munications that I have got, the public opinion of 
it is high ; but these communications to an author 
are not to be depended on. 

"I have read Roderick over and over again, and 
am the more and more convinced that it is the 
noblest epic poem of the age. I have had some 
correspondence and a good deal of conversation 
with Mr. Jeffrey about it, though he does not agree 
with me in every particular. He says it is too 
long, and wants elasticity, and will not, he fears, be 
generally read, though much may be said in its 
favor. I had even teased him to let me review it 
for him, on account, as I said, that he could not 
appreciate its merits. I copy one sentence out of 
the letter he sent in answer to mine : — 

'"For Southey I have, as well as you, great re- 
spect, and when he will let me, great admiration ; 
but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as 
conceited as his neighbor Wordsworth. I cannot 
just trust you with his Roderick; but I shall be 
extremely happy to talk over that and other kin- 
dred subjects with you ; for I am every way dis- 
posed to give Southey a lavish allowance of praise ; 
and few things would give me greater pleasure 
than to find he had afforded me a fair opportunity. 
But I must do my duty according to my own ap- 
prehensions of it.' 

" I supped with him last night, but there was so 
many people that I got but little conversation with 
him ; but what we had was solely about you and 
Wordsworth. I suppose you have heard what a 
crushing review he has given the latter. I still 
found him persisting in his first asseveration, that it 
was heavy ; but what was my pleasure to find that 
he had only got to the seventeenth division ! I 
assured him he had the marrow of the thing to 
come at as yet, and in that I was joined by Mr. 

Alison. There was at the same time a Lady M 

joined us at the instant ; short as her remark was, 
it seemed to make more impression on Jeffrey than 
all our arguments : — ' Oh, I do love Southey ! ' 
that was all. 

" I have no room to tell you more. But I beg; 
that you will not do any thing, nor publish any 
thing that will nettle Jeffrey for the present, 
knowing, as you do, how omnipotent he is with the 
fashionable world, and seemingly so well disposed 
toward you. 

" I am ever yours most truly, 

" James Hogg. 

" 1 wish the Notes may be safe enough. I never 
looked at them. I wish these large quartoes were 
all in hell burning." 

The reader will be as much amused as I was with 
poor Hogg's earnest desire that I would not say 
any thing which might tend to frustrate his friendly 
intentions. 

But what success the Shepherd met, 
Is to the world a secret yet. 

There can be no reason, however, for withhold- 
ing what was said in my reply of the crushing re- 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



649 



view which had been given to Mr. Wordsworth's 
poem : — "He crush the Excursion ! ! Tell him he 
might as easily crush Skiddaw ! " 

Keswick, 15 June, 1838. 



ORIGINAL PREFACE. 

The history of the Wisi-Goths for some years 
before their overthrow is very imperfectly known. 
It is, however, apparent that the enmity between 
the royal families of Chindasuintho and Wamba 
was one main cause of the destruction of the king- 
dom, the latter party having assisted in betraying 
their country to the Moors for the gratification of 
their own revenge. Theodofred and Favila were 
younger sons of King Chindasuintho ; King Witiza, 
who was of Wamba's family, put out the eyes of 
Theodofred, and murdered Favila, at the instigation 
of that Chieftain's wife, with whom he lived in 
adultery. Pelayo, the son of Favila, and afterwards 
the founder of the Spanish monarchy, was driven 
into exile. Roderick, the son of Theodofred, re- 
covered the throne, and put out Witiza's eyes in 
vengeance for his father ; but he spared Orpas, the 
brother of the tyrant, as being a Priest, and Ebba 
and Sisibert, the two sons of Witiza, by Pelayo's 
mother. It may be convenient thus briefly to pre- 
mise these circumstances of an obscure portion of 
history, with which few readers can be supposed to 
be familiar ; and a list of the principal persons who 
are introduced, or spoken of, may as properly be 
prefixed to a Poem as to a Play. 



Witiza, King of the Wisi-Gotlis ; detlironed and 

blinded by Roderick. 
Theodofred, .... son of King Cliindasuintlio, blinded by 

King Witiza. 

Favila, his bvotlier ; put to death by Witiza. 

The Wife of Favila, Witiza's adulterous mistress. 

{These four persons are dead before the action of the poem 

commences.) 

***** 

Roderick, the last King of the Wisi-Goths ; son 

of Theodofred. 
Pelayo, the founder of the Spanish Monarchy ; 

son of Favila. 

Gaudiosa, his wife. 

GuisLA, his sister. 

Favila, his son. 

Hermesind, his daughter. 

RusiLLA, widow of Theodofred, and mother of 

Roderick. 
Count Pedro, . . ) ^^^grfy] -^^^^^ of Cantabria. 
Count Eudon, . . ) 
Alphonso, ........ Count Pedro's son, afterwards King. 

Urban, Archbishop of Toledo. 

.NO, a Monk of the Caulian Schools, near 

Merida. 

Abdalaziz, the Moorish governor of Spain. 

Egilona, formerly the wife of Roderick, now of 

Abulcacem, • • • "1 [Abdalaziz. 

Alcahman, .... 1 

Ayub, |- Moorish Chiefs. 

[brahim, I 

Magued, J 

82 



Urba? 
[Romap 



Orpas, brother to Witiza, and formerly Arch- 
bishop of Seville, now a renegade. 
isiBERT, ) g^^g of Witiza and of Pelayo's mother. 

liBBA, ) ■' 

NuMAciAN, a renegade, governor of Gegio. 

Count Julian, ... a powerful Lord among the Wisi-Goths, 
now a renegade. 

Florinda, his daughter, violated by King Roderick. 

***** 

Adosinda, daughter of the Governor of Auria. 

Odoar, Abbot of St. Felix 

SiVERiAN, Roderick's foster-father. 

Favinia, Count Pedro's wife. 

The four latter persons are imaginary. All the others are 
mentioned in history. I ought, however, to observe, that 
Romano is a creature of monkish legends ; that the name of 
Pelayo's sister has not been preserved ; and that that of Rod- 
erick's mother, Ruscilo, has been altered to Rusilla. for tha 
sake of euphony. 



RODERICK AND ROMANO. 

Long had the crimes of Spain cried out to Heaven : 

At length the measure of ofiience was full. 

Count Julian calfd the invaders ; not because 

Inhuman priests with unoffending blood 

Had stain'd their country : not because a yoke 

Of iron servitude oppress'd and gall'd 

The children of the soil : a private wrong 

Roused the remorseless Baron. Mad to wreak 

His vengeance, for his violated child. 

On Roderick's head, in evil hour for Spain, 

For that unhappy daughter, and himself, — 

Desperate apostate ! — on the Moors he call'd ; 

And like a cloud of locusts, whom the South 

Wafts from the plains of wasted Africa, 

The Mussulmen upon Iberia's shore 

Descend. A countless multitude they came ; 

Syrian, Moor, Saracen, Greek renegade, 

Persian, and Copt, and Tatar, in one bond 

Of erring faith conjoin'd, — strong in the youth 

And heat of zeal, — a dreadful brotherhood. 

In whom all turbulent vices were let loose ; 

While Conscience, with their impious creed ac- 

curs'd 
Drunk as with wine, had sanctified to them 
All bloody, all abominable things. 

Thou, Calpe, saw'st their coming ; ancient Rock 
Renown'd, no longer now shalt thou be call'd 
From Gods and Heroes of the years of yore, 
Kronos, or hundred-handed Briareus, 
Bacchus, or Hercules ; but doom'd to bear 
The name of thy new conqueror, and thenceforth 
To stand his everlasting monument. 
Thou saw'st the dark-blue waters flash before 
Their ominous way, and whiten round their keels ; 
Their swarthy myriads darkening o'er thy sands. 
There, on the beach, the Misbelievers spread 
Their banners, flaunting to the sun and breeze ; 
Fair shone the sun upon their proud array, 
White turbans, glittering armor, shields engrail'd 
With gold, and cimeters of Syrian steel ; 
And gently did the breezes, as in sport, 



650 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Curl their long flags outrolling, and display 
The blazon'd scrolls of blasphemy. Too soon 
The gales of Spain from that unhappy land 
Wafted, as from an open charnel-house, 
The taint of death ; and that bright sun, from fields 
Of slaughter, with the morning dew drew up 
Corruption through the infected atmosphere. 

Then fell the kingdom of the Goths ; their hour 
Was come, and Vengeance, long withheld, went 

loose. 
Famine and Pestilence had wasted them. 
And Treason, like an old and eating sore, 
Consumed the bones and sinews of their strength ; 
And, worst of enemies, their Sins were arm'd 
Against them. Yet the sceptre from their hands 
Pass'd not away inglorious, nor v/as shame 
Left for their children's lasting heritage ; 
Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve. 
The fatal fight endured, till perfidy 
Prevailing to their overthrow, they sunk 
Defeated, not dishonor'd. On the banks 
Of Chrysus, Roderick's royal car was found, 
His battle-horse Orelio, and that helm 
Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray 
Eminent, had mark'd his presence. Did the 

stream 
Receive him with the undistinguish'd dead, 
Christian and Moor, who clogg'd its course that 

day? 
So thought the Conqueror ; and from that day forth, 
Memorial of his perfect victory. 
He bade the river bear the name of Joy. 
So thought the Goths ; they said no prayer for him, 
For him no service sung, nor mourning made, 
But charged their crimes upon his head, and cursed 
His memory. 

Bravely in that eight-days' fight 
The King had striven, — for victory first, while 

hope 
Remain'd, then desperately in search of death. 
The arrows pass'd him by to right and left; 
The spear-point pierced him not ; the cimeter 
Glanced from his helmet. Is the shield of Heaven, 
Wretch that I am, extended over me .'' 
Cried Roderick ; and he dropp'd Orelio's reins. 
And threw his hands aloft in frantic prayer, — 
Death is the only mercy that I crave. 
Death soon and short, death and forgetfulness ! 
Aloud he cried ; but in his inmost heart 
There answer'd him a secret voice, that spake 
Of righteousness and judgment after death. 
And God's redeeming love, which fain would save 
The guilty soul alive. 'Twas ag-ony. 
And yet 'twas hope ; — a momentary light, 
That flash'd through utter darkness on the Cross 
To point salvation, then left all within 
Dark as before. Fear, never felt till then. 
Sudden and irresistible as stroke 
Of lightning, smote him. From his horse he dropp'd, 
Whether with human impulse, or by Heaven 
Struck down, he knew not; loosen'd from his wrist 
The sword-chain, and let fall the sword, whose hilt 
Clung to his palm a moment ere it fell. 
Glued there with Moorish gore. His royal robe, 



His horned helmet and enamell'd mail, 

He cast aside, and taking from the dead 

A peasant's garment, in those weeds involved 

Stole like a thief in darkness from the field. 

Evening closed round to favor him. All night 
He fled, the sound of battle in his ear 
Ringing, and sights of death before his eyes, 
With forms more horrible of eager fiends 
That seem'd to hover round, and gulfs of fire 
Opening beneath his feet. At times the groan 
Of some poor fugitive, who, bearing with him 
His mortal hurt, had fallen beside the way, 
Pvoused him from these dread visions, and he call'd 
In answering groans on his Redeemer's name, 
That word the only prayer that pass'd his lips, 
Or rose within his heart. Then would he see 
The Cross whereon a bleeding Savior hung, 
Who call'd on him to come and cleanse his soul 
In tliose all-healing streams, which from his 

wounds. 
As from perpetual springs, forever flow'd. 
No hart e'er panted for the water-brooks 
As Roderick thirsted there to drink and live ; 
But Hell was interposed ; and worse than Hell — ^ 
Yea, to his eyes more dreadful than the fiends 
Who flock'd like hungry ravens round his head, — 
Florinda stood between, and warn'd him off" 
With her abhorrent hands, — that agony 
Still in her face, which, when the deed was done, 
Inflicted on her ravisher the curse 
That it invoked from Heaven. — Oh, what a night 
Of waking horrors ! Nor, when morning came, 
Did the realities of light and day 
Bring aught of comfort ; wheresoe'er he went 
The tidings of defeat had gone before ; 
And leaving their defenceless homes to seek 
What shelter walls and battlements might yield, 
Old men with feeble feet, and tottering babes, 
And widows with their infants in their arms. 
Hurried along. Nor royal festival. 
Nor sacred pageant, with like multitudes 
E'er fill'd the public way. All whom the sword 
Had spared were here ; bed-rid infirmity 
Alone was left behind ; the cripple plied 
His crutches ; with her child of yesterday 
The mother fled, and she whose hour was come 
Fell by the road. 

Less dreadful than this view 
Of outward suffering which the day disclosed, 
Had night and darkness seem'd to Roderick's heart,] 
With all their dread creations. From the throng 
He turn'd aside, unable to endure 
This burden of the general woe ; nor walls. 
Nor towers, nor mountain fastnesses he sought; 
A firmer hold his spirit yearn'd to find, 
A rock of surer strength. Unknowing where, 
Straight through the wild he hasten'd on all day, 
And with unslacken'd speed was travelling still 
When evening gather'd round. Seven days, from 

morn 
Till night, he travell'd thus ; the forest oaks, 
The fig-grove by the fearful husbandman 
Forsaken to the spoiler, and the vines, 
Where fox and household dog together now 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



651 



Fed on the vintage, gave him food ; the hand 
Of Heaven was on him, and the agony 
Which wrought within, supphed a strength beyond 
All natural force of man. 

When the eighth eve 
Was come, he found himself on Ana's banks. 
Fast by the Caulian Schools. It was the hour 
Of vespers; but no vesper-bell was heard. 
Nor other sound, than of the passing stream. 
Or stork, who, flapping with wide wing the air. 
Sought her broad nest upon the silent tower. 
Brethren and pupils thence alike had fled 
To save themselves within the embattled walls 
Of neighboring Merida. One aged Monk 
Alone was left behind; he would not leave 
The sacred spot beloved, for having served 
There, from his childhood up to ripe old aoe, 
God's holy altar, it became him now. 
He thought, before that altar to await 
The merciless misbelievers, and lay down 
His life, a willing martyr. So he staid 
When all were gone, and duly fed the lamps. 
And kept devotedly the altar dress'd, 
And duly offer'd up the sacrifice. 
Four days and nights he thus had pass'd alone, 
In such high mood of saintly fortitude. 
That hope of Heaven became a heavenly joy ; 
And now at evening to the gate he went. 
If he might spy the Moors, — for it seem'd long 
To tarry for his crown. 

Before the Cross 
Roderick had thrown himself; his body raised. 
Half kneeling, half at length he lay ; his arms 
Embraced its foot, and from his lifted face 
Tears streaming downbedew'd the senseless stone. 
He had not wept till now ; and at the gush 
Of these first tears, it seem'd as if his heart, 
From a long winter's icy thrall let loose. 
Had open'd to the genial influences 
Of Heaven. In attitude, but not in act 
Of prayer he lay ; an agony of tears 
Was all his soul could otter. When the Monk 
Beheld him suffering thus, he raised him up, 
And took him by the arm, and led him in ; 
And there, before the altar, in tlie name 
Of Him whose bleeding image there was hung. 
Spake comfort, and adjured him in that name 
There to lay down the burden of his sins. 
Lo ! said Romano, I am waiting here 
The coming of the Moors, that from their hands 
My spirit may receive the purple robe 
Of martyrdom, and rise to claim its crown. 
That God who willeth not the sinner's death 
Hath led thee hither. Threescore years and five. 
Even from the hour when I, a five-years' child, 
Enter'd the schools, have I continued here, 
And served the altar : not in all those years 
Hath such a contrite and a broken heart 
Appear'd before me. O my brother. Heaven 
Hath sent thee for thy comfort, and for mine. 
That my last earthly act may reconcile 
A sinner to his God. 

Then Roderick knelt 
Before the holy man, and strove to speak. 
Thou seest, he cried, — thou seest, — but memory 



And suffocating thoughts repress'd the word, 

And shudderings like an ague-fit, from head 

To foot convulsed him ; till at length, subduing 

His nature to the eflfort, he exclaim'd. 

Spreading his hands and lifting up his face, 

As if resolved in penitence to bear 

A human eye upon his shame, — Thou seest 

Roderick the Goth ! That name would have sufficed 

To tell its whole abhorred history : 

He not the less pursued, — the ravisher, 

The cause of all this ruin ! Having said, 

In the same posture motionless he knelt. 

Arms straightened down, and hands outspread, and 

eyes 
Raised to the Monk, like one who from his voice 
Awaited life or death. 

All night the old man 
Pray'd with his penitent, and minister'd 
Unto the wounded soul, till he infused 
A healing hope of mercy that allay'd 
Its heat of anguish. But Romano saw 
What strong temptations of despair beset, 
And how he needed in this second birth, 
Even like a yearling child, a fosterer's care. 
Father in Heaven, he cried, thy will be done ! 
Surely I hoped that I this day should sing 
Hosannahs at thy throne ; but thou hast yet 
Work for thy servant here. He girt his loins. 
And from her altar took, with reverent hands. 
Our Lady's image down : In this, quoth he. 
We have our guide, and guard, and comforter. 
The best provision for our perilous way. 
Fear not but we shall find a resting-place ; 
The Almighty's hand is on us. 

They went forth ; 
They cross'd the stream ; and when Romano turn'd 
For his last look toward the Caulian towers, 
Far off" the Moorish standards in the light 
Of morn were glittering, where the miscreant host 
Toward the Lusitanian capital 
To lay their siege advanced ; the eastern breeze 
Bore to the fearful travellers far away 
The sound of horn and tambour o'er the plain. 
All day they hasten'd, and when evening fell, 
Sped toward the setting sun, as if its line 
Of glory came from Heaven to point their course. 
But feeble were the feet of that old man 
For such a weary length of way ; and now 
Being pass'd the danger, (for in Merida 
Sacaru long in resolute defence 
Withstood the tide of war,) with easier pace 
The wanderers journey 'd on; till having cross'd 
Rich Tagus, and the rapid Zezere, 
They from Albardos' hoary height beheld 
Pine-forest, fruitful vale, and that fair lake 
Where Alcoa, mingled there with Baza's stream, 
Rests on its passage to the western sea. 
That sea the aim and boundary of their toil. 

The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage 
Was full, when they arrived where from the land 
A rocky hill, rising with steep ascent, 
O'erhung the glittering beach ; there, on the top, 
A little, lowly hermitage they found. 
And a rude Cross, and at its foot a grave, 



652 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Bearing no name, nor other monument. 

Where better could they rest than here, where faith, 

And secret penitence, and happiest death, 

Had bless'd the spot, and brought good Angels 

down, 
And open'd, as it were, a way to Heaven ? 
Behind them was the desert, offering fruit 
And water for their need ; on either side 
The white sand sparkling to the sun ; in front, 
Great Ocean with its everlasting voice, 
As in perpetual jubilee, proclaim'd 
The wonders of the Almighty, filling thus 
The pauses of their fervent orisons. 
Where better could the wanderers rest than here .? 



H. 



RODERICK IN SOLITUDE. 

Twelve months they sojourn'd in their solitude, 
And then beneath the burden of old age 
Romano sunk. No brethren were there here 
To spread the sackcloth, and with ashes strow 
That penitential bed, and gather round 
To sing his requiem, and with prayer and psalm 
Assist him in his hour of agony. 
He lay on the bare earth, which long had been 
His only couch ; beside him Roderick knelt, 
Moisten'd from time to time his blacken'd lips. 
Received a blessing with his latest breath. 
Then closed his eyes, and by the nameless grave 
Of the fore-tenant of that holy place 
Consign'd him, earth to earth. 

Two graves are here ; 
And Roderick, transverse at their feet, began 
To break the third. In all his intervals 
Of prayer, save only when he search'd the woods 
And fill'd the water-cruise, he labor'd there ; 
And when the work was done, and he had laid 
Himself at length within its narrow sides 
And measured it, he shook his head to think 
There was no other business now for him. 
Poor wretch, thy bed is ready, he exclaim'd, 
And would that night were come ! — It was a task. 
All gloomy as it was, which had beguiled 
The sense of solitude ; but now he felt 
The burden of the solitary hours : 
The silence of that lonely hermitage 
Lay on him like a spell ; and at the voice 
Of his own prayers, he started, half aghast. 
Then, too, as on Romano's grave he sat 
And pored upon his own, a natural thought 
Arose within him, — well might he have spared 
That useless toil ; the sepulchre would be 
No hiding-place for him; no Christian hands 
Were here who should compose his decent corpse 
And cover it with earth. There he might drag 
His wretched body at its passing hour; 
But there the Sea-Birds of her heritage 
Would rob the worm, or peradventure seize. 
Ere death had done its work, their helpless prey. 
Even now they did not fear him : when he walk'd 
Beside them on the beach, regardlcssly 



They saw his coming ; and their whirring wings 
Upon the height had sometimes fann'd his cheek, 
As if, being thus alone, humanity 
Had lost its rank, and the prerogative 
Of man were done away. 

For his lost crown 
And sceptre never had he felt a thought 
Of pain ; repentance had no pangs to spare 
For trifles such as these, — the loss of these 
Was a cheap penalty ; — that he had fallen 
Down to the lowest depth of wretchedness, 
His hope and consolation. But to lose 
His human station in the scale of things, — 
To see brute nature scorn him, and renounce 
Its homage to the human form divine ; — 
Had then Almighty vengeance thus reveal'd 
His punishment, and was he fallen indeed 
Below fallen man, below redemption's reach, — 
Made lower than the beasts, and like the beasts 
To perish ! — Such temptations troubled him 
By day, and in the visions of the night ; 
And even in sleep he struggled with the thought, 
And waking with the effort of his prayers, 
The dream assail'd him still. 

A wilder form 
Sometimes his poignant penitence assumed, 
Starting with force revived from intervals 
Of calmer passion, or exhausted rest ; 
When floating back upon the tide of thought 
Remembrance to a self-excusing strain 
Beguiled him, and recall'd in long array 
The sorrows and the secret impulses 
Which to the abyss of wretchedness and guilt 
Led their unwary victim. The evil hour 
Return'd upon him, when reluctantly 
Yielding to worldly counsel his assent, 
In wedlock to an ill-assorted mate 
He gave his cold, unwilling hand : then came ! 
The disappointment of the barren bed. 
The hope deceived, the soul dissatisfied, 
Home without love, and privacy from which ( 

Delight was banish'd first, and peace too soon 
Departed. Was it strange that, when he met 
A heart attuned, — a spirit like his own, 
Of lofty pitch, yet in affection mild, 
And tender as a youthful mother's joy, — 
Oh, was it strange if, at such sympathy. 
The feelings, which within his breast repell'd 
And chill'd, had shrunk, should open forth like 

flowers 
After cold winds of night, when gentle gales 
Restore the genial sun ? If all were known, 
Would it indeed be not to be forgiven .? — 
(Thus would he lay the unction to his soul,) 
If all were truly known, as Heaven knows all, 
Heaven, that is merciful as Avell as just, — 
A passion slow and mutual in its growth, 
Pure as fraternal love, long self-conceaPd, 
And when confess'd in silence, long-controll'd ; 
Treacherous occasion, human frailty, fear 
Of endless separation, worse than death, — 
The purpose and the hope with which the Fiend 
Tempted, deceived, and madden'd him ; — but the 
As at a new temptation would he start, 
Shuddering beneath the intolerable shame, 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



653 



And clinch in agony his matted hair ; 
While in his soul the perilous thought arose, 
How easy 'twere to plunge where yonder waves 
Invited him to rest. 

Oh for a voice 
Of comfort, — for a ray of hope from Heaven ! 
A hand that from these billows of despair 
May reach and snatch him ere he sink ingulf 'd ! 
At length, as life, when it hath lain long time 
Oppress'd beneath some grievous malady, 
Seems to rouse up with re-collected strength. 
And the sick man doth feel within himself 
A second spring, so Roderick's better mind 
Arose to save him. Lo ! the western sun 
Flames o'er the broad Atlantic ; on the verge 
Of glowing ocean rests ; retiring then 
Draws with it all its rays, and sudden night 
Fills the whole cope of heaven. The penitent 
Knelt by Romano's grave, and falling prone, 
Clasp'd with extended arms the funeral mould. 
Father ! he cried ; Companion ! only friend. 
When all beside was lost ! thou too art gone. 
And the poor sinner whom from utter death 
Thy providential hand preserved, once more 
Totters upon the gulf I am too weak 
For solitude, — too vile a wretch to bear 
This everlasting commune with myself. 
The Tempter hath assail'd me ; my own heart 
Is leagued with him ; Despair hath laid the nets 
To take my soul, and Memory, like a ghost, 
Haunts me, and drives me to the toils. O Saint, 
While I was bless'd with thee, the hermitage 
Was my sure haven ! Look upon me still. 
For from thy heavenly mansion thou canst see 
The suppliant ; look upon thy child in Christ. 
Is there no other way for penitence ? 
I ask not martyrdom ; for what am I 
That I should pray for triumphs, the fit meed 
Of a long life of holy works like thine ; 
Or how should I presumptuously aspire 
To wear the heavenly crown resign'd by thee. 
For my poor sinful sake .? Oh point me thou 
Some humblest, painfulest, severest path, — 
Some new austerity, unheard of yet 
In Syrian fields of glory, or the sands 
Of holiest Egypt. Let me bind my brow 
With thorns, and barefoot seek Jerusalem, 
Tracking the way with blood ; there, day by day, 
Inflict upon this guilty flesh the scourge, 
Drink vinegar and gall, and for my bed 
Hang with extended limbs upon the Cross, 
Al nightly crucifixion ! — any thing 
L)f action, difficulty, bodily pain, 
Labor, and outward suffering, — any thing 
But stillness and this dreadful solitude ! 
Elomano ! Father ! let me hear thy voice 
n dreams, O sainted Soul ! or from the grave 
5peak to thy penitent; even from the grave 
Thine were a voice of comfort. 

Thus he cried, 
!^asing the pressure of his burden'd heart 
-Vith passionate prayer ; thus pour'd his spirit forth, 
^ill, with the long, impetuous effort spent, 
lis spirit fail'd, and, laying on the grave 
lis weary head as on a pillow, sleep 



Fell on him. He had pray'd to hear a voice 

Of consolation, and in dreams a voice 

Of consolation came. Roderick, it said, — 

Roderick, my poor, unhappy, sinful child, 

Jesus have mercy on thee ! — Not if Heaven 

Had opened, and Romano, visible 

In his beatitude, had breathed that prayer; — 

Not if the grave had spoken, had it pierced 

So deeply in his soul, nor wrung his heart 

With such compunctious visitings, nor given 

So quick, so keen a pang. It was that voice 

Which sung his fretful infancy to sleep 

So patiently ; which soothed his childish griefs, 

Counseird, with anguish and prophetic tears, 

His headstrong youth. And lo ! his Mother stood 

Before him in the vision ; in those weeds 

Which never from the hour when to the grave 

She follow'd her dear lord Theodofred 

Rusilla laid aside ; but in her face 

A sorrow that bespake a heavier load 

At heart, and more unmitigated woe, — 

Yea, a more mortal wretchedness than when 

Witiza's ruffians and the red-hot brass 

Had done their work, and in her arms she held 

Her eyeless husband ; wiped away the sweat 

Which still his tortures forced from every pore ; 

Cool'd his scorch'd lids with medicinal herbs. 

And pray'd the while for patience for herself 

And him, and pray'd for vengeance too, and found 

Best comfort in her curses. In his dream, 

Groaning he knelt before her to beseech 

Her blessing, and she raised her hands to lay 

A benediction on him. But those hands 

Were chain'd, and casting a wild look around. 

With thrilling voice she cried, Will no one break 

These shameful fetters .? Pedro, Theudemir, 

Athanagild, where are ye .? Roderick's arm 

Is wither'd ; — Chiefs of Spain, but where are ye ? 

And thou, Pelayo, thou our surest hope, 

Dost thou, too, sleep ? — Awake, Pelayo ! — up ! — 

Why tarriest thou. Deliverer ? — But with that 

She broke her bonds, and, lo ! her form was 

changed ! 
Radiant in arms she stood ! a bloody Cross 
Gleam'd on her breastplate ; in her shield display'd. 
Erect a lion ramp'd; her helmed head 
Rose like the Berecynthian Goddess crown'd 
With towers, and in her dreadful hand the sword 
Red as a firebrand blazed. Anon the tramp 
Of horsemen, and the din of multitudes 
Moving to mortal conflict, rang around ; 
The battle-song, the clang of sword and shield, 
War-cries, and tumult, strife, and hate, and rage, 
Blasphemous prayers, confusion, agony. 
Rout, and pursuit, and death ; and over all 
The shout of victory, — Spain and Victory ! 
Roderick, as the strong vision master'd him, 
Rush'd to the fight rejoicing : starting then, 
As his own effort burst the charm of sleep. 
He found himself upon that lonely grave 
In moonlight and in silence. But the dream 
Wrought in him still ; for still he felt his heart 
Pant, and his wither'd arm was trembling still ; 
And still that voice was in his ear which call'd 
On Jesus for his sake. 



G54 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



Oh, might he hear 
That actual voice ! and if Rusilla hved, — 
If shame and anguish for his crimes not yet 
Had brought her to the grave, — sure she would 

bless 
Her penitent child, and pour into his heart 
Prayers and forgiveness, which like precious balm 
Would heal the wounded soul. Nor to herself 
Less precious, or less healing, would the voice 
That spake forgiveness flow. She wept her son 
Forever lost, cut off with all the weight 
Of unrepented sin upon his head, 
Sin which had weigh'd a nation down — what joy 
To know that righteous Heaven had in its wrath 
Remember' d mercy, and she yet might meet 
The child whom she had borne, redeem'd, in bliss ! 
The sudden impulse of such thoughts confirm'd 
That unacknowledged purpose, which till now 
Vainly had sought its end. He girt his loins, 
Laid holiest Mary's image in a cleft 
Of the rock, where, shelter' d from the elements, 
It might abide till happier days came on. 
From all defilement safe ; pour'd his last prayer 
Upon Romano's grave, and kiss'd the earth 
Which cover'd his remains, and wept as if 
At long leave-taking, then began his way. 



III. 



ADOSINDA. 



'TwAS now the earliest morning ; soon the Sun, 

Rising above Albardos, pour'd his light 

Amid the forest, and with ray aslant 

Entering its depth, illumed the branchless pines, 

Brighten'd their bark, tinged with a redder hue 

Its rusty stains, and cast along the floor 

Long lines of shadow, where they rose erect 

Like pillars of the temple. With slow foot 

Roderick pursued his way ; for penitence, 

Remorse which gave no respite, and the long 

And painful conflict of his troubled soul, 

Had worn him down. Now, brighter thoughts 

arose, 
And that triumphant vision floated still 
Before his sight with all her blazonry. 
Her castled helm, and the victorious sword 
That flash'd like lightning o'er the field of blood. 
Sustain'd by thoughts like these, from morn till eve 
He journey'd, and drew near Leyria's walls. 
'Twas even-song time, but not a bell was heard ; 
Instead thereof, on her polluted towers, 
Bidding the Moors to their unhallow'd prayer, 
The crier stood, and with his sonorous voice 
Fill'd the delicious vale where Lena winds 
Through groves and pastoral meads. The sound, 

the sight 
Of turban, girdle, robe, and cimeter. 
And tawny skins, awoke contending thoughts 
Of anger, shame, and anguish in the Goth; 
The face of human-kind so long unseen 
Confused him now, and through the streets he went 
With hagged mien, and countenance like one 



Crazed or bewilder'd. All who met him turn'd, 
And wonder'd as he pass'd. One stopp'd him short, 
Put alms into his hand, and then desired. 
In broken Gothic speech, the moon-struck man 
To bless him. With a look of vacancy 
Roderick received the alms ; his wandering eye 
Fell on the money ; and the fallen King, 
Seeing his own royal impress on the piece, 
Broke out into a quick, convulsive voice. 
That seem'd like laughter first, but ended soon 
In hollow groans suppress'd : the Mussulman 
Shrunk at the ghastly sound, and magnified 
The name of Allah as he hasten'd on. 
A Christian woman, spinning at her door. 
Beheld him, and, with sudden pity touch'd, 
She laid her spindle by, and running in, 
Took bread, and following after, call'd him back, 
And placing in his passive hands the loaf. 
She said, Christ Jesus for his mother's sake 
Have mercy on thee ! With a look that seem'd 
Like idiotcy he heard her, and stood still. 
Staring awhile ; then, bursting into tears, 
Wept like a child, and thus relieved his heart. 
Full even to bursting else with swelling thoughts. 
So through the streets, and through the northern 

gate. 
Did Roderick, reckless of a resting-place, 
With feeble yet with hurried step pursue 
His agitated way ; and when he reach'd 
The open fields, and found himself alone 
Beneath the starry canopy of Heaven, 
The sense of solitude, so dreadful late. 
Was then repose and comfort. There he stopp'd 
Beside a little rill, and brake the loaf; 
And shedding o'er that long untasted food 
Painful but quiet tears, with grateful soul 
He breathed thanksgiving forth, then made his bed 
On heath and myrtle. 

But when he arose 
At day-break, and pursued his way, his heart 
Felt lighten'd that the shock of mingling first 
Among his fellow-kind was overpast ; 
And journeying on, he greeted whom he met 
With such short interchange of benison 
As each to other gentle travellers give, 
Recovering thus the power of social speech 
Which he had long disused. When hunger press'd, 
He ask'd for alms : slight supplication served ; 
A countenance so pale and woe-begone 
Moved all to pity ; and the marks it bore 
Of rigorous penance and austerest life. 
With something, too, of majesty that still 
Appear'd amid the wreck, inspired a sense 
Of reverence too. The goat-herd on the hills 
Open'd his scrip for him ; the babe in arms. 
Affrighted at his visage, turn'd away. 
And clinging to the mother's neck in tears, 
Would yet again look up, and then again 
Shrink back, with cry renew'd. The bolder imps. 
Sporting beside the way, at his approach 
Brake off" their games for wonder, and stood still 
In silence ; some among them cried, A Saint ! 
The village matron, when she gave him food, 
Besought his prayers ; and one entreated him 
To lay his healing hands upon her child, 



IIU 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



655 



For with a sore and hopeless malady 
Wasting it long had lain, — and sure, she said 
He was a man of God. 

Thus travelling on. 
He pass'd the vale where wild Arunca pours 
Its wintry torrents ; and the happier site 
Of old Conimbrica, whose ruin'd towers 
Bore record of the fierce Alani's wrath. 
Mondego, too, he cross'd, not yet renown'd 
In poet's amorous lay ; and left behind 
The walls at whose foundation pious hands 
Of Priest, and Monk, and Bishop meekly toil'd, — 
So had the insulting Arian given command. 
Those stately palaces and rich domains 
Were now the Moor's ; and many a weary age 
Must Coimbra wear the misbeliever's yoke. 
Before Fernando's banner through her gate 
Shall pass triumphant, and her hallow'd Mosque 
Behold the hero of Bivar receive 
The knighthood which he glorified so oft 
In his victorious fields. Oh, if the years 
To come mightthenhave risen on Roderick's soul. 
How had they kindled and consoled his heart! — 
What joy might Douro's haven then have given, 
Whence Portugal, the faithful and the brave, 
Shall take her name illustrious ! — what, those 

walls 
Where Mumadona one day will erect 
Convent, and town, and towers, which shall become 
The cradle of that famous monarchy I 
What joy might these prophetic scenes have 

given,— 
What ample vengeance on the Mussulman, 
Driven out with foul defeat, and made to feel 
In Africa the wrongs he wrought to Spain ; 
And still pursued by that relentless sword. 
Even to the farthest Orient, where his power 
Received its mortal wound ! 

Oh years of pride I 
In undiscoverable futurity. 
Yet unevolved, your destined glories lay ; 
And all that Roderick in these fated scenes 
Beheld, was grief and wretchedness, — the waste 
Of recent war, and that more mournful calm 
Of joyless, helpless, hopeless servitude. 
'Twas not the ruin'd walls of church or tower, 
Cottage, or hall, or convent, black with smoke; 
'Twas not the unburied bones, which, where the 



And crows had strown then, lay amid the field 

Bleaching in sun or shower, that wrung his heart 

With keenest anguish : 'twas when he beheld 

The turban'd traitor show his shameless front 

In the open eye of Heaven, — the renegade. 

On whose base, brutal nature, unredeem'd. 

Even bl;i"k apostasy itself could stamp 

No deeper reprobation at the hour 

Assign'd fall prostrate ; and unite the names 

Of God and the Blasphemer, — impious prayer, — 

Most impious, when from unbelieving lips 

The accursed utterance came. Then Roderick's 

heart 
With indignation burnt, and then he long'd 
To be a King again, that so, for Spain 
Betray 'd and his Redeemer thus renounced, 



He might inflict due punishment, and make 

These wretches feel his wrath. But when he saw 

The daughters of the land, — who, as they went 

With cheerful step to church, were wont to show 

Their innocent faces to all passers' eyes. 

Freely, and free from sin as when they look'd 

In adoration and in praise to Heaven, — 

Now ma.sk'd in Moorish mufflers, to the Mosque 

Holding uncompanied their jealous way, 

His spirit seem'd at that unhappy sight 

To die away within him, and he, too. 

Would fain have died, so death could bring with it 

Entire oblivion. 

Pcent with thoughts like these, 
He reach'd that city, once the seat renown'd 
Of Suevi kings, where, in contempt of Rome 
Degenerate long, the North's heroic race 
Raised first a rival throne ; now from its state 
Of proud regality debased and fallen. 
Still bounteous nature o'er the lovely vale, 
Where like a Queen rose Bracara august, 
Pour'd forth her gifts profuse ; perennial springs 
P"'low'd for her habitants, and genial suns, 
With kindly showers to bless the happy clime, 
Combined in vain their gentle influences ; 
For patient servitude was there, who bow'd 
His neck beneath the Moor, and silent grief 
That eats into the soul. The walls and stones 
Seem'd to reproach their dwellers ; stately piles 
Yet undecay'd, the mighty monuments 
Of Roman pomp, Barbaric palaces. 
And Gothic balls, where haughty Barons late 
Gladden'd their faithful vassals with the feast 
And flowing bowl, alike the spoiler's now. 

Leaving these captive scenes behind, he cross'd 
Cavado's silver current, and the banks 
Of Lima, through whose groves, in after years. 
Mournful yet sweet, Diogo's amorous lute 
Prolong'd its tunefvxl echoes. But when now, 
Beyond Arnoya's tributary tide, 
He came where Minho roll'd its ampler stream 
By Auria's ancient walls, fresh horrors met 
His startled view ; for prostrate in the dust 
Those walls were laid, and towers and temples 

stood 
Tottering in frightful ruins, as the flame 
Had left them black and bare ; and through the 

streets. 
All with the recent wreck of war bestrewn. 
Helmet and turban, cimeter and sword. 
Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay. 
Each where they fell; and blood-flakes, parch'd 

and crack'd 
Like the dry slime of some receding flood ; 
And half-burnt bodies, which allured from far 
The wolf and raven, and to impious food 
Tempted the houseless dog. 

A thrilling pang, 
A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul. 
Came over Roderick. Soon they pass'd away, 
And admiration in their stead arose, 
Stern joy and inextinguishable hope. 
With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now 
Indissolubly link'd. O valiant race, 



656 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



III. 



people excellently brave, he cried. 
True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last ; 
Though overpower 'd, triumphant, and in death 
Unconquer'd ! Holy be your memory ! 
Bless' d and glorious now and evermore 

Be your heroic names ! — Led by the sound, 
As thus he cried aloud, a woman came 
Toward him from the ruins. For the love 
Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while 
Thy charitable help ! — Her words, her voice, 
Her look, more horror to his heart convey'd 
Than all the havock round ; for though she spake 
With the calm utterance of despair, in tones 
Deep breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice 
Pour'd forth its hymns in ecstasy to Heaven. 
Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain'd 
With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled. 
Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty. 
Had every charm of form and feature given ; 
But now upon her rigid countenance 
Severest anguish set a fixedness 
Ghastlier than death. 

She led him through the streets 
A little way along, where four low walls, 
Heap'd rudely from the ruins round, enclosed 
A narrow space : and there upon the ground 
Four bodies, decently composed, were laid, 
Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore : 
A venerable ancient, by his side 
A comely matron, for whose middle age, 
(If ruthless slaughter had not intervened,) 
Nature, it seem'd, and gentle Time, might well 
Have many a calm declining year in store ; 
The third an armed warrior, on his breast 
An infant, over whom his arms were cross'd. 
There, — with firm eye and steady countenance. 
Unfaltering, she address'd him, — there they lie. 
Child, Husband, Parents, — Adosinda's all! 

1 could not break the earth with these poor hands. 
Nor other tomb provide, — but let that pass ! 
Auria itself is now but one wide tomb 

For all its habitants : — What better grave } 
What worthier monument .^ — Oh, cover not 
Their blood, thou Earth ! and ye, ye blessed Souls 
Of Heroes and of murder'd Innocents, 
Oh, never let your everlasting cries 
Cease round the Eternal Throne, till the Most High 
For all these unexampled wrongs hath given 
Full, overflowing vengeance ! 

While she spake. 
She raised her lofty hands to Heaven, as if 
Calling for justice on the Judgment-seat ; 
Then laid them on her eyes, and, leaning on, 
Bent o'er the open sepulchre. 

But soon. 
With quiet mien collectedly, like one 
Who from intense devotion, and the act 
Of ardent prayer, arising, girds himself 
For this world's daily business she arose. 
And said to Roderick, Help me now to raise 
The covering of the tomb. 

With half-burnt planks, 
Which she had gather'd for this funeral use, 
They roof'd the vault; then, laying stones above, 
They closed it down j last, rendering all secure, 



Stones upon stones they piled, till all appear'd 

A huge and shapeless heap. Enough, she cried ; 

And taking Roderick's hands in both her own, 

And wringing them with fervent thankfulness. 

May God show mercy to thee, she exclaim'd, 

When most thou needest mercy ! Who thou art 

I know not ; not of Auria, — ■■ for of all 

Her sons and daughters, save the one who stands 

Before thee, not a soul is left alive. 

But thou hast render'd to me, in my hour 

Of need, the only help which man could give. 

What else of consolation may be found 

For one so utterly bereft, from Heaven 

And from myself must come. For deem not thou 

That I shall sink beneath calamity : 

This visitation, like a lightning-stroke. 

Hath scathed the fruit and blossom of my youth ; 

One hour hath orphan'd me, and widow'd me, 

And made me childless. In this sepulchre 

Lie buried all my earthward hopes and fears. 

All human loves and natural charities ; — 

All womanly tenderness, all gentle thoughts, 

All female weakness too, I bury here. 

Yea, all my former nature. There remain 

Revenge and death : — the bitterness of death 

Is past, and Heaven already hath vouchsafed 

A foretaste of revenge. 

Look here ! she cried. 
And drawing back, held forth her bloody hands, — 
'Tis Moorish ! — In the day of massacre, 
A captain of Alcahman's murderous host 
Reserved me from the slaughter. Not because 
My rank and station tempted him with thoughts 
Of ransom, for amid the general waste 
Of ruin all was lost; — nor yet, be sure. 
That pity moved him, — they who from this race 
Accurs'd for pity look, such pity find 
As ravenous wolves show the defenceless flock. 
My husband at my feet had fallen ; my babe, — 
Spare me that thought, O God ! — and then — even 

then, 
Amid the maddening throes of agony 
Which rent my soul, — when, if this solid Earth 
Had open'd, and let out the central fire, 
Before whose all-involving flames wide Heaven 
Shall shrivel like a scroll, and be consumed, 
The universal wreck had been to me 
Relief and comfort ; — even then this Moor 
Turn'd on me his libidinous eyes, and bade 
His men reserve me safely for an hour 
Of dalliance, — me ! — me in my agonies ! 
But when I found for what this miscreant child 
Of Hell had snatch'd me from the butchery. 
The very horror of that monstrous thought 
Saved me from madness ; I was calm at once, — 
Yet comforted and reconciled to life ; 
Hatred became to me the life of life. 
Its purpose and its power. 

The glutted Moors 
At length broke up. This hell-dog turn'd aside 
Toward his home ; we travell'd fast and far, 
Till by a forest edge at eve he pitched 
His tents. I wash'd and ate at his command, 
Forcing revolted nature ; I composed 
My garments, and bound up my scatter'd hair; 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



657 



And when he took my hand, and to his couch 
Would fain have drawn me, gently I retired 
From that abominable touch, and said. 
Forbear to-night, I pray thee, for this day 
A widow, as thou seest me, am I made ; 
Therefore, according to our law, must watch 
And pray to-night. The loathsome villain paused 
Ere he assented, then laid down to rest ; 
While, at the door of the pavilion, I 
Knelt on the ground, and bowed my face to earth \ 
But when the neighboring tents had ceased their 

stir. 
The fires were out, and all were fast asleep, 
Then I arose. The blessed Moon from Heaven 
Lent me her holy light. I did not pray 
For strength, for strength was given me as I drew 
The cimeter, and standing o'er his couch, 
Raised it in both my hands with steady aim, 
And smote his neck. Upward, as from a spring 
When newly open'd by the husbandman. 
The villain's life-blood spouted. Twice I struck, 
So making vengeance sure; then, praising God, 
Retired amid the wood, and measured back 
My patient way to Auria, to perform 
This duty which thou seest 

As thus she spake, 
Roderick, intently listening, had forgot 
His crown, his kingdom, his calamities. 
His crimes, — so like a spell upon the Goth 
Her powerful words prevail'd. With open lips. 
And eager ear, and eyes which, while they watch'd 
Her features, caught the spirit that she breathed. 
Mute and enrapt he stood, and motionless ; 
The vision rose before him ; and that shout. 
Which, like a thunder-peal, victorious Spain 
Sent through the welkin, rung within his soul 
Its deep, prophetic echoes. On his brow 
The pride and power of former majesty 
Dawn'd once again, but changed and purified; 
Duty and high heroic purposes 
Now hallow 'd it, and, as with inward light. 
Illumed his meagre countenance austere. 

Awhile in silence Adosinda stood, 
Reading his alter'd visage and the thoughts 
Which thus transfigured him. Ay,sheexclaim'd, 
My tale hath moved thee ! it might move the dead, 
Quicken captivity's dead soul, and rouse 
This prostrate country from her mortal trance : 
Therefore I live to tell it ; and for this 
Hath the Lord God Almighty given to me 
A spirit not mine own and strength from Heaven ; 
Dealing with me as in the days of old 
With that Bethulian Matron when she saved 
His people from the spoiler. What remains 
But that the life which he hath thus preserved 
I consecrate to him .? Not veil'd and vow'd 
To pass my days in holiness and peace ; 
Nor yet between sepulchral walls immured, 
Alive to penitence alone ; my rule 
He hath himself prescribed, and hath infused 
A passion in this woman's breast, wherein 
All passions and all virtues are combined ; 
Love, hatred, joy, and anguish, and despair. 
And hope, and natural piety, and faith, 
83 



Make up tlie mighty feeling. Call it not 
Revenge ! thus sanctified, and thus sublimed, 
'Tis duty, 'tis devotion. Like the grace 
Of God, it came and saved me ; and in it 
Spain must have her salvation. In thy hands 
Here, on the grave of all my family, 
I make my vow. 

She said, and, kneeling down. 
Placed within Roderick's palms her folded hands. 
This life, she cried, I dedicate to God, 
Therewith to do him service in the way 
Which he hath shown. To rouse the land against 
This impious, this intolerable yoke, — 
To offer up the invader's hateful blood, — 
This shall be my employ, my rule and rite. 
Observances and sacrifice of faith ; 
For this I hold the life which he hath given, 
A sacred trust ; for this, when it shall suit 
His service, joyfully will lay it down. 
So deal with me as I fulfil the pledge, 
O Lord my God, my Savior, and my Judge, 

Then rising from the earth, she spread her arms, 
And looking round with sweeping eyes exclaim'd, 
Auria, and Spain, and Heaven receive the vow ! 



IV. 



THE MONASTERY OF ST. FELIX. 

Thus long had Roderick heard her powerful words 
In silence, awed before her ; but his heart 
Was fill'd the while with swelling sympathy. 
And now with impulse not to be restrain'd 
The feeling overpower'd him. Hear me too, 
Auria, and Spain, and Heaven ! he cried; and thou 
Who risest thus above mortality. 
Sufferer and patriot, saint and heroine, 
The servant and the chosen of the Lord, — 
For surely such thou art, — receive in me 
The first-fruits of thy calling. Kneeling then, 
And placing, as he spake, his hand in hers. 
As thou hast sworn, the royal Goth pursued. 
Even so I swear ; my soul hath found at length 
Her rest and refuge ; in the invader's blood 
She must efface her stains of mortal sin. 
And in redeeming this lost land, work out 
Redemption for herself. Herein I place 
My penance for the past, my hope to come, 
My faith and my good works ; here offer up 
All thoughts and passions of mine inmost heart. 
My days and nights, — this flesh, this blood, this 

life. 
Yea, this whole being, do I here devote 
For Spain. Receive the vow, all Saints in Heaven, 
And prosper its good end ! — Clap now your wings, 
The Goth with louder utterance, as he rose, 
Exclaim'd, — clap now your wings exultingly. 
Ye ravenous fowl of Heaven ; and in your dens 
Set up, ye wolves of Spain, a yell of joy ; 
For, lo ! a nation hath this day been sworn 
To furnish forth your banquet ; for a strife 



658 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



Hath been commenced, the which, from this day 

forth. 
Permits no breathing-time, and knows no end 
Till in this land the last invader bow 
His neck beneath the exterminating sword. 

Said I not rightly ? Adosinda cried ; 
The will which goads me on is not mine own ; 
'Tis from on high, — yea, verily of Heaven ! 
But who art thou who hast profess'd with me. 
My first sworn brother in the appointed rule ? 
Tell me thy name. 

Ask any thing but that ! 
The fallen King replied. My name was lost 
When from the Goths the sceptre pass'd away. 
The nation will arise regenerate ; 
Strong in her second youth, and beautiful, 
And like a spirit which hath shaken off 
The clog of dull mortality, shall Spain 
Arise in glory. But for my good name 
No resurrection is appointed here. 
Let it be blotted out on earth : in Heaven 
There shall be written with it penitence. 
And grace, and saving faith, and such good deeds 
Wrought in atonement as my soul this day 
Hath sworn to offer up. 

Then be thy name. 
She answer'd, Maccabee, from this day forth ; 
For this day art thou born again ; and like 
Those brethren of old times, whose holy names 
Live in the memory of all noble hearts 
For love and admiration, ever young, — 
So for our native country, for her hearths 
And altars, for her cradles and her graves. 
Hast thou thyself devoted. Let us now 
Each to our work — among the neighboring hills, 
I to the vassals of my father's house ; 
Thou to Visonia. Tell the Abbot there 
What thou hast seen at Auria ; and with him 
Take counsel who, of all our Baronage, 
Is worthiest to lead on the sons of Spain, 
And wear upon his brow the Spanish crown. 
Now, brother, fare thee well ! we part in hope, 
And we shall meet again, be sure, in joy. 

So saying, Adosinda left the King 
Alone amid the ruins. There he stood, 
As when Elisha, on the farther bank 
Of Jordan, saw that elder prophet mount 
The fiery chariot, and the steeds of fire. 
Trampling the whirlwind, bear him up the sky : 
Thus gazing after her did Roderick stand ; 
And as the immortal Tishbite left behind 
His mantle and prophetic power, even so 
Had her inspiring presence left infused 
The spirit which she breathed. Gazing he' stood. 
As at a heavenly visitation there 
Vouchsafed in mercy to himself and Spain ; 
And when the heroic mourner from his sight 
Had pass'd away, still reverential awe 
Held him suspended there and motionless. 
Then turning from the ghastly scene of death 
Up murmuring Lona, he began toward 
The holy Bierzo his obedient way. [vale 

Sil's ample stream he cross'd, where through the 



Of Orras, from that sacred land it bears 
The whole collected waters ; northward then, 
Skirting the heights of Aguiar, he reach'd 
That consecrated pile amid the wild, 
Which sainted Fructuoso in his zeal 
Rear'd to St. Fehx, on Visonia's banks. 

In commune with a priest of age mature, 
Whose thoughtful visage and majestic mien 
Bespake authority and weight of care, 
Odoar, the venerable Abbot, sat. 
When ushering Roderick in, the Porter said, 
A stranger came from Auria, and required 
His private ear. From Auria .? said the old man ; 
Comest thou from Auria, brother ? I can spare 
Thy painful errand then, — we know the worst. 

Nay, answer'd Roderick, but thou hast not heard 
My tale. Where that devoted city lies 
In ashes, mid the ruins and the dead 
T found a woman, whom the Moors had borne 
Captive away ; but she, by Heaven inspired 
And her good heart, with her own arm had wrought 
Her own deliverance, smiting in his tent 
A lustful Moorish miscreant, as of yore 
By Judith's holy deed the Assyrian fell. 
And that same spirit which had strengthen 'd her 
Work'd in her still. Four walls with patient toil 
She rear'd, wherein, as in a sepulchre. 
With her own hands she laid her murder'd babe, 
Her husband and her parents, side by side ; 
And when we cover'd in this shapeless tomb. 
There, on the grave of all her family. 
Did this courageous mourner dedicate 
All thoughts and actions of her future life 
To her poor country. For she said, that Heaven, 
Supporting her, in mercy had vouchsafed 
A foretaste of revenge ; that, like the grace 
Of God, revenge had saved her 5 that in it 
Spain must have her salvation ; and henceforth 
That passion, thus sublimed and sanctified. 
Must be to all the loyal sons of Spain 
The pole-star of their faith, their rule and rite. 
Observances and worthiest sacrifice. 
I took the vow, unworthy as I am. 
Her first sworn follower in the appointed rule ; 
And then we parted ; she among the hills 
To rouse the vassals of her father's house ; 
I at her bidding hitherv/ard, to ask 
Thy counsel, who, of our old Baronage, 
Shall place upon his brow the Spanish crown. 

The Lady Adosinda ^ Odoar cried. 
Roderick made answer. So she call'd herself. 

Oh, none but she ! exclaim'd the good old man, 
Clasping his hands, which trembled as he spake, 
In act of pious passion raised to Heaven, — 
Oh, none but Adosinda ! — none but she, — 
None but that noble heart, which was the heart 
Of Auria while it stood, its life and strength, 
More than her father's presence, or the arm 
Of her brave husband, valiant as he was. 
Hers was the spirit which inspired old age, 
Ambitious boyhood, girls in timid youth, 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



659 



And virgins in the beauty of their spring, 
And youthful mothers, doting, like herself, 
With ever-anxious love. She breathed through all 
That zeal and that devoted faithfulness, 
Which to the invader's threats and promises 
Turn'd a deaf ear alike ; which in the head 
And flood of prosperous fortune check 'd his 

course, 
Repell'd him from the walls, and when at length 
His overpowering numbers forced their way, 
Even in that uttermost extremity 
Unyielding, still from street to street, from house 
To house, from floor to floor, maintain'd the fight; 
Till by their altars falling, in their doors, 
And on their household hearths, and by their beds 
And cradles, and their fathers' sepulchres, 
This noble army, gloriously revenged, 
Embraced their martyrdom. Heroic souls ! 
Well have ye done, and righteously discharged 
Your arduous part ! Your service is perform'd, 
Your earthly warfare done ! Ye have put on 
The purple robe of everlasting peace ! 
Ye have received your crown ! Ye bear the palm 
Before the throne of Grace ! 

With that he paused. 
Checking the strong emotions of his soul. 
Then, with a solemn tone, addressing him, 
Who shared his secret thoughts, Thou knowest, 

he said, 
O Urban, that they have not fallen in vain ; 
For by this virtuous sacrifice they thinn'd 
Alcahman's thousands ; and his broken force, 
Exhausted by their dear-bought victory, 
Turn'd back from Auria, leaving us to breathe 
Among our mountains yet. We lack not here 
Good hearts, nor valiant hands. What walls, or 

towers. 
Or battlements are like these fastnesses. 
These rocks, and glens, and everlasting hills ? 
Give but that Aurian spirit, and the Moors 
Will spend their force as idly on these holds 
As round the rocky girdle of the land 
The wild Cantabrian billows waste their rage. 
Give but that spirit ! — Heaven hath given it us, 
If Adosinda thus, as from the dead, 
Be granted to our prayers ! 

And who art thou. 
Said Urban, who hast taken on thyself 
This rule of warlike faith .'' Thy countenance 
And those poor weeds bespeak a life ere this 
Devoted to austere observances. 

Roderick replied, I am a sinful man. 
One who in solitude hath long deplored 
A life misspent ; but never bound by vows, 
Till Adosinda taught me where to find 
Comfort, and how to work forgiveness out. 
When that exalted woman took my vow, 
She call'd me Maccabee ; from this day forth 
Be that my earthly name. Bat tell me now, 
Whom shall we rouse to take upon his head 
The crown of Spain ? Where are the Gothic 

Chiefs ? 
Sacaru, Theudemir, Athanagild, 
All who survived that eight-days' obstinate fight, 



When clogg'd with bodies, Chrysus scarce could 

force 
Its bloody stream along .'' Witiza's sons, 
Bad offspring of a stock accurs'd, I know. 
Have put the turban on their recreant heads. 
Where are your own Cantabrian Lords.'' I ween, 
Eudon, and Pedro, and Pelayo noAv 
Have ceased their rivalry. If Pelayo live, 
His were the worthy heart and rightful hand 
To wield the sceptre and the sword of Spain. 

Odoar and Urban eyed him while he spake. 
As if they wonder'd whose the tongue might be 
Familiar thus with Chiefs and thoughts of state. 
They scann'd his countenance, but not a trace 
Betray'd the Royal Goth : sunk was that eye 
Of sovereignty, and on the emaciate cheek 
Had penitence and anguish deeply drawn 
Their furrows premature, — forestalling time, 
And shedding upon thirty's brow more snows 
Than threescore winters in their natural course 
Might else have sprinkled there. It seems indeed 
That thou hast pass'd thy days in solitude, 
Replied the Abbot, or thou wouldst not ask 
Of things so long gone by. Athanagild 
And Theudemir have taken on their necks 
The yoke. Sacaru play'd a nobler part. 
Long within Merida did he withstand 
The invader's hot assault; and when at length, 
Hopeless of all relief, he yielded up 
The gates, disdaining in his fathers' land 
To breathe the air of bondage, with a few 
Found faithful till the last, indignantly 
Did he toward the ocean bend his way, 
And shaking from his feet the dust of Spain, 
Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown 
To seek for freedom. Our Cantabrian Chiefs 
All have submitted, but the wary Moor 
Trusteth not all alike. At his own Court 
He holds Pelayo, as suspecting most 
That calm and manly spirit; Pedro's son 
There too is held as hostage, and secures 
His father's faith ; Count Eudon is despised, 
And so lives unmolested. When he pays 
His tribute, an uncomfortable thought 
May then perhaps disturb him : — or more like 
He meditates how profitable 'twere 
To be a Moor ; and if apostasy 
Were all, and to be unbaptized might serve, — 
But I waste breath upon a wretch like this; 
Pelayo is the only hope of Spain, 
Only Pelayo. 

If, as we believe. 
Said Urban then, the hand of Heaven is here, 
And dreadful though they be, yet for M^ise end 
Of good, these visitations do its work ; 
And dimly as our mortal sight may scan 
The future, yet methinks my soul descries 
How in Pelayo should the purposes 
Of Heaven be best accomplish'd. All too long, 
Here in their own inheritance, the sons 
Of Spain have groan'd beneath a foreign yoke, 
Punic and Roman, Kelt, and Goth, and Greek : 
This latter tempest comes to sweep away 
All proud distinctions which commingling blood 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



And time's long course have fail'd to efface ; and 

now 
Perchance it is the will of Fate to rear 
Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne, 
Restoring in Pelayo's native line 
The sceptre to the Spaniard. 

Go thou, then, 
And seek Pelayo at the Conqueror's Court. 
Tell him the mountaineers are unsubdued ; 
The precious time they needed hath been gain'd 
By Auria's sacrifice, and all they ask 
Is him to guide them on. In Odoar's name 
And Urban's, tell him that the hour is come. 

Then, pausing for a moment, he pursued : — 
The rule which thou hast taken on thyself 
Toledo ratifies : 'tis meet for Spain, 
And as the will divine, to be received. 
Observed, and spread abroad. Come hither thou, 
Who for thyself hast chosen the good part ; 
Let me lay hands on thee, and consecrate 
Phy life unto the Lord. 

Me ! Roderick cried ; 
Me ! sinner that I am ! — and while he spake 
His wither'd cheek grew paler, and his limbs 
Shook. As thou goest among the infidels. 
Pursued the Primate, many thou wilt find 
Fallen from the faith ; by weakness some betray'd. 
Some led astray by baser hope of gain. 
And haply, too, by ill example led 
Of those in whom they trusted. Yet have these 
Their lonely hours, when sorrow, or the touch 
Of sickness, and that awful power divine 
Which hath its dwelling in the heart of man. 
Life of his soul, his monitor and judge, 
Move them with silent impulse ; but they look 
For help, and finding none to succor them, 
The irrevocable moment passeth by. 
Therefore, my brother, in the name of Christ 
Thus I lay hands on thee, that in His name 
Thou with His gracious promises mayst raise 
The fallen, and comfort those that are in need, 
And bring salvation to the penitent. 
Now, brother, go thy way : the peace of God 
Be with thee, and his blessing prosper us ! 



V. 



RODERICK AND SIVERIAN. 

Between St. Felix and the regal seat 

Of Abdalaziz, ancient Cordoba, 

Lay many a long day's journey interposed ; 

And many a mountain range hath Roderick cross'd. 

And many a lovely vale, ere he beheld 

Where Betis, winding through the unbounded 

plain, 
RoU'd his majestic waters. There, at eve. 
Entering an inn, he took his humble seat 
With other travellers round the crackling hearth, 
Where heath and cistus gave their fragrant flame. 
That flame no longer, as in other times, 
Lit up the countenance of easy mirth 



And light discourse : the talk which now went 

round 
Was of the grief that press'd on every heart; 
Of Spain subdued; the sceptre of the Goths 
Broken ; their nation and their name effaced ; 
Slaughter and mourning, which had left no house 
Unvisited ; and shame, which set its mark 
On every Spaniard's face. One who had seen 
His sons fall bravely at his side, bewail'd 
The unhappy chance which, rescuing him from 

death. 
Left him the last of all his family ; 
Yet he rejoiced to think that none who drew 
Their blood from him remain'd to wear the yoke, 
Be at the miscreant's beck, and propagate 
A breed of slaves to serve them. Here sat one 
Who told of fair possessions lost, and babes 
To goodly fortunes born, of all bereft. 
Another for a virgin daughter mourn'd, 
The lewd barbarian's spoil. A fourth had seen 
His only child forsake him in his age, 
And for a Moor renounce her hope in Christ. 
His was the heaviest grief of all, he said; 
And clinching, as he spake, his hoary locks, 
He cursed King Roderick's soul. 

Oh, curse him not ! 
Roderick exclaim' d, all shuddering as he spake. 
Oh, for the love of Jesus, curse him not ! 
Sufficient is the dreadful load of guilt 
That lies upon his miserable soul ! 
O brother, do not curse that sinful soul, 
Which Jesus suffer'd on the cross to save ! 

But then an old man, who had sat thus long 
A silent listener, from his seat arose, 
And moving round to Roderick, took his hand ; 
Christ bless thee, brother, for that Christian speech, 
He said ; and shame on me that any tongue 
Readier than mine was found to utter it ! 
His own emotion fill'd him while he spake, 
So that he did not feel how Roderick's hand 
Shook like a palsied limb ; and none could see 
How, at his well-known voice, the countenance 
Of that poor traveller suddenly was changed, 
And sunk with deadlier paleness ; for the flame 
Was spent, and from behind him, on the wall 
High hung, the lamp with feeble glimmering play 'd. 

Oh, it is ever thus ! the old man pursued ; 
The crimes and woes of universal Spain 
Are charged on him ; and curses, which should aim 
At living heads, pursue beyond the grave 
His poor unhappy soul ! As if his sin 
Had wrought the fall of our old monarchy ! 
As if the Mussulmen, in their career. 
Would ne'er have overleap'd the gulf which parts 
Iberia from the Mauritanian shore. 
If Julian had not beckon'd them ! — Alas ! 
The evils which drew on our overthrow. 
Would soon by other means have wrought their 

end, 
Though Julian's daughter should have lived and 

died 
A virgin vow'd and veil'd. 

Touch not on that, 



V. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



661 



Shrinking with inward shiverings at the thought, 

The penitent exclaim'd. Oh, if thou lovest 

The soul of Roderick, touch not on that deed ! 

God, in his mercy, may forgive it him, 

But human tongue must never speak his name 

Without reproach and utter infamy. 

For that abhorred act. Even thou — But here 

Siverian taking up the word, brake off, 

Unwittingly, the incautious speech. Even I, 

Quoth he, who nursed him in his father's hall, — 

Even I can only for that deed of shame 

Offer in agony my secret prayers. 

But Spain hath witness'd other crimes as foul : 

Have we not seen Favila's shameless wife, 

Throned in Witiza's ivory car, parade 

Our towns with regal pageantry, and bid 

The murderous tyrant in her husband's blood 

Dip his adulterous hand ? Did we not see 

Pelayo, by that bloody king's pursuit. 

And that unnatural mother, from the land 

With open outcry, like an outlaw'd thief, 

Hunted ? And saw ye not Theodofred, 

As through the streets I guided his dark steps, 

Roll mournfully toward the noon-day sun 

His blank and senseless eyeballs ? Spain saw this. 

And suffer'd it ! — I seek not to excuse 

The sin of Roderick. Jesu, who beholds 

The burning tears I shed in solitude. 

Knows how I plead for him in midnight prayer. 

But if, when he victoriously revenged 

The wrongs of Chindasuintho's house, his sword 

Had not for mercy turn'd aside its edge. 

Oh what a day of glory had there been 

Upon the banks of Chrysus ! Curse not him. 

Who in that fatal conflict to the last 

So valiantly maintain'd his country's cause ; 

But if your sorrow needs must have its vent 

In curses, let your imprecations strike 

The caitiffs, who, when Roderick's horned helm 

Rose eminent amid the thickest fight. 

Betraying him who spared and trusted them. 

Forsook their King, their Country, and their God, 

And gave the Moor his conquest. 

Ay ! they said. 
These were Witiza's hateful progeny ; 
And in an evil hour the unhappy King 
Had spared the viperous brood. With that they 

talk'd 
How Sisibert and Ebba through the land 
Guided the foe ; and Orpas, who had cast 
The mitre from his renegado brow, 
Went with the armies of the infidels ; 
And how in Hispalis, even where his hands 
Had minister'd so oft the bread of life. 
The circumcised apostate did not shame 
To show in open day his turban'd head. 
The Queen too, Egilona, one exclaim'd ; 
Was she not married to the enemy, 
The Moor, the Misbeliever ? What a heart 
Were hers, that she could pride and plume herself 
To rank among his herd of concubines, [say 

Having been what she had been ! And who could 
How far domestic wrongs and discontent 
Had wrought upon the King ! — Hereat the old 



Raismg beneath the knit and curly brow 
His mournful eyes, replied. This I can tell, 
That that unquiet spirit and unblest. 
Though Roderick never told his sorrows, drove 
Rusilla from the palace of her son. 
She could not bear to see his generous mind 
Wither beneath the unwholesome influence. 
And cankering at the core. And I know well, 
That oft, when she deplored his barren bed, 
The thought of Egilona's qualities 
Came like a bitter medicine for her grief, 
And to the extinction of her husband's line, 
Sad consolation, reconciled her heart. 

But Roderick, while they communed thus, had 
ceased 
To hear, such painfulest anxiety 
The sight of that old, venerable man 
Awoke. A sickening fear came over him : 
The hope which led him from his hermitage 
Now seem'd forever gone ; for well he knew 
Nothing but death could break the ties which bound 
That faithful servant to his father's house. 
She then for whose forgiveness he had yearn' d. 
Who in her blessing would have given and found 
The peace of Heaven, — she then was to the grave 
Gone down disconsolate at last ; in this. 
Of all the woes of her unhappy life 
Unhappiest, that she did not live to see 
God had vouchsafed repentance to her child. 
But then a hope arose that yet she lived ; 
The weighty cause which led Siverian here 
Might draw him from her side ; better to know 
The worst than fear it. And with that he bent 
Over the ambers, and with head half raised 
Aslant, and shadow'd by his hand, he said. 
Where is King Roderick's mother ? lives she still ? 

God hath upheld her, the old man replied ; 
She bears this last and heaviest of her griefs. 
Not as she bore her husband's wrongs, when hope 
And her indignant heart supported her; 
But patiently, like one who finds from Heaven 
A comfort which the world can neither give 
Nor take away. — Roderick inquired no more; 
He breathed a silent prayer in gratitude, 
Then wrapt his cloak around him, and lay down 
Where he might weep unseen. 

When morning came, 
Earliest of all the travellers he went forth. 
And linger'd for Siverian by the way. 
Beside a fountain, where the constant fall 
Of water its perpetual gurgling made. 
To the wayfaring or the musing man 
Sweetest of all sweet sounds. The Christian hand, 
Whose general charity for man and beast 
Built it in better times, had with a cross 
Of well-hewn stone crested the pious work, 
Which now the misbelievers had cast down, 
And broken in the dust it lay defiled. 
Roderick beheld it lying at his feet, 
And gathering reverently the fragments up, 
Placed them within the cistern, and restored 
With careful collocation its dear form, — 
So might the waters, like a crystal shrine, 



662 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Preserve it from pollution. Kneeling then, 
O'er the memorial of redeeming love 
He bent, and mingled with the fount his tears, 
And pour'd his spirit to the Crucified. 

A Moor came by, and seeing him, exclaim'd. 
Ah, KafFer ! worshipper of wood and stone, 
God's curse confound thee ! And as Roderick 

turn'd 
His face, the miscreant spurn'd him with his foot 
Between the eyes. The indignant King arose. 
And fell'd him to the ground. But then the Moor 
Drew forth his dagger, rising as he cried. 
What ! darest thou, thou infidel and slave, 
Strike a believer ? and he aim'd a blow [arm, 

At Roderick's breast. But Roderick caught his 
And closed, and wrench'd the dagger from his 

hold,— 
Such timely strength did those emaciate limbs 
From indignation draw, — and in his neck 
With mortal stroke he drove the avenging steel 
Hilt deep. Then, as the thirsty sand drank in 
The expiring miscreant's blood, he look'd around 
In sudden apprehension, lest the Moors 
Had seen them ; but Siverian was in sight. 
The only traveller, and he smote his mule, 
And hasten'd up. Ah, brother ! said the old man. 
Thine is a spirit of the ancient mould ! 
And would to God a thousand men like thee 
Had fought at Roderick's side on that last day 
When treason overpower'd him ! Now, alas ! 
A manly Gothic heart doth ill accord 
With these unhappy times. Come, let us hide 
This carrion, v/hile the favoring hour permits. 

So saying, he alighted. Soon they scoop'd 
Amid loose-lying sand a hasty grave. 
And levell'd over it the easy soil. 
Father, said Roderick, as they journey'd on, 
Let this thing be a seal and sacrament 
Of truth between us. Wherefore should there be 
Concealment between two right Gothic hearts 
In evil days like ours .'' What thou hast seen 
Is but the first fruit of the sacrifice. 
Which on this injured and polluted soil. 
As on a bloody altar, I have sworn 
To offer to insulted Heaven for Spain, 
Her vengeance and her expiation. This 
Was but a hasty act, by sudden wrong 
Provoked : but I am bound for Cordoba, 
On weighty mission from Visonia sent. 
To breathe into Pelayo's ear a voice 
Of spirit-stirring power, which like the trump 
Of the Archangel, shall awake dead Spain. 
The northern mountaineers are unsubdued ; 
They call upon Pelayo for their chief; 
Odoar and Urban tell him that the hour 
Is come. Thou, too, I ween, old man, art charged. 
With no light errand, or thou wouldst not now 
Have left the ruins of thy master's house. 

Who art thou ? cried Siverian, as he search'd 
The wan and wither'd features of the King. 
Thy face is of a stranger ; but thy voice 
Disturbs me like a dream. 



Roderick replied, 
Thou seest me as I am, — a stranger ; one 
Whose fortunes in the general wreck were lost, 
His name and lineage utterly extinct. 
Himself in mercy spared, surviving all; — 
In mercy, that the bitter cup might heal 
A soul diseased. Now, having cast the slough 
Of old ofi^ences, thou beholdest me 
A man new-born ; in second baptism named, 
Like those who in Judea bravely raised 
Against the Heathen's impious tyranny 
The banner of Jehovah, Maccabee ; 
So call me. In that name hath Urban laid 
His consecrating hands upon my head ; 
And in that name have I myself for Spain 
Devoted. Tell me now why thou art sent 
To Cordoba ; for sure thou goest not 
An idle gazer to the Conqueror's court. 

Thou judgest well, the old man replied. I, too, 
Seek the Cantabrian Prince, the hope of Spain, 
With other tidings charged, for other end 
Designed, yet such as well may work with thine. 
My noble mistress sends me to avert 
The shame that threats his house. The renegade 
Numacian, he who, for the infidels, 
Oppresses Gegio, insolently wooes 
His sister. Moulded in a wicked womb. 
The unworthy Guisla hath inherited 
Her mother's leprous taint ; and, willingly. 
She to the circumcised and upstart slave, 
Disdaining all admonishment, gives ear. 
The Lady Gaudiosa sees in this. 
With the quick foresight of maternal care, 
The impending danger to her husband's house. 
Knowing his generous spirit ne'er will brook 
The base alliance. Guisla lewdly sets 
His will at nought ; but that vile renegade. 
From hatred, and from avarice, and from fear, 
Will seek the extinction of Pelayo's line. 
This, too, my venerable mistress sees ; 
Wherefore these valiant and high-minded dames 
Send me to Cordoba ; that, if the Prince 
Cannot, by timely interdiction, stop 
The irrevocable act of infamy, 
He may, at least, to his own safety look. 
Being timely warn'd. 

Thy mistress sojourns then 
With Gaudiosa, in Pelayo's hall ? 
Said Roderick. 'Tis her natural home, rejoin'd 
Siverian : Chindasuintho's royal race 
Have ever shared one lot of weal or woe ; 
And she who hath beheld her own fair shoot. 
The goodly summit of that ancient tree. 
Struck by Heaven's bolt, seeks shelter now beneath 
The only branch of its majestic stem 
That still survives the storm. 

Thus they pursued 
Their journey, each from other gathering store 
For thought, with many a silent interval 
Of mournful meditation, till they saw 
The temples and the towers of Cordoba 
Shining majestic in the light of eve. 
Before them, Betis roll'd his glittering stream, 
In many a silvery winding traced afar 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



663 



Amid the ample plain. Behind the walls 

And stately piles, which crown'd its margin, rich 

With olives, and with sunny slope of vines. 

And many a lovely hamlet interspersed, 

Whose citron bowers were once the abode of peace. 

Height above height, receding hills were seen 

Imbued with evening hues ; and over all 

The summits of the dark sierra rose, 

Lifting their heads amid the silent sky. 

The traveller who, with a heart at ease, 

Had seen the goodly vision, would have loved 

To linger, seeking with insatiate sight 

To treasure up its image, deep impress'd, 

A joy for years to come. O Cordoba, 

Exclaim'd the old man, how princely are thy towers, 

How fair thy vales, thy hills how beautiful ! 

The sun who sheds on thee his parting smiles 

Sees not in all his wide career a scene 

Lovelier, nor more exuberantly blest 

By bounteous earth and heaven. The very gales 

Of Eden waft not from the immortal bowers 

Odors to sense more exquisite, than these 

Which, breathing from thy groves and gardens, 

now 
Recall in me such thoughts of bitterness. 
The time has been when happy was their lot 
Who had their birthright here ; but happy now 
Are they who to thy bosom are gone home. 
Because they feel not in their graves the feet 
That trample upon Spain. 'Tis well that age 
Hath made me like a child, that 1 can weep : 
My heart would else have broken, overcharged, 
And I, false servant, should lie down to rest 
Before my work is done. 

Hard by their path, 
A little way without the walls, there stood 
An edifice, whereto, as by a spell, 
Siverian's heart was drawn. Brother, quoth he, 
'Tis like the urgency of our return 
Will brook of no retardment ; and this spot 
It were a sin if I should pass, and leave 
Un visited. Beseech you turn with me. 
The while I offer up one duteous prayer. 

Roderick made no reply. He had not dared 
To turn his face toward those walls ; but now 
He follow'd where the old man led the way. 
Lord ! in his heart the silent sufferer said, 
Forgive my feeble soul, which would have shrunk 
From this, — for what am I that I should put 
The bitter cup aside ! O let my shame 
And anguish be accepted in thy sight .-' 



Vl. 



I RODERICK IN TIMES PAST. 

The mansion whitherward they went, was one 
Which in his youth Theodofred had built: 
Thither had he brought home, in happy hour, 
Sis blooming bride ; there fondled on his knee 
The lovely boy she bore him. Close beside, 



A temple to that Saint he rear'd, who first, 

As old tradition tells, proclaim'd to Spain 

The gospel-tidings ; and in health and youth. 

There mindful of mortality, he saw 

His sepulchre prepared. Witiza took 

For his adulterous leman and himself 

The stately pile : but to that sepulchre, 

When from captivity and darkness death 

Enlarged him, was Theodofred consign'd ; 

For that unhappy woman, wasting then 

Beneath a mortal malady, at heart 

Was smitten, and the Tyrant at her prayer 

This poor and tardy restitution made. 

Soon the repentant sinner follow'd him; 

And calling on Pelayo ere she died, 

For his own wrongs, and for his father's death, 

Implored forgiveness of her absent child, — 

If it were possible he could forgive 

Crimes black as hers, she said. And by the pangs 

Of her remorse, — by her last agonies, — 

The unutterable horrors of her death, — 

And by the blood of Jesus on the cross 

For sinners given, did she beseech his prayers 

In aid of her most miserable soul. 

Thus mingling suddenshrieks with hopeless vows, 

And uttering franticly Pelayo's name, 

And crying out for mercy in despair, 

Here had she made her dreadful end, and here 

Her wretched body was deposited. 

That presence seem'd to desecrate the place : 

Thenceforth the usurper shunn'd it with the heart 

Of conscious guilt; nor could Rusilla bear 

These groves and bowers, which, like funereal 

shades, 
Oppress'd her with their monumental forms : 
One day of bitter and severe delight. 
When Roderick came for vengeance, she endured, 
And then forever left her bridal halls. 

Oh, when I last beheld yon princely pile, 
Exclaim'd Siverian, with what other thoughts 
Full, and elate of spirit, did I pass 
Its joyous gates ! The weedery which through 
The interstices of those neglected courts 
Uncheck'd had flourish'd long, and seeded there, 
Was trampled then and bruised beneath the feet 
Of thronging crowds. Here, drawn in fair array, 
The faithful vassals of my master's house, 
Their javelins sparkling to the morning sun, 
Spread their triumphant banners; high-plumed 

helms 
Rose o'er the martial ranks, and prancing steeds 
Made answer to the trumpet's stirring voice ; 
While yonder towers shook the dull silence off 
Which long to their deserted walls had clung, 
And with redoubling echoes swell'd the shout 
That hail'd victorious Roderick. Louder rose 
The acclamation, when the dust was seen 
Rising beneath his chariot-wheels far off; 
But nearer as the youthful hero came, 
All sounds of all the multitude were hush'd, 
And from the thousands and ten thousands here, 
Whom Cordoba and Hispalis sent forth, — 
Yea, whom all Bsetica, all Spain pour'd out 
To greet his triumph, — not a whisper rose 



664 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



To Heaven, such awe and reverence master'd 

them, 
Such expectation held them motionless. 
Conqueror and King he came ; but with no joy 
Of conquest, and no pride of sovereignty 
That day display'd ; for at his father's grave 
Did Roderick come to offer up his vow 
Of vengeance well perform'd. Three coal-black 

steeds 
Drew on his ivory chariot : by his side, 
Still v/rapt in mourning for the long-deceased, 
Rusilla sat ; a deeper paleness blanch'd 
Her faded countenance, but in her eye 
The light of her majestic nature shone. 
Bound, and expecting at their hands the death 
So well deserved, Witiza follow'd them j 
Aghast and trembling, first he gazed around. 
Wildly from side to side ; then from the face 
Of universal execration shrunk, 
Hanging his wretched head abased ; and poor 
Of spirit, with unmanly tears deplored 
His fortune, not his crimes. With bolder front. 
Confiding in his priestly character. 
Came Orpas next ; and then the spurious race 
Whom in unhappy hour Favila's wife 
Brought forth for Spain. O mercy ill bestow'd, 
When Roderick, in compassion for their youth, 
And for Pelayo's sake, forbore to crush 
The brood of vipers ! 

Err perchance he might. 
Replied the Goth, suppressing, as he spake. 
All outward signs of pain, though every word 
Went like a dagger to his bleeding heart ; — 
But sure, I ween, that error is not placed 
Among his sins. Old man, thou mayst regret 
The mercy ill deserved, and worse return'd. 
But not for this wouldst thou reproach the King ! 

Reproach him ? cried Siverian ; — I reproach 
My child, — my noble boy, — whom every tongue 
Bless'd at that hour, — whose love fill'd every heart 
With joy, and every eye with joyful tears ! 
My brave, my beautiful, my generous boy ! 
Brave, beautiful, and generous as he was. 
Never so brave, so beautiful, so great 
As then, — not even on that glorious day. 
When on the field of victory, elevate 
Amid the thousands who acclaim'd him King, 
Firm on the shield above their heads upraised. 
Erect he stood, and waved his bloody sword — 
Why dost thou shake thy head as if in doubt? 
I do not dream, nor fable ! Ten short years 
Have scarcely past away, since all within 
The Pyrenean hills, and the three seas 
Which girdled Spain, echoed in one response 
The acclamation from that field of fight — 
Or doth aught ail thee, that thy body quakes 
And shudders thus .'' 

'Tis but a chill, replied 
The King, in passing from the open air 
Under the shadow of this thick-set grove. 

Oh ! if this scene awoke in thee such thoughts 
As swell my bosom here, the old man pursued, 
Sunshine, or shade, and all things from without, 



Would be alike indifferent. Gracious God, 
Only but ten short years, — and all so changed ! 
Ten little years since in yon court he check'd 
His fiery steeds. The steeds obey'd his hand, 
The whirling wheels stood still, and when he 

leap'd 
Upon the pavement, the whole people heard, 
In their deep silence, open-ear'd, the sound. 
With slower movement from the ivory seat 
Rusilla rose, her arm, as down she stepp'd, 
Extended to her son's supporting hand; 
Not for default of firm or agile strength, 
But that the feeling of that solemn hour 
Subdued her then, and tears bedimm'd her sight. 
Howbeit when to her husband's grave she came. 
On the sepulchral stone she bow'd her head 
Awhile ; then rose collectedly, and fix'd 
Upon the scene her calm and steady eye. 
Roderick, — oh, when did valor wear a form 
So beautiful, so noble, so august.^ 
Or vengeance, when did it put on before 
A character so awful, so divine ? 
Roderick stood up, and reaching to the tomb 
His hands, my hero cried, Theodofred ! 
Father ! I stand before thee once again, 
According to thy prayer, when kneeling down 
Between thy knees I took my last farewell ; 
And vow'd by all thy sufferings, all thy wrongs, 
And by my mother's days and nights of woe, 
Her silent anguish, and the grief which then 
Even from thee she did not seek to hide, 
That, if our cruel parting should avail 
To save me from the Tyrant's jealous guilt, 
Surely should my avenging sword fulfil 
Whate'er he omen'd. Oh that time, I cried, 
Would give the strength of manhood to this arm, 
Already would it find a manly heart 
To guide it to its purpose ! And I swore 
Never again to see my father's face. 
Nor ask my mother's blessing, till I brought, 
Dead or in chains, the Tyrant to thy feet. 
Boy as I was, before all Saints in Heaven, 
And highest God, whose justice slumbereth not, 
I made the vow. According to thy prayer, 
In all things, O my father, is that vow 
Perform'd, alas, too well ! for thou didst pray. 
While, looking up, I felt the burning tears 
Which from thy sightless sockets stream'd, drop 

down, — 
That to thy grave, and not thy living feet. 
The oppressor might be led. Behold him there. 
Father ! Theodofred ! no longer now 
In darkness, from thy heavenly seat look down, 
And see before thy grave thine enemy 
In bonds, awaiting judgment at my hand ! 

Thus while the hero spake, Witiza stood 
Listening in agony, with open mouth. 
And head, half-raised, toward his sentence turn'd ; 
His eyelids stifFen'd and pursed up, — his eyes 
Rigid, and wild, and wide ; and when the King 
Had ceased, amid the silence which ensued, 
The dastard's chains were heard, link against link 
Clinking. At length upon his knees he fell. 
And lifting up his trembling hands, outstretch'd 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



665 



In supplication, — Mercy ! he exclaim'd, — 
Chains, dungeons, darkness, — any thing but 

death ! — 
I did not touch his life. 

Roderick replied. 
His hour, whenever it had come, had found 
A soul prepared : he lived in peace with Heaven; 
And life prolong'd for him, was bliss delay'd. 
But life, in pain, and darkness, and despair, 
For thee, all leprous as thou art with crimes. 
Is mercy. — Take him hence, and let him see 
The light of day no more ! 

Such Roderick was 
When last I saw these courts, — his theatre 
Of glory ; — such when last I visited 
My master's grave ! Ten years have hardly held 
Their course, ten little years — break, break, old 

heart — 
Oh, why art thou so tough ? 

As thus he spake, 
They reach'd the church. The door before his 

hand 
Gave way ; both blinded with their tears, they went 
Straight to the tomb ; and there Siverian knelt, 
And bow'd his face upon the sepulchre, 
Weeping aloud ; while Roderick, overpower'd, 
And calling upon earth to cover him. 
Threw himself prostrate on his father's grave. 

Thus as they lay, an awful voice, in tones 
Severe, address'd them. Who are ye, it said. 
That with your passion thus, and on this night. 
Disturb my prayers .' Starting they rose ; there 

stood 
A man before them of majestic form 
And stature, clad in sackcloth, bare of foot. 
Pale and in tears, with ashes on his head. 



VII. 



RODERICK AND PELAYO. 

'TwAS not in vain that on her absent son, 
Pelayo's mother, from the bed of death, 
Call'd for forgiveness, and in agony 
Besought his prayers ; all guilty as she vv^as, 
Sure he had not been human, if that cry 
Had fail'd to pierce him. When he heard the tale. 
He bless' d the messenger, even while his speech 
Was faltering, — while from head to foot he shook 
With icy feelings from his inmost heart 
Effused. It changed the nature of his woe, 
Making the burden more endurable : 
The life-long sorrow that remain'd, became 
A healing and a chastening grief, and brought 
j His soul, in close communion, nearer Heaven. 
For he had been her first-born, and the love 
Which at her breast he drew, and from her smiles, 
And from her voice of tenderness imbibed, 
Gave such unnatural horror to her crimes, 

i That when the thought came over him, it seem'd 
As if the milk which with his infant life 

j Had blended thrill'd like poison through his frame. 
84 



It was a woe beyond all reach of hope. 

Till with the dreadful tale of he.r remorse 

Faith touch'd his heart ; and ever from that day 

Did he for her v/ho bore him, night and morn, 

Pour out the anguish of his soul in prayer : 

But chiefly as the night return'd, which heard 

Her last expiring groans of penitence. 

Then through the long and painful hours, before 

The altar, like a penitent himself, 

He kept his vigils ; and when Roderick's sword 

Subdued Witiza, and the land was free, 

Duly upon her grave he offer'd up 

His yearly sacrifice of agony 

And prayer. This was the night, and he it was 

Who now before Siverian and the King 

Stood up in sackcloth. 

The old man, from fear 
Recovering and from wonder, knew him first. 
It is the Prince ! he cried, and bending down. 
Embraced his knees. The action and the word 
Awaken 'd Roderick ; he shook off the load 
Of struggling thoughts, which, pressing on his 

heart, 
Held him like one entranced ; yet, all untaught 
To bend before the face of man, confused 
Awhile he stood, forgetful of his part. 
But when Siverian cried. My Lord, my Lord, 
Now God be praised that I have found thee thus, 
My Lord and Prince, Spain's only hope and mine ! 
Then Roderick, echoing him, exclaim'd. My Lord, 
And Prince, Pelayo ! — and approaching near. 
He bent his knee obeisant : but his head 
Earthward inclined ; while the old man, looking up 
From his low gesture to Pelayo's face. 
Wept at beholding him for grief and joy. 

Siverian ! cried the chief, — of whom hath Death 
Bereaved me, that thou comest to Cordoba ? 
Children, or wife ? — Or hath the merciless scythe 
Of this abhorr'd and jealous tyranny 
Made my house desolate at one wide sweep ? 

They are as thou couldst wish, the old man 
replied, 
Wert thou but lord of thine own house again, 
And Spain were Spain once more. A tale of ill 
I bear, but one that touches not the heart 
Like what thy tears forebode. The renegade 
Numacian wooes thy sister, and she lends 
To the vile slave, unworthily, her ear: 
The Lady Gaudiosa hath in vain 
Warn'd her of all the evils which await 
A union thus accurs'd : she sets at nought 
Her faith, her lineage, and thy certain wrath. 

Pelayo, hearmg him, remain'd awhile 
Silent ; then turning to his mother's grave, — 
O thou poor dust, hath then the infectious taint 
Survived thy dread remorse, that it should run 
In Guisla's veins ? he cried ; — I should have heard 
This shameful sorrow any where but here ? — 
Humble thyself, proud heart; thou, gracious 

Heaven, 
Be merciful ! — it is the original flaw, — 
And what are we? — a weak, unhappy race, 



666 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Born to our sad inheritance of sin 
And death ! — He smote his forehead as he spake, 
And from his head the ashes fell, like snow- 
Shaken from some dry beech-leaves, when a bird 
Lights on the bending spray. A little while 
In silence, rather than in thought, he stood 
Passive beneath the sorrow : turning then, 
And what doth Gaudiosa counsel me ? 
He ask'd the old man ; for she hath ever been 
My wise and faithful counsellor. — 'He replied, 
The Lady Gaudiosa bade me say 
She sees the danger which on every part 
Besets her husband's house. — Here she had 

ceased ; 
But when my noble Mistress gave in charge. 
How I should tell thee that in evil times 
• The bravest counsels ever are the best, 
Then that high-minded Lady thus rejoin'd : — 
Whatever be my Lord's resolve, he knows 
I bear a mind prepared. 

Brave spirits ! cried 
Pelayo, worthy to remove all stain 
Of weakness from their sex ! I should be less 
Than man, if, drawing strength where others find 
Their hearts most open to assault of fear, 
I quail 'd at danger. Never be it said 
Of Spain, that in the hour of her distress 
Her women were as heroes, but her men 
Perform'd the woman's part. 

Roderick at that 
Look'd up, and taking up the word, exclaim'd, 
O Prince, in better days the pride of Spain, 
And prostrate as she lies, her surest hope. 
Hear now my tale. The fire which seem'd extinct 
Hath risen revigorate : a living spark 
From Auria's ashes, by a woman's hand 
Preserved and quicken'd, kindles far and wide 
The beacon-flame o'er all the Asturian hills. 
There hath a vow been offer'd up, which binds 
Us and our children's children to the work 
Of holy hatred. In the name of Spain 
That vow hath been pronounced, and register 'd 
Above, to be the bond whereby we stand 
For condemnation or acceptance. Heaven 
Received the irrevocable vow, and Earth 
Mus^ witness its fulfilment ; Earth and Heaven 
Call upon thee, Pelayo ! Upon thee 
The spirits of thy royal ancestors 
Look down expectant ; unto thee, from fields 
Laid waste, and hamlets burnt, and cities sack'd. 
The blood of infancy and helpless age 
Cries out ; thy native mountains call for thee, 
Echoing from all their armed sons thy name. 
And deem not thou that hot impatience goads 
Thy countrymen to counsels immature. 
Odoar and Urban from Visonia's banks 
Send me, their sworn and trusted messenger, 
To summon thee, and tell thee in their name 
That now the hour is come : For sure it seems. 
Thus saith the Primate, Heaven's high will to rear 
Upon the soil of Spain a Spanish throne. 
Restoring in thy native line, O Prince, 
The sceptre to the Spaniard. Worthy son 
Of that most ancient and heroic race. 
Which with unweariable endurance still 



Hath striven against its mightier enemies, 

Roman or Carthaginian, Greek or Goth ; 

So often by superior arms oppress'd. 

More often by superior arts beguiled ; 

Yet, amid all its sufferings, all the waste 

Of sword and fire remorselessly employ'd, 

Unconquer'd and unconquerable still ; — 

Son of that injured and illustrious stock. 

Stand forward thou, draw forth the sword of Spain, 

Restore them to their rights, too long withheld, 

And place upon thy brow the Spanish crown. 

When Roderick ceased, the princely Moun- 
taineer 
Gazed on the passionate orator awhile. 
With eyes intently fix'd, and thoughtful brow ; 
Then turning to the altar, he let fall 
The sackcloth robe, which late, with folded arms, 
Against his heart was press'd; and stretching forth 
His hands toward the crucifix, exclaim'd. 
My God and my Redeemer ! where but here, 
Before thy awful presence, in this garb, 
With penitential ashes thus bestrown, 
Could I so fitly answer to the call 
Of Spain, and for her sake, and in thy name, 
Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me ? 

And where but here, said Roderick in his heart, 
Could I so properly, with humbled knee 
And willing soul, confirm my forfeiture ? — 
The action follow'd on that secret thought : 
He knelt, and took Pelayo's hand, and cried, 
First of the Spaniards, let me with this kiss 
Do homage to thee here, my Lord and King ! — 
With voice unchanged and steady countenance 
He spake ; but when Siverian follow'd him, 
The old man trembled as his lips pronounced 
The faltering vow; and rising he exclaim'd, 
God grant thee, O my Prince, a better fate 
Than thy poor kinsman's, who in happier days 
Received thy homage here ! Grief choked his 

speech. 
And, bursting into tears, he sobb'd aloud. 
Tears too adown Pelayo's manly cheek 
Roll'd silently. Roderick alone appear'd 
Unmoved and calm ; for now the royal Goth 
Had offer'd his accepted sacrifice. 
And therefore in his soul he felt that peace 
Which follows painful duty well perform'd, — 
Perfect and heavenly peace, — the peace of God. 



VIII. 

ALPHONSO. 

Fain would Pelayo have that hour obey'd 
The call, commencing his adventurous flight, 
As one whose soul impatiently endured 
His country's thraldom, and in daily prayer 
Imploring her deliverance, cried to Heaven, 
How long, O Lord, how long ! — But other thoughts 
Curbing his spirit, made him yet awhile 
Sustain the weight of bondage. Him alone, 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



667 



Of all the Gothic baronage, the Moors 

Watch'd with regard of wary policy, — 

Knowing his powerful name, his noble mind, 

And how in him the old Iberian blood. 

Of royal and remotest ancestry. 

From undisputed source flow'd undefiled; 

His mother's after-guilt attainting not 

The claim legitimate he derived from her, 

Her first-born in her time of innocence. 

He, too, of Chindasuintho's regal line 

Sole remnant now, drew after him the love 

Of all true Goths, uniting in himself 

Thus, by this double right, the general heart 

Of Spain. For this the renegado crew, . 

Wretches in whom their conscious guilt and fear 

Engender'd cruelest hatred, still advised 

The extinction of Pelayo's house ; but most 

The apostate Prelate, in iniquity 

Witiza's genuine brother as in blood, 

Orpas, pursued his life. He never ceased 

With busy zeal, true traitor, to infuse 

His deadly rancor in the Moorish chief j 

Their only danger, ever he observed. 

Was from Pelayo ; root his lineage out, 

The Caliph's empire then would be secure, 

And universal Spain, all hope of change 

Being lost, receive the Prophet's conquering law. 

Then did the Arch-villain urge the Moor at once 

To cut off future peril, telling him 

Death was a trusty keeper, and tliat none 

E'er broke the prison of the grave. But here 

Keen malice overshot its mark ; the Moor, 

Who from the plunder of their native land 

Had bought the recreant crew that join'dhis arms. 

Or cheaplier with their own possessions bribed 

Their sordid souls, saw through the flimsy show 

Of policy wherewith they sought to cloak 

Old enmity and selfish aims : he scorn'd 

To let their private purposes incline 

His counsels, and believing Spain subdued. 

Smiled, in the pride of power and victory. 

Disdainful at the thought of further strife. 

Howbeit he held Pelayo at his court. 

And told him that, until his countrymen 

Submissively should lay their weapons down, 

He from his children and paternal hearth 

Apart must dwell ; nor hope to see again 

His native mountains and their vales beloved, 

Till all the Asturian and Cantabrian hills 

Had bow'd before the Caliph; Cordoba 

Must be his nightly prison till that hour, 

This night, by special favor from the Moor 

Ask'd and vouchsafed he past without the walls, 

Keeping his yearly vigil ; on this night. 

Therefore, the princely Spaniard could not fly, 

Being thus in strongest bonds by honor held ; 

Nor would he by his own escape expose 

To stricter bondage, or belike to death. 

Count Pedro's son. The ancient enmity 

Of rival houses from Pelayo's heart 

Had, like a thing forgotten, past away ; 

He pitied child and parent, separated 

By the stern mandate of unfeeling power, 

And almost with a father's eyes beheld 

The boy, his fellow in captivity. 



For young Alphonso was in truth an heir 

Of nature's largest patrimony : rich 

In form and feature, growing strength of limb, 

A gentle heart, a soul affectionate, 

A joyous spirit fill'd with generous thoughts, 

And genius heightening and ennobling all ; 

The blossom of all manly virtues made 

His boyhood beautiful. Shield, gracious Heaven, 

In this ungenial season perilous, — 

Thus would Pelayo sometimes breathe in prayer 

The aspirations of prophetic hope, — [let 

Shield, gracious Heaven, the blooming tree ! and 

This goodly promise, for thy people's sake, 

Yield its abundant fruitage. 

When the Prince, 
With hope, and fear, and grief, and shame, disturb'd. 
And sad remembrance, and the shadowy light 
Of days before him, thronging as in dreams, 
Whose quick succession fill'd and overpower'd 
Awhile the unresisting faculty. 
Could, in the calm of troubled thoughts subdued, 
Seek in his heart for counsel, his first care 
Was for the boy ; how best they might evade 
The Moor, and renegade's more watchful eye; 
And leaving in some unsuspicious guise 
The city, through what unfrequented track 
Safeliest pursue with speed their dangerous way. 
Consumed in cares like these, the fleeting hours 
Went by. The lamps and tapers now grew pale. 
And through the eastern window slanting fell 
The roseate ray of morn. Within those walls 
Returning day restored no cheerful sounds 
Or joyous motions of awakening life ; 
But in the stream of light the speckled motes, 
As if in mimicry of insect play. 
Floated with mazy movement. Sloping down 
Over the altar pass'd the pillar'd beam. 
And rested on the sinful woman's grave 
As if it enter'd there, a light from Heaven. 
So be it ! cried Pelayo, even so ! 
As in a momentar}'^ interval. 

When thought expelling thought, had left his mind 
Open and passive to the influxes 
Of outward sense, his vacant eye was there, — 
So be it, Heavenly Father, even so ! 
Thus may thy vivifying goodness shed 
Forgiveness there ; for let not thou the groans 
Of dying penitence, nor my bitter prayers 
Before thy mercy-seat, be heard in vain ! 
And thou, poor soul, who, from the dolorous house 
Of weeping and of pain, dost look to me 
To shorten and assuage thy penal term. 
Pardon me that these hours in other thoughts 
And other duties than this garb, this night 
Enjoin, should thus have past ! Our mother-land 
Exacted of my heart the sacrifice ; 
And many a vigil must thy son perform 
Henceforth in woods and mountain fastnesses. 
And tented fields, outwatching for her sake 
The starry host, and ready for the work 
Of day, before the sun begins his course. 

The noble Mountaineer, concluding then 
With silent prayer the service of the night, 
Went forth. Without the porch, awaiting him, 



668 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



IX. 



He saw Alphonso, pacing to and fro 

With patient step and eye reverted oft. 

He, springing forward when he heard the door 

Move on its heavy hinges, ran to him, 

And welcomed him with smiles of youthful love. 

I have been watching yonder moon, quoth he, 

How it grew pale and paler as the sun 

Scatter'd the flying shades ; but woe is me, 

For on the towers of Cordoba the while 

That baleful crescent glitter'd in the morn, 

And with its insolent triumph seem'd to mock 

The omen 1 had found. — Last night I dream* 

That thou wert in the field in arms for Spain, 

And I was at thy side : the infidels 

Beset us round, but we with our good swords 

Hew'd out a way. Methought I stabb'd a Moor 

Who would have slain thee ; but with that I woke 

For joy, and wept to find it but a dream. 

Thus, as he spake, a livelier glow o'erspread 
His cheek, and starting tears again suffused 
The brightening lustre of his eyes. The Prince 
Regarded him a moment steadfastly, 
As if in quick resolve ; then, looking round 
On every side with keen and rapid glance, 
Drew him within the church. Alphonso's heart 
Throbb'd with a joyful boding as he mark'd 
The calmness of Pelayo's countenance 
Kindle with solemn thoughts, expressing now 
High purposes of resolute hope. He gazed 
All eagerly to hear what most he wish'd. 
If, said the Prince, thy dream were verified, 
And I indeed were in the field in arms 
For Spain, wouldst thou be at Pelayo's side .'' — 
If I should break these bonds, and fly to rear 
Our country's banner on our native hills, 
Wouldst thou, Alphonso, share my dangerous 

flight ? 
Dear boy, — and wilt thou take thy lot with me 
For death, or for deliverance .? 

Shall 1 swear .? 
Replied the impatient boy ; and laying hand 
Upon the altar, on his knee he bent, 
Looking towards Pelayo with such joy 
Of reverential love, as if a God 
Were present to receive the eager vow. 
Nay, quoth Pelayo : what hast thou to do 
With oaths ? — Bright emanation as thou art, 
It were a wrong to thy unsullied soul, 
A sin to nature, were I to require 
Promise or vow from thee ! Enough for me 
That thy heart answers to the stirring call. 
Alphonso, follow thou in happy faith 
Alway the indwelling voice that counsels thee ; 
And then, let fall the issue as it may. 
Shall all thy paths be in the light of Heaven, 
The peace of Heaven be with thee in all hours. 

How then, exclaim'd the boy, shall I discharge 
The burden of this happiness, — how ease 
My overflowing soul ? — Oh gracious God, 
Shall I behold my mother's face again, — 
My father's hall, — my native hills and vales. 
And hear the voices of their streams again, — 
And free as I was born amid those scenes 



Beloved, maintain my country's freedom there, — 

Or, failing in the sacred enterprise. 

Die as becomes a Spaniard.? — Saying thus, 

He lifted up his hands and eyes toward 

The image of the Crucified, and cried, 

O Thou who didst with thy most precious blood 

Redeem us, Jesu ! help us while we seek 

Earthly redemption from this yoke of shame. 

And misbelief, and death. 

The noble boy 
Then rose, and would have knelt again to clasp 
Pelayo's knees, and kiss his hand in act 
Of homage ; but the Prince, preventing this, 
Bent over him in fatherly embrace. 
And breathed a fervent blessing on his head. 



IX. 
FLORINDA. 



There sat a woman like a supplicant, 
Muffled and cloak'd, before Pelayo's gate. 
Awaiting when he should return that morn. 
She rose at his approach, and bow'd her head, 
And, with a low and trembling utterance. 
Besought him to vouchsafe her speech within 
In privacy. And when they were alone. 
And the doors closed, she knelt and clasp'd his 

knees. 
Saying, A boon ! a boon ! This night, O Prince, 
Hast thou kept vigil for thy mother's soul : 
For her soul's sake, and for the soul of him 
Whom once, in happier Aduys, of all mankind 
Thou heldest for thy chosen bosom friend, 
Oh, for the sake of his poor suffering soul, 
Refuse me not ! 

How should I dare refuse, 
Being thus adjured .? he answer'd. Thy request 
Is granted, woman, — be it what it may, 
So it be lawful, and within the bounds 
Of possible achievement : — aught unfit 
Thou wouldst not with these adjurations seek. 
But who thou art, I marvel, that dost touch 
Upon that string, and ask in Roderick's name ! — 
She bared her face, and, looking up, replied, 
Florinda ! — Shrinking then, with both her hands 
She hid herself, and bow'd her head abased 
Upon her knee, — as one who, if the grave 
Had oped beneath her, would have thrown herself. 
Even like a lover, in the arms of Death. 

Pelayo stood confused : he had not seen 
Count Julian's daughter since, in Pk,oderick's court. 
Glittering in beauty and in innocence, 
A radiant vision, in her joy she moved ; 
More like a poet's dream, or form divine, 
Heaven's prototype of perfect womanhood, 
So lovely was the presence, — than a thing 
Of earth and perishable elements. 
Now had he seen her in her winding-sheet. 
Less painful would that spectacle have proved ; 
For peace is with the dead, and piety 
Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn 



IX. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



O'er the departed; but this alter'd face, 

Bearing its deadly sorrow character'd, 

Came to him like a ghost, which in the grave 

Could find no rest. He, taking her cold hand, 

Raised her, and would have spoken ; but his tongue 

Fail'd in its office, and could only speak 

In under tones compassionate her name. 

The voice of pity soothed and melted her ; 
And when the Prince bade her be comforted. 
Proffering his zealous aid in whatsoe'er 
Might please her to appoint, a feeble smile 
Pass'd slowly over her pale countenance, 
Like moonlight on a marble statue. Heaven 
Requite thee. Prince ! she answer'd. All I ask 
Is but a quiet resting-place, wherein 
A broken heart, in prayer and humble hope, 
May wait for its deliverance. Even this 
My most unhappy fate denies me here. 
Griefs which are known too widely and too well 
I need not now remember. I could bear 
Privation of all Christian ordinances ; 
The woe which kills hath saved me too, and made 
A temple of this ruin'd tabernacle. 
Wherein redeeming God doth not disdain 
To let his presence shine. And I could bear 
To see the turban on my father's brow, — 
Sorrow beyond all sorrows, — shame of shames, — 
Yet to be borne, while I with tears of blood. 
And throes of agony, in his behalf 
Implore and wrestle with offended Heaven. 
This I have borne resign'd : but other ills. 
And worse, assail me now ; the which to bear, 
If to avoid be possible, would draw 
Damnation down. Orpas, the perjured Priest, 
The apostate Orpas, claims me for his bride. 
Obdurate as he is, the wretch profanes 
My sacred woe, and wooes me to his bed. 
The thing I am, — the living death thou seest! 

Miscreant ! exclaim'd Pelayo. Might I meet 
That renegado, sword to cimeter. 
In open field, never did man approach 
The altar for the sacrifice in faith 
More sure, than I should hew the villain down ! 
But how should Julian favor his demand.? — 
Julian, who hath so passionately loved 
His child, so dreadfully revenged her wrongs ! 

Count Julian, she replied, hath none but me. 
And it hath, therefore, been his heart's desire 
To see his ancient line by me preserved. 
This was their covenant when, in fatal hour 
For Spain, and for themselves, in traitorous bond 
Of union they combined. My father, stung 
To madness, only thought of how to make 
His vengeance sure ; the Prelate, calm and cool. 
When he renounced his outward faith in Christ, 
. Indulged at once his hatred of the King, 
His inbred wickedness, and a haughty hope. 
Versed as he was in treasons, to direct 
The invaders by his secret policy. 
And at their head, aided by Julian's power, 
Reign as a Moor upon that throne to which 
The priestly order else had barr'd his way. 



The African hath conquer'd for himself; 

But Orpas coveteth Count Julian's lands, 

And claims to have the covenant perform'd. 

Friendless, and worse than fatherless, I come 

To thee for succor. Send me secretly, — 

For well I know all faithful hearts must be 

At thy devotion, — with a trusty guide 

To guard me on the way, that I may reach 

Some Christian land, where Christian rites are free, 

And there discharge a vow, alas ! too long. 

Too fatally delay'd. Aid me in this 

For Ptoderick's sake, Pelayo ! and thy name 

Shall be remember'd in my latest prayer. 

Be comforted ! the Prince replied ; but when 
He spake of comfort, twice did he break off 
The idle words, feeling that earth had none 
For grief so irremediable as hers. 
At length he took her hand, and pressing it, 
And forcing through involuntary tears 
A mournful smile affectionate, he said, 
Say not that thou art friendless while I live ! 
Thou couldst not to a readier ear have told 
Thy sorrows, nor have ask'd in fitter hour 
What for my country's honor, for my rank. 
My faith, and sacred knighthood, I am bound 
In duty to perform ; which not to do 
Would show me undeserving of the names 
Of Goth, Prince, Christian, even of Man. This 

day. 
Lady, prepare to take thy lot with me, 
And soon as evening closes meet me here. 
Duties bring blessings with them, and I hold 
Thy coming for a happy augury. 
In this most awful crisis of my fate. 



X. 



RODERICK AND FLORINDA. 

With sword and breastplate, under rustic weeds 
Conceal'd, at dusk Pelayo pass'd the gate, 
Florinda following near, disguised alike. 
Two peasants on their mules they seem'd, at eve 
Returning from the town. Not distant far, 
Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove. 
With anxious eye and agitated heart, 
Watch'd for the Prince's coming. Eagerly 
At every foot-fall through the gloom he strain'd 
His sight, nor did he recognize him when 
The Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh ; 
And when the expected signal called him on. 
Doubting this female presence, half in fear 
Obey'd the call. Pelayo too perceived 
The boy was not alone ; he not for that 
Delay'd the summons, but lest need should be. 
Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bent 
In act soliciting speech, and low of voice 
Inquired, if friend or foe. Forgive me, cried 
Alphonso, that I did not tell thee this, 
Full as I was of happiness, before. 
'Tis Hoya, servant of my father's house. 
Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sent 



670 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



To this vile bondage, I was given in charge. 
How could I look upon my father's face, 
If I had in my joy deserted him. 
Who was to me found faithful ? — Right ! replied 
The Prince ; and viewing him with silent joy, 
Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said. 
Who gave thee birth ! but sure of womankind 
Most blessed she whose hand her happy stars 
Shall link with thine ! and with that thought the 

form 
Of H(!rmesind, his daughter, to his soul 
Came in her beauty. 

Soon, by devious tracks, 
They turn'd aside. The favoring moon arose. 
To guide them on their flight through upland paths 
Remote from frequentage, and dales retired. 
Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet 
The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade. 
Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their 

way; 
The timorous blackbird, startmg at their step. 
Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear ; 
And far below them in the peopled dell, 
When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased. 
The distant watch-dog's voice at times was heard. 
Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night 
Among the hills they travell'd silently ; 
Till when the stars were setting, at what hour 
The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld 
Within a lonely grove the expected fire. 
Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously 
Look'd for the appointed meeting. Halting there. 
They from the burden and the bit relieved 
Their patient bearers, and around the fire 
Partook of needful food and grateful rest. 

Bright rose the flame replenish'd ; it illumed 
The cork-tree's furrow'd rind, its rifts, and swells. 
And redder scars, — and where its aged boughs 
O'erbower'd the travellers, cast upon the leaves 
A floating, gray, unrealizing gleam. 
Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath 
Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams 
Of home ; his faithful Hoya slept beside. 
Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought 
Easy oblivion ; and the Prince himself. 
Yielding to weary nature's gentle will, 
Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sat 
Beholding Roderick with fix'd eyes intent, 
Yet unregardant of the countenance 
Whereon they dwelt ; in other thoughts absorb'd. 
Collecting fortitude for what she yearn'd. 
Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look 
Disturb'd the Goth, albeit he little ween'd 
What agony awaited him that hour. 
Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now 
Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye 
Extinct ; nor did her voice awaken in him 
One startling recollection when she spake, 
So altered were its tones. 

Father, she said, 
All thankful as I am to leave behind 
The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less 
Of consolation doth my heart receive 



At sight of one to whom I may disclose 

The sins which trouble me, and at his feet 

Lay down repentantly, in Jesu's name, 

The burden of my spirit. In his name 

Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul 

The balm of pious counsel. — Saying thus. 

She drew toward the minister ordain 'd. 

And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou know 

The wretch who kneels beside thee ? she inquired. 

He answered. Surely we are each to each 

Equally unknown. 

Then said she. Here thou seest 
One who is known too fatally for all, — 
The daughter of Count Julian. — Well it was 
For Roderick that no eye beheld him now ; 
From head to foot a sharper pang than death 
Thrill'd him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke. 
Ceased from its functions : his breath fail'd, and 

when 
The power of life, recovering, set its springs 
Again in action, cold and clammy sweat 
Starting at every pore suffused his frame. 
Their presence help'd him to subdue himself; 
For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen 
Before Florinda prostrate on the earth, 
And in that mutual agony belike 
Both souls had taken flight. She mark'd him not; 
For having told her name, she bow'd her head. 
Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven, 
While, as a penitent, she wrought herself 
To open to his eye her hidden wounds. 

Father, at length she said, all tongues amid 
This general ruin shed their bitterness 
On Roderick, load his memory with reproach. 
And with their curses persecute his soul. — 
Why shouldst thou tell me this.'' exclaim'd the 

Goth, 
From his cold forehead wiping, as he spake. 
The death-like moisture ; — why of Roderick's 

guilt 
Tell me ? Or thinkest thou I know it not ? 
Alas ! who hath not heard the hideous tale 
Of Roderick's shame ! Babes learn it from their 

nurses. 
And children, by their mothers unreproved, 
Link their first execrations to his name. 
Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy. 
That, like Iscariot's, through all time shall latst, 
Reeking and fresh forever ! 

There ! she cried, 
Drawing her body backward where she knelt. 
And stretching forth her arms with head up- 
raised, — 
There ! it pursues me still ! — I came to thee, 
Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fire 
Upon my head. But hear me patiently, 
And let me undeceive thee ; self-abased, 
Not to arraign another, do I come ; — 
1 come a self-accuser, self-condemn'd 
To take upon myself the pain deserved ; 
For I have drank the cup of bitterness. 
And having drank therein of heavenly grace, 
I must not put away the cup of shame. 



X. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



671 



Thus as she spake she falter' d at the close, 
And in that dying fall her voice sent forth 
Somewhat of its original sweetness. Thou ! — 
Thou self-abased ! exclaim'd the astonish'd King ; — 
Thou self-condemn'd ! — The cup of shame for thee! 
Thee — thee, Florinda ! — But the very excess 
Of passion check'd his speech, restraining thus 
From further transport, which had haply else 
Master'd him ; and he sat like one entranced. 
Gazing upon that countenance so fallen. 
So changed : her face, raised from its muffler now. 
Was turn'd toward him, and the fire-light shone 
Full on its mortal paleness ; but the shade 
Conceal'd the King. 

She roused him from the spell 
Which held him like a statue motionless. 
Thou, too, quoth she, dost join the general curse, 
Like one, who, when he sees a felon's grave, 
Casting a stone there as he passes by, 
Adds to the heap of shame. Oh, what are we. 
Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit 
In judgment, man on man ! and what were we, 
If the All-merciful should mete to us 
With the same rigorous measure wherewithal 
Sinner to sinner metes ! But God beholds 
The secrets of the heart, — therefore his name 
Is Merciful. Servant of God, see thou 
The hidden things of mine, and judge thou then 
In charity thy brother who hath fallen. — 
Nay, hear me to the end ! I loved the King, — 
Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him. 
Sinful it was to love a child of earth 
With such entire devotion as I loved 
Roderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth! 
And yet methought this was its only crime, 
The imaginative passion seem'd so pure; 
Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fear 
Disturb'd the deep contentment of that love ; 
He was the sunshine of my soul, and like 
A flower, I lived and flourish'd in his light. 
Oh, bear not with me thus impatiently ! 
No tale of weakness this, that in the act 
Of penitence, indulgent to itself. 
With garrulous palliation half repeats 
The sin it ill repents. I will be brief. 
And shrink not from confessing how the love 
Which thus began in innocence, betray'd 
My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone. 
But him, before whom, shining as he shone 
With whatsoe'er is noble, whatsoe'er 
Is lovely, whatsoever good and great, 
I was as dust and ashes, — him, alas ! 
This glorious being, this exalted Prince, 
Even him, with all his royalty of soul. 
Did this ill-omen'd, this accursed love. 
To his most lamentable fall betray 
And utter ruin. Thus it was : The King, 
By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised. 
To an unworthy mate had bound himself 
In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell 
IIow Nature upon Egilona's form. 
Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts. 
Left, like a statue from the graver's hands. 
Deformity and hollowness beneath 
The rich external.? For the love of pomp 



And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr'd 

The grief and wonder of good men, the jibes 

Of vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all; 

Profaning the most holy sacrament 

Of marriage, to become chief of the wives 

Of Abdalaziz, of the Infidel, 

The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain ! 

All know her now ; but they alone who knew 

What Roderick was, can judge his wretchedness, 

To that light spirit and unfeeling heart 

In hopeless bondage bound. No children rose 

From this unhappy union, towards whom 

The springs of love, within his soul confined, 

Might flow in joy and fulness ; nor was he 

One, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew. 

Who in promiscuous appetite can find 

All their vile nature seeks. Alas for man ! 

Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm ! 

And the slight bias of untoward chance 

Makes his best virtue from the even line, 

With fatal declination, swerve aside. 

Ay, thou mayst groan for poor mortality, — 

Well, Father, mayst thou groan I 

My evil fate 
Made me an inmate of the royal house. 
And Roderick found in me, if not a heart 
Like his, — for who was like the heroic Goth .? — 
One which at least felt his surpassing worth, 
And loved him for himself. — A little yet 
Bear with me, reverend Father, for I touch 
Upon the point, and this long prologue goes, 
As justice bids, to palliate his oflTence, 
Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thought 
Such as fond sisters for a brother feel. 
Grew day by day, and strengthen'd in its growth, 
Till the beloved presence had become 
Needful as food or necessary sleep. 
My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing. 
Thus lapp'd in dreams of bliss, I might have lived 
Contented with this pure idolatry. 
Had he been happy ; but I saw and knew 
The inward discontent and household griefs 
Which he subdued in silence ; and alas ! 
Pity with admiration mingling then, 
Alloy'd, and lower'd, and humanized my love, 
Till to the level of my lowliness 
It brought him down ; and in this treacherous heart 
Too often the repining thought arose, 
That if Florinda had been Roderick's Queen, 
Then might domestic peace and happiness 
Have bless'd his home and crown'd our wedded 

loves. 
Too often did that sinful thought recur, 
Too feebly the temptation was repell'd. 

See, Father, 1 have probed my inmost soul; 
Have search'd to its remotest source the sin ; 
And tracing it through all its specious forms 
Of fair disguisement, I present it now. 
Even as it lies before the eye of God, 
Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn'd, 
One eve, as in the bowers which overhang 
The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks 
I roam'd alone, alone I met the King. 
His countenance was troubled, and his speech 



I 



6712 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Like that of one wliose tongue to light discourse 

At fits constrain'd, betrays a heart disturb'd : 

I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts. 

With anxious looks reveal'd what wandering words 

In vain essay'd to hide. A little while 

Did this oppressive intercourse endure, 

Till our eyes met in silence, each to each 

Telling their mutual tale, then consciously 

Together fell abash'd. He took my hand. 

And said, Florinda, v/ould that thou and I 

Earlier had met ! Oh, what a blissful lot 

Had then been mine, who might have found m 

thee 
The sweet companion and the friend endear'd, 
A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys ! 
Thou too shouldst then have been of womankind 
Happiest, as now the loveliest. — And with that, 
First giving way to passion first disclosed. 
He press'd upon my lips a guilty kiss, — 
Alas ! more guiltily received than given. 
Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach'd. 
Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace ; 
When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said, 
Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here. 
Queen of my heart ! Oh meet me here again, 
My own Florinda, meet me here again ! — 
Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion'd hand 
Solicited and urged the ardent suit. 
And from my hesitating, hurried lips 
The word of promise fatally was drawn. 
O Roderick, Roderick ! hadst thou told me all 
Thy purpose at that hour, from what a world 
Of woe had thou and I — The bitterness 
Of that reflection overcame her then, 
And chok'd her speech. But Roderick sat the 

while 
Covering his face with both his hands close-press'd. 
His head bow'd down, his spirit to such point 
Of sufferance knit, as one who patiently 
Awaits the uplifted sword. 

Till now, said she, 
Resuming her confession, I had lived, 
If not in innocence, yet self-deceived. 
And of my perilous and sinful state 
Unconscious. But this fatal hour reveal'd 
To my awakening soul her guilt and shame : 
And in those agonies with which remorse. 
Wrestling with weakness and with cherish'd sin, 
Doth triumph o'er the lacerated heart. 
That night — that miserable night — I vow'd, 
A virgin dedicate, to pass my life 
Immured ; and, like redeemed Magdalen, 
Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tears 
Fretted the rock, and moisten'd round her cave 
The thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall. 
The struggle ending thus, the victory 
Thus, as I thought, accomplish'd, I believed 
My soul was calm, and that the peace of Heaven 
Descended to accept and bless my vow ; 
And in this faith, prepared to consummate 
The sacrifice, I went to meet the King. 
See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid ! 
For Roderick came to tell me that the Church 
From his unfruitful bed would set him free. 
And I should be his Queen. 



O let me close 
The dreadful tale ! I told him of my vow ; 
And from sincere and scrupulous piety. 
But more, I fear me, in that desperate mood 
Of obstinate will perverse, the which, with pride, 
And shame, and self-reproach, doth sometimes 

make 
A woman's tongue, her own worst enemy, 
Run counter to her dearest heart's desire, — 
In that unhappy mood did I resist 
All his most earnest prayers to let the power 
Of holy Church, never more rightfully 
Invoked, he said, than now in our behalf. 
Release us from our fatal bonds. He urged 
With kindling warmth his suit, like one v/liose 

life 
Hung on the issue ; I dissembled not 
My cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief, 
Yet desperately maintain'd the rash resolve ; 
Till, in the passionate argument, he grew 
Incensed, inflamed, and inadden'd or possess'd-— 
For Hell too surely at that hour prevail'd. 
And with such subtile toils enveloped him, 
That even in the extremity of guilt 
No guilt he purported, but rather meant 
An amplest recompense of life-long love 
For transitory wrong, which fate perverse — 
Thus madly he deceived himself — compell'd, 
And therefore stern necessity excused. 
Here then, O Father, at thy feet I own 
Myself the guiltier ; for full well I knew 
These were his thoughts, but vengeance master'd 

me. 
And in my agony I cursed the man 
Whom I loved best. 

Dost thou recall that curse ? 
Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice, 
Still with his head depress'd, and covering still 
His countenance. Recall it .? she exclaim'd ; 
Father, I come to thee because I gave 
The reins to wrath too long, — because I wrought 
His ruin, death, and infamy. — O God, 
Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged, 
As I forgive the King ! — But teach me thou 
What reparation more than tears and prayers 
May now be made ; — how shall I vindicate 

His injured name, and take upon myself 

Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied^ 

Speak not of that, I charge thee ! On his fame 

The Ethiop dye, fixed inefliaceably, 

Forever will abide ; so it must be. 

So should be : 'tis his rightful punishment; 

And if to the full measure of his sin 

The punishment hath fallen, the more our hope 

That through the blood of Jesus he may find 

That sin forgiven him. 

Pausing then, he raised 
His hand, and pointed where Siverian lay 
Stretch'd on the heath. To that old man, said he, 
And to the mother of the unhappy Goth, 
Tell, if it please thee, — not what thou hast pour'd 
Into my secret ear, but that the child 
For whom they mourn with anguish unallay'd, 
Sinn'd not from vicious will, or heart corrupt, 
But fell by fatal circumstance betray'd. 



XT. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



673 



And if in charity to them thou sayest 
Something to palliate, something to excuse 
An act of sudden frenzy when the Fiend 
O'ercame him, thou wilt do for Roderick 
All he could ask thee, all that can be done 
On earth, and all his spirit could endure. 

Venturing towards her an imploring look, 
Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer? 
He said, and trembled as he spake. That voice 
Of sympathy was like Heaven's influence. 
Wounding at once and comforting the soul. 
O Father, Christ requite thee ! she exclaim'd; 
Thou hast set free the springs which withering 

griefs 
Have closed too long. Forgive me, for I thought 
Thou wert a rigid and unpitying judge ; 
One whose stern virtue, feeling in itself 
No flaw of frailty, heard impatiently 
Of weakness and of guilt. I wrong'd thee. 

Father ! — 
With that she took his hand, and kissing it. 
Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech, 
For Roderick, for Count Julian, and myself, 
Three wretchedest of all the human race. 
Who have destroyed each other and ourselves, 
Mutually wrong'd and wronging, let us pray ! 



XI. 



COUNT PEDRO'S CASTLE. 

Twelve weary days with unremitting speed, 
Shunning frequented tracks, the travellers 
Pursued their way ; the mountain path they chose. 
The forest or the lonely heath wide-spread. 
Where cistus shrubs sole seen exhaled at noon 
Their fine balsamic odor all around ; 
Strow'd with their blossoms, frail as beautiful, 
The thirsty soil at eve ; and when the sun 
Relumed the gladden'd earth, opening anew 
Their stores exuberant, prodigal as frail, 
Whiten'd again the wilderness. They left 
The dark Sierra's skirts behind, and cross'd 
The wilds where Ana, in her native hills, 
Collects her sister springs, and hurries on 
Her course melodious amid loveliest glens, 
With forest and with fruitage overbower'd. 
These scenes profusely blest by Heaven they left. 
Where o'er the hazel and the quince the vine 
Wide-mantling spreads ; and clinging round the 

cork 
And ilex, hangs amid their dusky leaves 
Garlands of brightest hue, with reddening fruit 
Pendent, or clusters cool of glassy green. 
So holding on o'er mountain and o'er vale, 
Tagus they cross'd, where, midland on his way, 
The King of Rivers rolls his stately stream ; 
And rude Alverches' wide and stony bed. 
And Duero distant far, and many a stream 
And many a field obscure, in future war 
For bloody theatre of famous deeds 
Foredoom'd ; and deserts where, in years to come, 
85 



Shall populous towns arise, and crested towers, 
And stately temples rear their heads on high. 

Cautious, with course circuitous they shunn'd 
The embattled city, which, in eldest time, 
Thrice-greatest Hermes built, so fables say, 
Now subjugate, but fated to behold 
Erelong the heroic Prince (who, passing now 
Unknown and silently the dangerous track, 
Turns thither his regardant eye) come down 
Victorious from the heights, and bear abroad 
Her banner'd Lion, symbol to the Moor 
Of rout and death through many an age of blood. 
Lo, there the Asturian hills ! Far in the west. 
Huge Rabanal and Foncebadon huge, 
Preeminent, their giant bulk display. 
Darkening with earliest shade, the distant vales 
Of Leon, and with evening premature. 
Far in Cantabria eastward, the long line 
Extends beyond the reach of eagle's eye. 
When buoyant in mid-heaven the bird of Jove 
Soars at his loftiest pitch. In the north, before 
The travellers the Erbasian mountains rise, 
Bounding the land beloved, their native land. 

How then, Alphonso, did thy eager soul 
Chide the slow hours and painful way, which 

seem'd 
Lengthening to grow before their lagging pace! 
Youth of heroic thouglit and high desire, 
'Tis not the spur of lofty enterprise 
That with unequal throbbing hurries now 
The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay'd; 
'Tis not impatient joy which thus disturbs 
In that young breast the healthful spring of life ; 
Joy and ambition have forsaken him. 
His soul is sick with hope. So near his home, 
So near his mother's arms ; — alas ! perchance 
The long'd-for meeting may be yet far off" 
As earth from heaven. Sorrow, in these long 

months 
Of separation, may have laid her low ; 
Or what if at his flight the bloody Moor 
Hath sent his ministers of slaughter forth, 
And he himself should thus have brought the sword 
Upon his father's head ? — Sure Hoya too 
The same dark presage feels, the fearful boy 
Said in himself; or wherefore is his brow 
Thus overcast with heaviness, and why 
Looks he thus anxiously in silence round .'' 

Just then that faithful servant raised his hand. 
And turning to Alphonso with a smile, 
He pointed where Count Pedro's towers far off 
Peer'd in the dell below ; faint was the smile. 
And while it sat upon his lips, his eye 
Retain'd its troubled speculation still. 
For long had he look'd wistfully in vain. 
Seeking where far or near he might espy 
From whom to learn if time or chance had wrought 
Change in his master's house : but on the hills 
Nor goatherd could he see, nor traveller. 
Nor huntsman early at his sports afield. 
Nor angler following up the mountain glen 
His lonely pastime ; neither could he hear 



674 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XII. 



Carol, or pipe, or shout of shepherd's boy, 
Nor woodman's axe, for not a human sound 
Disturb'd the silence of the soUtude. 

Is it the spoiler's work ? At yonder door 
Behold the favorite kidling bleats unheard ; 
The next stands open, and the sparrows there 
Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn'd 
To seek what indications were within ; 
The chestnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn, 
As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh ; 
The recent fire had moulder'd on the hearth ; 
And broken cobwebs mark'd the whiter space 
Where from the wall the buckler and the sword 
Had late been taken down. Wonder at first 
Had mitigated fear ; but Hoya now 
Return'd to tell the symbols of good hope. 
And they prick'd forward joyfully. Erelong 
Perceptible above the ceaseless sound 
Of yonder stream, a voice of multitudes. 
As if in loud acclaim, was heard far off; 
And nearer as they drew, distincter shouts 
Came from the dell, and at Count Pedro's gate 
The human swarm were seen, — a motley group, 
Maids, mothers, helpless infancy, weak age. 
And wondering children, and tumultuous boys. 
Hot youth, and resolute manhood gather 'd there, 
In uproar all. Anon the moving mass 
Falls in half circle back ; a general cry 
Bursts forth ; exultant arms are lifted up. 
And caps are thrown aloft, as through the gate 
Count Pedro's banner came. Alphonso shriek'd 
For joy, and smote his steed and gallop'd on. 

Fronting the gate, the standard-bearer holds 
His precious charge. Behind, the men divide 
In order'd files ; green boyhood presses there, 
And waning eld, pleading a youthful soul, 
Entreats admission. All is ardor here, 
Hope, and brave purposes, and minds resolved. 
Nor where the weaker sex is left apart 
Doth aught of fear find utterance, though perchance 
Some paler cheeks might there be seen, some eyes 
Big with sad bodings, and some natural tears. 
Count Pedro's war-horse in the vacant space 
Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf. 
And gazing round upon the martial show. 
Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head, 
And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill 
Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy. 
The page beside him holds his master's spear, 
And shield, and helmet. In the castle-gate 
Count Pedro stands, his countenance resolved, 
But mournful, for Favinia on his arm 
Hung, passionate with her fears, and held him back. 
Go not, she cried, with this deluded crew ? 
She hath not, Pedro, with her frantic words 
Bereft thy faculty, — she is crazed with grief, 
And her delirium hath infected these : 
But, Pedro, thou art calm ; thou dost not share 
The madness of the crowd ; thy sober mind 
Surveys the danger in its whole extent. 
And sees the certain ruin, — for thou know'st 
I know thou hast no hope. Unhappy man, 
Why then for this most desperate enterprise 



Wilt thou devote thy son, thine only child .? 
Not for myself I plead, nor even for thee ; 
Thou art a soldier, and thou canst not fear 
The face of death ; and I should welcome it 
As the best visitant whom Heaven could send. 
Not for our lives I speak then, — were they worth 
The thought of preservation ; — Nature soon 
Must call for them ; the sword that should cut short 
Sorrow's slow work were merciful to us. 
But spare Alphonso ! there is time and hope 
In store for him. O thou who gavest him life, 
Seal not his death, his death and mine at once ! 

Peace ! he replied : thou know'st there is no 
choice ; 
I did not raise the storm ; I cannot turn 
Its course aside ! but where yon banner goes 
Thy Lord must not be absent ! Spare me then, 
Favinia, lest I hear thy honor'd name 
Now first attainted with deserved reproach. 
The boy is in God's hands. He who of yore 
Walk'd with the sons of Judah in the fire, 
And from the lions' den drew Daniel forth 
Unhurt, can save him, — if it be his will. 

Even as he spake, the astonish'd troop set up 
A shout of joy which rung through all the hills. 
Alphonso heeds not how they break their ranks 
And gather round to greet him ; from his horse 
Precipitate and panting off" he springs. 
Pedro grew pale, and trembled at his sight ; 
Favinia clasp'd her hands, and looking up 
To Heaven as she embraced the boy, exclaira'd, 
Lord God, forgive me for my sinful fears ; 
Unworthy that I am, — my son, my son ! 



XII. 



THE VOW. 

Always I knew thee for a generous foe, 

Pelayo ! said the Count; and in our time 

Of enmity, thou too, I know, didst feel 

The feud between us was but of the house, 

Not of the heart. Brethren in arms henceforth 

We stand or fall together ; nor will I 

Look to the event with one misgiving thought, — 

That were to prove myself unworthy now 

Of Heaven's benignant providence, this hour, 

Scarcely by less than miracle, vouchsafed. 

I will believe that we have days in store 

Of hope, now risen again as from the dead, — 

Of vengeance, — of portentous victory, — 

Yea, maugre all unlikelihoods, — of peace. 

Let us then here indissolubly knit 

Our ancient houses, that those happy days. 

When they arrive, may find us more than friends, 

And bound by closer than fraternal ties. 

Thou hast a daughter, Prince, to whom my heart 

Yearns now, as if in winning infancy 

Her smiles had been its daily food of love. 

I need not tell thee what Alphonso is, — 

Thou know'st the boy ! 



XII. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



675 



Already had that hope, 
Replied Pelayo, risen within my soul. 

Thou, who, in thy mercy, from the house 
Of Moorish bondage hast deliver'd us, 
Fulfil the pious purposes for which 

Here, in thy presence, thus we pledge our hands ! 

Strange hour to plight espousals ! yielding half 
To superstitious thoughts, Favinia cried, 
And these strange witnesses! — The times are 

strange. 
With thoughtful speech composed her Lord replies ; 
And what thou seest accords with them. This day 
Is wonderful; nor could auspicious Heaven 
With fairer or with fitter omen gild 
Our enterprise, when, strong in heart and hope, 
We take the field, preparing thus for works 
Of piety and love. Unwillingly 

1 yielded to my people's general voice. 
Thinking that she who with her powerful words 
To this excess had roused and kindled them, 
Spake from the spirit of her griefs alone, 

Not with prophetic impulse. Be that sin 
Forgiven me ! and the calm and quiet faith 
Which, in the place of incredulity , 
Hath fill'd me, now that seeing I believe. 
Doth give of happy end to righteous cause^ 
A presage, not presumptuous, but assured. 

Then Pedro told Pelayo how from vale 
To vale the exalted Adosinda went. 
Exciting sire and son, in holy war 
Conquering or dying, to secure their place 
In Paradise ; and how reluctantly. 
And mourning for his child by his own act 
Thus doom'd to death, he bade with heavy heart 
His banner be brought forth. Devoid alike 
Of purpose and of hope himself, he meant 
To march toward the western Mountaineers, 
1 Where Odoar by his counsel might direct 

Their force conjoin'd. Now, said he, we must 

haste 
To Cangas, there, Pelayo, to secure. 
With timely speed, 1 trust in God, thy house. 

Then looking to his men, he cried, Bring forth 
The armor which in Wamba's wars I wore. — 
Alphonso's heart leapt at the auspicious words. 
Count Pedro mark'd the rising glow of joy, — 
Doubly to thee, Alphonso, he pursued, 
This day above all other days is blest. 
From whence, as from a birth-day, thou wilt date 
Thy life in arms ! 

Rejoicing in their task. 
The servants of the house, with emulous love. 
Dispute the charge. One brings the cuirass, one 
The buckler ; this exultingly displays 
The sword ; his comrade lifts the helm on high ; 
The greaves, the gauntlets they divide ; a spur 
Seems now to dignify the officious hand 
Which for such service bears it to his Lord. 
Greek artists in the imperial city forged 
That splendid armor, perfect in their craft ; 
With curious skill they wrought it, framed alike 
To ehine amid the pageantry of war, 



And for the proof of battle. Many a time 
Alphonso from his nurse's lap had stretch'd 
His infant hands toward it eagerly. 
Where gleaming to the central fire it hung 
High in the hall ; and many a time had wish'd, 
With boyish ardor, that the day were come 
When Pedro to his prayers would grant the boon. 
His dearest heart's desire. Count Pedro then 
Would smile, and in his heart rejoice to see 
The noble instinct manifest itself. 
Then, too, Favinia, with maternal pride. 
Would turn her eyes exulting to her Lord, 
And in that silent language bid him mark 
His spirit in his boy; all danger then 
Was distant, and if secret forethought faint 
Of manhood's perils, and the chance of war, 
Hateful to mothers, pass'd across her mind, 
The ill remote gave to the present hour 
A heighten'd feeling of secure delight. 

No season this for old solemnities. 
For wassailry and sport; — the bath, the bed, 
The vigil, — all preparatory rites 
Omitted now, — here, in the face of Heaven, 
Before the vassals of his father's house. 
With them in instant peril to partake 
The chance of life or death, the heroic boy 
Dons his first arms ; the coated scales of steel 
Which o'er the tunic to his knees depend. 
The hose, the sleeves of mail ; bareheaded then 
He stood. But when Count Pedro took the spurs, 
And bent his knee in service to his son, 
Alphonso from that gesture half drew back. 
Starting in reverence, and a deeper hue 
Spread o'er the glow of joy which flush'd his 

cheeks. 
Do thou the rest, Pelayo ! said the Count ; 
So shall the ceremony of this hour 
Exceed in honor what in form it lacks. 
The Prince from Hoya's faithful hand receiv'd 
The sword ; he girt it round the youth, and drew 
And placed it in his hand ; unsheathing then 
His own good falchion, with its burnish'd blade 
He touch'd Alphonso's neck, and with a kiss 
Gave him his rank in arms. 

Thus long the crowd 
Had look'd intently on, in silence hush'd ; 
Loud and continuous now with one accord, 
Shout following shout, their acclamations rose ; 
Blessings were breathed from every heart, and joy, 
Powerful alike in all, which, as with force 
Of an inebriating cup, inspired 
The youthful, from the eye of age drew tears. 
The uproar died away, when, standing forth, 
Roderick, with lifted hand, besought a pause 
For speech, and moved towards the j^^outh. I, too, 
Young Baron, he began, must do my part ; 
Not with prerogative of earthly power, 
But as the servant of the living God, 
The God of Hosts. This day thou promisest 
To die, when honor calls thee, for thy faith, 
For thy liege Lord, and for thy native land ; 
The duties which at birth we all contract, 
Are by the high profession of this hour 
Made thine especially. Thy noble blood, 



676 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



The thoughts with which thy childhood hath 

been fed, 
And thine own noble nature more than all, 
Are sureties for thee. But these dreadful times 
Demand a further pledge ; for it hath pleased 
The Highest, as he tried his Saints of old, 
So in the fiery furnace of his wrath 
To prove and purify the sons of Spain ; 
And they must knit their spirits to the proof. 
Or sink, forever lost. Hold forth thy sword, 
Young Baron, and before thy people take 
The vow which, in Toledo's sacred name. 
Poor as these weeds bespeak me, I am here 
To minister with delegated power. 

With reverential awe was Roderick heard 
By all, so well authority became 
That mien, and voice, and countenance austere. 
Pelayo with complacent eye beheld 
The unlook'd-for interposal, and the Count 
Bends toward Alphonso his approving head. 
The youth, obedient, loosen'd from his belt 
The sword, and looking, while his heart beat fast, 
To Roderick, reverently expectant stood. 

O noble youth, the Royal Goth pursued, 
Thy country is in bonds ; an impious foe 
Oppresses her ; he brings with him strange laws. 
Strange language, evil customs, and false faith. 
And forces them on Spain. Swear that thy soul 
Will make no covenant with these accursed, 
But that the sword shall be from this day forth 
Thy children's portion, to be handed down 
From sire to son, a sacred heritage. 
Through every generation, till the work 
Be done, and this insulted land hath drunk 
In sacrifice the last invader's blood.' 

Bear witness, ancient Mountains ! cried the 
youth, 
And ye, my native Streams, who hold your course 
Forever; — this dear Earth, and yonder Sky, 
Be witness ! for myself I make the vow. 
And for my children's children. Here I stand 
Their sponsor, binding them in sight of Heaven, 
As by a new baptismal sacrament. 
To wage hereditary, holy war, 
Perpetual, patient, persevering war. 
Till not one living enemy pollute 
The sacred soil of Spain. 

So, as he ceased, 
While yet toward the clear, blue firmament 
His eyes were raised, he lifted to his lips 
The sword, with reverent gesture bending then, 
Devoutly kiss'd its cross. 

And ye ! exclaimed 
Roderick, as, turning to the assembled troop. 
He motion'd with authoritative hand, — 
Ye children of the hills and sons of Spain ! 

Through every heart the rapid feeling ran, — 
For us! they answer' d all with one accord. 
And at the word they knelt : People and Prince, 
The young and old, the father and the son, 
At once they knelt; with one accord they cried, 



For us, and for our seed ! with one accord 
They cross'd their fervent arms, and with bent head 
Inclined toward that awful voice from whence 
The inspiring impulse came. The Royal Goth 
Made answer, — I receive your vow for Spain 
And for the Lord of Hosts : your cause is good ; 
Go forward in his spirit and his strength. 

Ne'er in his happiest hours had Roderick 
With such commanding majesty dispensed 
His princely gifts, as dignified him now. 
When, with slow movement, solemnly upraised, 
Toward the kneeling troop he spread his arms, 
As if the expanded soul difliused itself. 
And carried to all spirits with the act 
Its efliuent inspiration. Silently 
The people knelt, and when they rose, such awe 
Held them in silence, that the eagle's cry. 
Who far above them, at her highest flight 
A speck scarce visible, gyred round and round. 
Was heard distinctly ; and the mountain stream, 
Which from the distant glen sent forth its sounds 
Wafted upon the wind, grew audible 
In that deep hush of feeling, like the voice 
Of waters in the stillness of the night. 



XIII. 

COUNT EUDON. 

That awful silence still endured, when one, 

Who to the northern entrance of the vale 

Had turn'd his casual eye, exclaim'd. The 

Moors ! — 
For from the forest verge a troop were seen 
Hastening toward Pedro's hall. Their forward 

speed 
Was check'd when they beheld his banner spread, 
And saw his order' d spears in prompt array. 
Marshalled to meet their coming. But the pride 
Of power and insolence of long command 
Prick'd on their Chief presumptuous : We are 

come 
Late for prevention, cried the haughty Moor, 
But never time more fit for punishment ! 
These unbelieving slaves must feel and know 
Their master's arm ! — On, faithful Mussulmen, 
On — on, — and hew down the rebellious dogs ! — 
Then, as he spurr'd his steed, Allah is great ! 
Mahommed is his Prophet ! he exclaim'd, 
And led the charge. 

Count Pedro met the Chief 
In full career ; he bore him from his horse 
A full spear's length upon the lance transfix'd ; 
Then leaving in his breast the mortal shaft, 
Pass'd on, and, breaking through the turban'd files, 
Open'd a path. Pelayo, who that day 
Fought in the ranks afoot, for other war 
Yet unequipp'd, pursued and smote the foe. 
But ever on Alphonso, at his side, 
Retained a watchful eye. The gallant boy 
Gave his good sword that hour its earliest taste 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



677 



Of Moorish blood, — that sword, whose hungry 

edge, 
Through the fair course of all his glorious life, 
From that auspicious day, was fed so well. 
Cheap was the victory now for Spain achieved ; 
For the first fervor of their zeal inspired 
The Mountaineers, — the presence of their Chiefs, 
The sight of all dear objects, all dear ties. 
The air they breathed, the soil whereon they trod. 
Duty, devotion, faith, and hope, and joy. 
And little had the misbelievers ween'd 
In such impetuous onset to receive 
A greeting deadly as their own intent; 
Victims they thought to find, not men prepared 
And eager for the fight ; their confidence 
Therefore gave way to wonder, and dismay 
Effected what astonishment began. 
Scatter'd before the impetuous Mountaineers, 
Buckler, and spear, and cimeter they dropp'd, 
As in precipitate rout they fled before 
The Asturian sword: the vales, and hills, and 

rocks. 
Received their blood, and where they fell the 

wolves 
At evening found them. 

From the fight apart 
Two Africans had stood, who held in charge 
Count Eudon. When they saw their countrymen 
Falter, give way, and fly before the foe, 
One turn'd toward him with malignant rage, 
And saying, Infidel ! thou shalt not live 
To join their triumph ! aim'd against his neck 
The moony falchion's point. His comrade raised 
A hasty hand, and turn'd its edge aside. 
Yet so that o'er the shoulder glancing down. 
It scarr'd him as it pass'd. The murderous Moor, 
Not tarrying to secure his vengeance, fled ; 
While he of milder mood, at Eudon's feet 
Fell and embraced his knees. The mountaineer 
Who found them thus, withheld at Eudon's voice 
His wrathful hand, and led them to his Lord. 

Count Pedro, and Alphonso, and the Prince 
Stood on a little rocky eminence 
Which overlook'd the vale. Pedro had put 
His helmet off", and with sonorous horn 
Blew the recall ; for well he knew what thoughts, 
Calm as the Prince appear'd and undisturb'd. 
Lay underneath his silent fortitude ; 
And how at this eventful juncture speed 
Imported more than vengeance. Thrice he sent 
The long-resounding signal forth, which rung 
From hill to hill, reechoing far and wide. 
Slow and unwillingly his men obey'd 
The swelling horn's reiterated call; 
Repining that a single foe escaped 
The retribution of that righteous hour. 
With lingering step reluctant from the chase 
They turn'd, — their veins full-swollen, their sin- 
ews strung 
For battle still, their hearts unsatisfied ; 
Their swords were dropping still with Moorish 

blood. 
And where they wiped their reeking brows, the 
stain 



Of Moorish gore was left. But when they came 

Where Pedro, with Alphonso at his side. 

Stood to behold their coming, then they press'd, 

All emulous, with gratulation round, 

Extolling, for his deeds that day display'd, 

The noble boy. Oh ! when had Heaven, they said, 

With such especial favor manifest 

Illustrated a first essay in arms ! 

They bless'd the father from whose loins he sprung, 

The mother at whose happy breast he fed ; 

And pray'd that their young hero's fields might be 

Many, and all like this. 

Thus they indulged 
The honest heart, exuberant of love. 
When that loquacious joy at once was check'd, 
For Eudon and the Moor were brought before 
Count Pedro. Both came fearfully and pale, 
But with a different fear : the African 
Felt, at this crisis of his destiny, 
Such apprehension as without reproach 
Might blanch a soldier's cheek, when life and death 
Hang on another's will, and helplessly 
He must abide the issue. But the thoughts 
Which quail'd Count Eudon's heart, and made his 

limbs 
Quiver, were of his own unworthiness. 
Old enmity, and that he stood in power 
Of hated and hereditary foes. 
I came not with them willingly ! he cried. 
Addressing Pedro and the Prince at once, 
Rolling from each to each his restless eyes 
Aghast, — the Moor can tell I had no choice ; 
They forced me from my castle : — in the fight 
They would have slain me : — see, I bleed ! The 

Moor 
Can witness that a Moorish cimeter 
Inflicted this: — he saved me from worse hurt: — 
I did not come in arms : — he knows it all ; — 
Speak, man, and let the truth be known to clear 
My innocence ! 

Thus as he ceased, with fear 
And rapid utterance, panting open-mouth'd, 
Count Pedro half repress'd a mournful smile, 
Wherein compassion seem'd to mitigate 
His deep contempt. Methinks, said he, the Mooi" 
Might with more reason look himself to find 
An intercessor, than be call'd upon 
To play the pleader's part. Didst thou tnen save 
The Baron from thy comrades ^ 

Let my Lord 
Show mercy to me, said the Mussulman, 
As I am free from falsehood. We were left, 
I and another, holding him in charge ; 
My fellow would have slain him when he saw 
How the fight fared ; I turn'd the cimeter 
Aside, and trust that life will be the meed 
For life by me preserved. 

Nor shall thy trust, 
Rejoin'd the Count, be vain. Say further now, 
From whence ye came; — your orders, what" — 

what force 
In Gegio ; and if others like yourselves 
Are in the field. 

The African replied. 
We came from Gegio, order'd to secure 



678 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XIV. 



This Baron on the way, and seek thee here 
To bear thee hence in bonds. A messenger 
From Cordoba, whose speed denoted well 
He came with urgent tidings, was the cause 
Of this our sudden movement. We went forth 
Three hundred men ; an equal force was sent 
For Cangas, on like errand, as I ween. 
Four hundred in the city then were left. 
If other force be moving from the south, 
I know not, save that all appearances 
Denote alarm and vigilance 

The Prince 
Fix'd upon Eudon then his eye severe ; 
Baron, he said, the die of war is cast ; 
What part art thou prepared to take .? against, 
Or with the oppressor ^ 

Not against my friends, — 
Not against you ! — the irresolute wretch replied, 
Hasty, yet faltering in his fearful speech ; 
But, — have ye weigh'd it well.? — It is not yet 
Too late, — their numbers, — their victorious force. 
Which hath already trodden in the dust 
The sceptre of the Goths : — the throne de- 
stroy 'd, — 
Our towns subdued, — our country overrun, — 
The people to the yoke of their new Lords 
Resign'd in peace — Can I not mediate .? — 
Were it not better through my agency 
To gain such terms, — such honorable terms .'' — 

Terms ! cried Pelayo, cutting short at once 
That dastard speech, and checking, ere it grew 
Too powerful for restraint, the incipient wrath 
Which in indignant murmurs breathing round. 
Rose like a gathering storm, learn thou what terms 
Asturias, this day speaking by my voice. 
Doth constitute to be the law between 
Thee and thy Country. Our portentous age. 
As with an earthquake's desolating force, 
Hath loosen 'd and disjointed the whole frame 
Of social order, and she calls not now 
For service with the force of sovereign will. 
That which was common duty in old times, 
Becomes an arduous, glorious virtue now ; 
And every one, as between Hell and Heaven, 
In free election must be left to choose. 
Asturias asks not of thee to partake 
The cup which we have pledged ; she claims from 

none 
The dauntless fortitude, the mind resolved, 
Which only God can give ; — therefore such peace 
As thou canst find where all around is war, 
She leaves thee to enjoy. But think not. Count, 
That because thou art weak, one valiant arm, 
One generous spirit must be lost to Spain ! 
The vassal owes no service to the Lord 
Who to his Country doth acknowledge none. 
The summons which thou hast not heart to give, 
I and Count Pedro over thy domains 
Will send abroad ; the vassals who were thine 
Will fight beneath our banners, and our wants 
Shall from thy lands, as from a patrimony 
Which hath reverted to the common stock. 
Be fed : such tribute, too, as to the Moors 
Thou renderest, we will take It is the price 



Which in this land for weakness must be paid 
While evil stars prevail. And mark me, Chief! 
Fear is a treacherous counsellor ! I know 
Thou thinkest that beneath his horses' hoofs 
The Moor will trample our poor numbers down j 
But join not, in contempt of us and Heaven, 
His multitudes ! for if thou shouldst be found 
Against thy country, on the readiest tree 
Those recreant bones shall rattle in the wind, 
When the birds have left them bare. 

As thus he spake, 
Count Eudon heard and trembled : every joint 
Was loosen'd, every fibre of his flesh 
Thrill'd, and from every pore effused, cold sweat 
Clung on his quivering limbs. Shame forced it 

forth. 
Envy, and inward consciousness, and fear 
Predominant, which stifled in his heart 
Hatred and rage. Before his livid lips 
Could shape to utterance their essay 'd reply, 
Compassionately Pedro interposed. 
Go, Baron, to the Castle, said the Count ; 
There let thy wound be look'd to, and consult 
Thy better mind at leisure. Let this Moor 
Attend upon thee there, and when thou wilt, 

Follow thy fortunes To Pelayo then 

He turn'd, and saying, All-too-long, O Prince, 
Hath this unlook'd-for conflict held thee here, — 
He bade his gallant men begin their march. 

Flush'd with success, and in auspicious hour. 
The Mountaineers set forth. Blessings and prayers 
Pursued them at their parting, and the tears 
Which fell were tears of fervor, not of grief. 
The sun was verging to the western slope 
Of Heaven, but they till midnight travell'd on ; 
Renewing then at early dawn their way. 
They held their unremitting course from morn 
Till latest eve, such urgent cause impell'd ; 
And night had closed around, when to the vale 
Where Sella in her ampler bed receives 
Pionia's stream they came. Massive and black 
Pelayo's castle there was seen; its lines 
And battlements against the deep blue sky 
Distinct in solid darkness visible. 
No light is in the tower. Eager to know 
The worst, and with that fatal certainty 
To terminate intolerable dread. 
He spurr'd his courser forward. All his fears 
Too surely are fulfill'd, — for open stand 
The doors, and mournfully at times a dog 
Fills with his howling the deserted hall. 
A moment overcome with wretchedness, 
Silent Pelayo stood ! recovering then, 
Lord God, resign'd he cried, thy will be done ! 



XIV. 



THE RESCUE, 



Count, said Pelayo, Nature hath assign'd 
Two sovereign remedies for human grief; 



XIV. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



679 



Reiigion, surest, firmest, first and best. 

Strength to the weak, and to the wounded balm 3 

And strenuous action next. Think not I came 

With unprovided heart. My noble wife, 

In the last solemn words, the last farewell 

With which she charged her secret messenger. 

Told me that whatsoe'er was my resolve. 

She bore a mind prepared. And well I know 

The evil, be it what it may, hath found 

In her a courage equal to the hour. 

Captivity, or death, or what worse pangs. 

She in her children may be doom'd to feel, 

Will never make that steady soul repent 

Its virtuous purpose. I, too, did not cast 

My single life into the lot, but knew 

These dearer pledges on the die were set; 

And if the worst have fallen, I shall but bear 

That in my breast, which, with transfiguring power 

Of piety, makes chastening sorrow take 

The form of hope, and sees, in Death, the friend 

And the restoring Angel. We must rest 

Perforce, and wait what tidings night may bring. 

Haply of comfort. Ho, there ! kindle fires. 

And see if aught of hospitality 

Can yet within these mournful walls be found ! 

Thus while he spake, lights were descried far off 
Moving among the trees, and coming sounds 
Were heard as of a distant multitude. 
Anon a company of horse and foot. 
Advancing in disorderly array. 
Came up the vale ; before them and beside 
Their torches flash'd on Sella's rippling stream ; 
Now gleam'd through chestnut groves, emerging 

now. 
O'er their huge boughs and radiated leaves 
Cast broad and bright a transitory glare. 
That sight inspired with strength the mountaineers; 
All sense of weariness, all wish for rest 
At once were gone ; impatient in desire 
Of second victory alert they stood ; 
And when the hostile symbols, which from far 
Imagination to their wish had shaped, 
Vanish'd in nearer vision, high-wrought hope 
Departing, left the spirit pall'd and blank. 
No turban'd race, no sons of Africa 
Were they who now came winding up the vale. 
As waving wide before their horses' feet 
The torch-light floated, with its hovering glare 
Blackening the incumbent and surrounding night. 
Helmet and breastplate glitter'd as they came, 
And spears erect; and nearer as they drew 
Were the loose folds of female garments seen 
On those who led the company. Who then 
Had stood beside Pelayo, might have heard 
The beating of his heart. 

But vainly there 
Sought he with wistful eye the well-known forms 
Beloved ; and plainly might it now be seen. 
That from some bloody conflict they return'd 
Victorious, — for at every saddle-bow 
A gory head was hung. Anon, they stopp'd. 
Levelling, in quick alarm, their ready spears. 
Hold! who goes there .^ cried one. A hundred 
tongues 



Sent forth with one accord the glad reply. 
Friends and Asturians. Onward moved the 

lights, — 
The people knew their lord. 

Then what a shout 
Rung through the valley ! From their clay-built 

nests. 
Beneath the overbrowing battlements. 
Now first disturb'd, the aflrighted martins flew, 
And uttering notes of terror short and shrill, 
Amid the yellow glare and lurid smoke 
Wheel'd giddily. Then plainly was it shown 
How well the vassals loved their generous lord, 
How like a father the Asturian Prince 
Was dear. They crowded round ; they clasp'd 

his knees ; 
They snatch'd his hand ; they fell upon his neck, — 
They wept ; — they blest Almighty Providence, 
Which had restored him thus from bondage free ; 
God was with them and their good cause, they said ; 
His hand was here. — His shield was over them, — 
His spirit was abroad, — His power displayed ; 
And pointing to their bloody trophies then. 
They told Pelayo, there he might behold 
The first fruits of the harvest they should soon 
Reap in the field of war ! Benignantly, 
With voice, and look, and gesture, did the Prince 
To these warm greetings of tumultuous joy 
Respond; and sure, if at that moment aught 
Could for a while have overpower'd those fears 
Which, from the inmost heart, o'er all his frame 
Diflused their chilling influence, worthy pride, 
And sympathy of love, and joy, and hope. 
Had then possess'd him wholly. Even now 
His spirit rose ; the sense of power, the sight 
Of his brave people, ready where he led 
To fight their country's battles, and the thought 
Of instant action, and deliverance, — 
If Heaven, which thus far had protected him. 
Should favor still, — revived his heart, and gave 
Fresh impulse to its spring. In vain he sought, 
Amid that turbulent greeting, to inquire 
Where Gaudiosa was, his children where. 
Who call'd them to the field, who captain'd them ; 
And how these women, thus with arms and death 
Environ'd, came amid their company ; 
For yet, amid the fluctuating light 
And tumult of the crowd, he knew them not. 

Guisla was one. The Moors had found in her 
A willing and concerted prisoner. 
Gladly to Gegio, to the renegade. 
On whom her loose and shameless love was bent, 
Had she set forth ; and in her heart she curs'd 
The busy spirit, who, with powerful call 
Rousing Pelayo's people, led them on 
In quick pursual, and victoriously 
Achieved the rescue, to her mind perverse 
Unwelcome as unlook'd for. With dismay 
She recognized her brother, dreaded now 
More than he once was dear ; her countenance 
Was turn'd toward him, — not with eager joy 
To court his sight, and meeting its first glance, 
Exchange delightful welcome, soul with soul : 
Hers was the conscious eye, that cannot choose 



680 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XV. 



But look to what it fears. She could not shun 

His presence, and the rigid smile constrain'd, 

With which she coldly dress'd her features, ill 

Conceal'd her inward thoughts, and the despite 

Of obstinate guilt and unrepentant shame. 

Sullenly thus, upon her mule she sat, 

Waiting the greeting which she did not dare 

Bring on. But who is she that, at her side, 

Upon a stately war-horse eminent. 

Holds the loose rein with careless hand .? A helm 

Presses the clusters of her flaxen hair; 

The shield is on her arm ; her breast is mail'd; 

A sword-belt is her girdle, and right well 

It may be seen that sword hath done its work 

To-day, for upward from the wrist her sleeve 

Is stiff with blood. An unregardant eye. 

As one whose thoughts were not of earth, she cast 

Upon the turmoil round. One countenance 

So strongly mark'd, so passion-worn, was there, 

That it recall 'd her mind. Ha ! Maccabee ! 

Lifting her arm, exultingly she cried, 

Did I not tell thee we should meet in joy ? 

Well, Brother, hast thou done thy part, — I, too. 

Have not been wanting ! Now be His the praise 

From whom the impulse came ! 

That startling call. 
That voice so well remember'd, touch'd the Goth 
With timely impulse now ; for he had seen 
His Mother's face, — and at her sight, the past 
And present mingled like a frightful dream, 
Which from some dread reality derives 
Its deepest horror. Adosinda's voice 
Dispersed the waking vision. Little deem'd 
Rusilla, at that moment, that the child. 
For whom her supplications day and night 
Were offer'd, breathed the living air. Her heart 
Was calm ; her placid countenance, though grief 
Deeper than time had left its traces there, 
Retain'd its dignity serene ; yet, when 
Siverian, pressing through the people, kiss'd 
Her reverend hand, some quiet tears ran down. 
As she approach'd the Prince, the crowd made way 
Respectful. The maternal smile which bore 
Her greeting, from Pelayo's heart at once 
Dispell'd its boding. What he would have ask'd 
She knew, and bending from her palfrey down. 
Told him that they for whom he look'd were safe, 
And that in secret he should hear the rest. 



XV. 



RODERICK AT CAN GAS. 

How calmly gliding through the dark-blue sky 
The midnight Moon ascends ! Her placid beams 
Through thinly-scatter'd leaves and boughs gro- 
tesque. 
Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope ; 
Here, o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, gray 
And massy, motionless they spread ; here shine 
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night 
Their chasms ; and there the glittering argentry 
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams. 



A lovelier, purer light than that of day 

Rests on the hills ; and oh, how awfully 

Into that deep and tranquil firmament 

The summits of Auseva rise serene ! 

The watchman on the battlements partakes 

The stillness of the solemn hour ; he feels 

The silence of the earth, the endless sound 

Of flowing water soothes him, and the stars, 

Which in that brightest moonlight well nigh 

quench 'd 
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth 
Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen, 
Draw on, with elevating influence. 
Toward eternity the attemper'd mind. 
Musing on worlds beyond the grave he stands, 
And to the Virgin Mother silently 
Prefers her hymn of praise. 

The mountaineers 
Before the castle, rouna their mouldering fires, 
Lie on the hearth outstretch'd. Pelayo's hall 
Is full, and he upon his careful couch 
Hears all around the deep and long-drawn breath 
Of sleep ; for gentle night hath brought to these 
Perfect and undisturb'd repose, alike 
Of corporal powers and inward faculty. 
Wakeful the while he lay, yet more by hope 
Than grief or anxious thoughts possess'd, — though 

grief 
For Guisla's guilt, which freshen'd in his heart 
The memory of their wretched mother's crime, 
Still made its presence felt, like the dull sense 
Of some perpetual inward malady ; 
And the whole peril of the future lay 
Before him clearly seen. He had heard all ; 
How that unworthy sister, obstinate 
In wrong and shameless, rather seem'd to woo 
The upstart renegado than to wait 
His wooing ; how, as guilt to guilt led on. 
Spurning at gentle admonition first, 
When Gaudiosa hopelessly forbore 
From further counsel, then in sullen mood 
Resentful, Guisla soon began to hate 
The virtuous presence before which she felt 
Her nature how inferior, and her fault 
How foul. Despiteful thus she grew, because 
Humbled, yet unrepentant. Who could say 
To what excess bad passions might impel 
A woman thus possess'd ? She could not fail 
To mark Siverian's absence, for what end 
Her conscience but too surely had divined ; 
And Gaudiosa, well aware that all 
To the vile paramour was thus made known. 
Had to safe hiding-place, with timely fear, 
Removed her children. Well the event had proved 
How needful was that caution ; for at night 
She sought the mountain solitudes, and morn 
Beheld Numacian's soldiers at the gate. 
Yet did not sorrow in Pelayo's heart 
For this domestic shame prevail that hour. 
Nor gathering danger weigh his spirit down. 
The anticipated meeting put to flight 
These painful thoughts : to-morrow will restore 
All whom his heart holds dear ; his wife beloved. 
No longer now remember'd for regret, 
Is present to his soul with hope and joy; 



XV. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



681 



His inward eye beholds Favila's form 
In opening youth robust, and Hermesind, 
His daughter, lovely as a budding rose; 
Their images beguile the hours of night, 
Till with the earliest morning he may seek 
Their secret hold. 

The nightingale not yet 
Had ceased her song, nor had the early lark 
Her dewy nest forsaken, when the Prince 
Upward beside Pionia took his way 
Toward Auseva. Heavily to him, 
Impatient for the morrow's happiness. 
Long night had linger'd ; but it seem'd more long 
To Roderick's aching heart. He, too, had watch'd 
For dawn, and seen the earliest break of day, 
And heard its earliest sounds ; and when the Prince 
Went forth, the melancholy man was seen 
With pensive pace upon Pionia's side 
AVandering alone and slow. For lie had left 
The wearying place of his unrest, that morn 
With its cold dews might bathe his throbbing brow, 
And with its breath allay the feverish heat 
That burnt within. Alas ! the gales of morn 
Reach not the fever of a wounded heart! 
How shall he meet his Mother's eye, how make 
His secret known, and from that voice revered 
Obtain forgiveness, — all that he has now 
To ask, ere on the lap of earth in peace 
He lay his head resign'd ? In silent prayer 
He supplicated Heaven to strengthen him 
Against that trying hour, there seeking aid 
Where all who seek shall find ; and thus his soul 
Received support, and gather'd fortitude, 
Never than now more needful, for the hour 
Was nigh. He saw Siverian drawing near. 
And with a dim but quick foreboding met 
The good old man : yet when he heard him say, 
My Lady sends to seek thee, like a knell 
To one expecting and prepared for death, 
But fearing the dread point that hastens on, 
It smote his heart. He follow'd silently, 
And knit his suffering spirit to the proof. 

He went resolved to tell his Mother all. 
Fall at her feet, and drinking the last dregs 
Of bitterness, receive the only good 
Earth had in store for him. Resolved for this 
He went ; yet was it a relief to find 
That painful resolution must await 
A fitter season, when no eye but Heaven's 
Might witness to their mutual agony. 
Count Julian's daughter with Rusilla sat; 
Both had been weeping , both were pale, but calm. 
With head as for humility abased 
Roderick approach'd, and bending, on his breast 
He cross'd his humble arms. Rusilla rose 
In reverence to the priestly character. 
And with a mournful eye regarding him. 
Thus she began : — Good Father, I have heard 
From my old faithful servant and true friend. 
Thou didst reprove the inconsiderate tongue. 
That in the anguish of its spirit pour'd 
A curse upon my poor unhappy child. 
jO Father Maccabee, this is a hard world. 
And hasty in its judgments ! Time has been, 
86 



When not a tongue within the Pyrenees 

Dared whisper in dispraise of Roderick's name, 

Lest, if the conscious air had caught the sound, 

The vengeance of the honest multitude 

Should fall upon the traitorous head, or brand 

For life-long infamy the lying lips. 

Now, if a voice be raised in his behalf, 

'Tis noted for a wonder, and the man 

Who utters the strange speech shall be admired 

For such excess of Christian charity. 

Thy Christian charity hath not been lost ; — 

Father, I feel its virtue : — it hath been 

Balm to my heart ; — with words and grateful 

tears, — 
All that is left me now for gratitude, — 
I thank thee, and beseech thee in thy prayers 
That thou wilt still remember Roderick's name. 

Roderick so long had to this hour look'd on, 
That when the actual point of trial came. 
Torpid and numb'd it found him; cold he grew. 
And as the vital spirits to the heart 
Retreated o'er his wither'd countenance, 
Deathy and damp, a whiter paleness spread. 
Unmoved the while, the inward feeling seem'd. 
Even in such dull insensibility 
As gradual age brings on, or slow disease, 
Beneath whose progress lingering life survives 
The power of suffering. Wondering at himself. 
Yet gathering confidence, he raised his eyes. 
Then slowly shaking as he bent his head, 
O venerable Lady, he replied, 
If aught may comfort that unhappy soul. 
It must be thy compassion, and thy prayers. 
She whom he most hath wrong'd, she who alone 
On earth can grant forgiveness for his crime. 
She hath forgiven him ; and thy blessing now 
Were all that he could ask, — all that could bring 
Profit or consolation to his soul. 
If he hath been, as sure we may believe, 
A penitent sincere. 

Oh, had he lived. 
Replied Rusilla, never penitence 
Had equall'd his ! full well I know his heart, 
Vehement in all things. He would on himself 
Have wreak'd such penance as had reach'd the 

height 
Of fleshly suffering — yea, which being told 
With its portentous rigor should have made 
The memory of his fault, o'erpower'd and lost 
In shuddering pity and astonishment, 
Fade like a feebler horror. Otherwise 
Seem'd good to Heaven. I murmur not, nor doubt 
The boundless mercy of redeeming love. 
For sure I trust that not in his offence 
Harden'd and reprobate was my lost son, 
A child of wrath, cut off"! — that dreadful thought, 
Not even amid the first fresh wretchedness, 
When the ruin burst around me like a flood, 
Assail' d my soul. I ever deem'd his fall 
An act of sudden madness ; and this day 
Hath in unlook'd-for confirmation given 
A livelier hope, a more assured faith. 
Smiling benignant then amid her tears. 
She took Florinda by the hand, and said, 



682 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



XVI. 



T little thought that I should live to bless 

Count Julian's daughter ! She hath brought to me 

The last, the best, the only comfort earth 

Could minister to this afflicted heart. 

And my gray hairs may now unto the grave 

Go down in peace. 

Happy, Florinda cried, 
Are they for whom the grave hath peace in store ! 
The wrongs they have sustain'd, the woes they 

bear, 
Pass not that holy threshold, where Death heals 
The broken heart. O Lady, thou mayst trust 
In humble hope, through Him who on the Cross 
Gave his atoning blood for lost mankind, 
To meet beyond the grave thy child forgiven. 
I too with Roderick there may interchange 
Forgiveness. But the grief which wastes away 
This mortal frame, hastening the happy hour 
Of my enlargement, is but a light part 
Of what my soul endures ! — that grief hath lost 
Its sting : — I have a keener sorrow here, — 
One which, — but God forefend that dire event, — 
May pass with me the portals of the grave. 
And with a thought, like sin which cannot die, 
Imbitter Heaven. My father hath renounced 
His hope in Christ ! It was his love for me 
Which drove him to perdition — I was born 
To ruin all who loved me, — all I loved ! 
Perhaps I sinn'd in leaving him; — that fear 
Rises within me to disturb the peace 
Which I should else have found. 

To Roderick then 
The pious mourner turn'd her suppliant eyes: 

Father, there is virtue in thy prayers ! 

1 do beseech thee offer them to Heaven 

In his behalf! For Roderick's sake, for mine, 
Wrestle with Him whose name is Merciful, 
That Julian may with penitence be touch' d. 
And clinging to the Cross, implore that grace 
Which ne'er was sought in vain. For Roderick's 

sake 
And mine, pray for him ! We have been the cause 
Of his offence ! What other miseries 
May from that same unhappy source have risen, 
Are earthly, temporal, reparable all; — 
But if a soul be lost through our misdeeds, 
That were eternal evil ! Pray for him, 
Good Father Maccabee, and be thy prayers 
More fervent, as the deeper is the crime. 

While thus Florinda spake, the dog who lay 
Before Rusilla's feet, eyeing him long 
And wistfully, had recognized at length, 
Changed as he was and in those sordid weeds. 
His royal master. And he rose and lick'd 
His wither'd hand, and earnestly look'd up 
With eyes whose human meaning did not need 
The aid of speech ; and moan'd, as if at once 
To court and chide the long-withheld caress. 
A feeling uncommix'd with sense of guilt 
Or shame, yet painfulest, thrill'd through the 

King; 
But he to self-control now long inured, 
Repress'd his rising heart, nor other tears. 
Full as his struggling bosom was, let fall 



Than seem'd to follow on Florinda's words. 
Looking toward her then, yet so that still 
He shunn'd the meeting of her eye, he said, 
Virtuous and pious as thou art, and ripe 
For Heaven, O Lady, I must think the man 
Hath not by his good Angel been cast off 
For whom thy supplications rise. The Lord, 
Whose justice doth in its unerring course 
Visit the children for the sire's offence. 
Shall He not in his boundless mercy hear 
The daughter's prayer, and for her sake restore 
The guilty parent ? My soul shall with thine 
In earnest and continual duty join. — 
How deeply, how devoutly, He will know 
To whom the cry is raised ! 

Thus having said, 
Deliberately, in self-possession still. 
Himself from that most painful interview 
Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog 
Follow 'd his footsteps close. But he retired 
Into the thickest grove ; there yielding way 
To his o'erburden'd nature, from all eyes 
Apart, he cast himself upon the ground, 
And threw his arms around the dog, and cried, 
While tears stream'd down, Thou, Theron, then 

hast known 
Thy poor lost master, — Theron, none but thou ! 



XVI. 

COVADONGA. 

Meantime Pelayo up the vale pursued 

Eastward his way, before the sun had climb'd 

Auseva's brow, or shed his silvering beams 

Upon Europa's summit, where the snows 

Through all revolving seasons hold their seat. 

A happy man he went, his heart at rest, 

Of hope, and virtue, and affection full, 

To all exhilarating influences 

Of earth and heaven alive. With kindred joy 

He heard the lark, who from her airy height. 

On twinkling pinions poised, pour'd forth profuse, 

In thrilling sequence of exuberant song. 

As one whose joyous nature overfiow'd 

With life and power, her rich and rapturous strain. 

The early bee, buzzing along the way. 

From flower to flower, bore gladness -on its wing 

To his rejoicing sense ; and he pursued, 

With quicken'd eye alert, the frolic hare. 

Where from the green herb in her wanton path 

She brush'd away the dews. For he long time, ] 

Far from his home and from his native hills. 

Had dwelt in bondage ; and the mountain breeze, 

Which he had with the breath of infancy 

Inhaled, such impulse to his heart restored, 

As if the seasons had roll'd back, and life 

Enjoy'd a second spring. 

Through fertile fields 
He went, by cots with pear-trees overbower'd, 
Or spreading to the sun their trellised vines ; 
Through orchards now, and now by thymy banks, 
Where wooden hives in some warm nook were hid 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



683 



From wind and shower ; and now through shadowy 

paths, 
Where hazels fringed Pionia's vocal stream ; 
Till where the loftier hills to narrower bound 
Confine the vale, he reach'd those huts remote, 
Which should hereafter to the noble line 
Of Soto origin and name impart ; 
A gallant lineage, long in fields of war 
And faithful chronicler's enduring page 
Blazon'd ; but most by him illustrated, 
Avid of gold, yet greedier of renown, 
Whom not the spoils of Atabalipa 
Could satisfy insatiate, nor the fame 
Of that wide empire overthrown appease ; 
But he to Florida's disastrous shores 
In evil hour his gallant comrades led. 
Through savage woods and swamps, and hostile 

tribes, 
The Apalachian arrows, and the snares 
Of wilier foes, hunger, and thirst, and toil ; 
Till from ambition's feverish dream the touch 
Of Death awoke him ; and when he had seen 
The fruit of all his treasures, all his toil, 
Foresight, and long endurance, fade away, 
Earth to the restless one refusing rest, 
In the great river's midland bed he left 
His honor'd bones. 

A mountain rivulet. 
Now calm and lovely in its summer course. 
Held by those huts its everlasting way 
Towards Pionia. They, whose flocks and herds 
Drink of its water, call it Deva. Here 
Pelayo southward up the ruder vale 
Traced it, his guide unerring. Amid heaps 
Of mountain wreck, on either side thrown high, 
The wide-spread traces of its wintry might, 
The tortuous channel wound ; o'er beds of sand 
Here silently it flows ; here, from the rock 
Rebutted, curls and eddies; plunges here 
Precipitate ; here roaring among crags. 
It leaps, and foams, and whirls, and hurries on. 
Gray alders here and bushy hazels hid 
The mossy side ; their wreath'd and knotted feet, 
Bared by the current, now against its force 
Repaying the support they found, upheld 
The bank secure. Here, bending to the stream. 
The birch fantastic stretch'd its rugged trunk. 
Tall and erect from whence, as from their base. 
Each like a tree, its silver branches grew. 
The cherry here hung, for the birds of heaven. 
Its rosy fruit on high. The elder there 
Its purple berries o'er the water bent. 
Heavily hanging. Here, amid the brook, 
Gray as the stone to which it clung, half root. 
Half trunk, the young ash rises from the rock; 
And there its parent lifts a lofty head. 
And spreads its graceful boughs ; the passing wind 
With twinkling motion lifts the silent leaves. 
And shakes its rattling tufts. 

Soon had the Prince 
Behind him left the farthest dwelling-place 
Of man ; no fields of waving corn were here. 
Nor wicker storehouse for the autumnal grain, 
Vineyard, nor bowery fig, nor fruitful grove ; 
3nly the rocky vale, the mountain stream, 



Incumbent crags, and hills that over hills 
Arose on either hand, here hung with woods. 
Here rich with heath, that o'er some smooth 

ascent 
Its purple glory spread, or golden gorse ; 
Bare here, and striated with many a hue, 
Scored by the wintry rain ; by torrents here 
Riven, and with overhanging rocks abrupt. 
Pelayo, upward as he cast his eyes 
Where crags loose-hanging o'er the narrow pass 
Impended, there beheld his country's strength 
Insuperable, and in his heart rejoiced. 
Oh that the Mussulman were here, he cried. 
With all his myriads ! While thy day endures, 
Moor ! thou mayst lord it in the plains ; but here 
Hath nature, for the free and brave, prepared 
A sanctuary, where no oppressor's power, 
No might of human tyranny, can pierce 

The tears which started then sprang not alone 
From lofty thoughts of elevating joy ; 
For love and admiration had their part. 
And virtuous pride. Here then thou hast retired, 
My Gaudiosa ! in his heart he said ; 
Excellent woman ! ne'er was richer boon 
By fate benign to favor'd man indulged, 
Than when thou wert, before the face of Heaven, 
Given me to be my children's mother, brave 
And virtuous as thou art ! Here thou hast fled, 
Thou, who wert nursed in palaces, to dwell 
In rocks and mountain caves ! — The thought was 

proud. 
Yet not without a sense of inmost pain ; 
For never had Pelayo, till that hour. 
So deeply felt the force of solitude. 
High over head, the eagle soar'd serene. 
And the gray lizard, on the rocks below, 
Bask'd in the sun : no living creature else. 
In this remotest wilderness, was seen ; 
Nor living voice v/as there, — only the flow 
Of Deva, and the rushing of its springs. 
Long in the distance heard, which nearer now, 
With endless repercussion deep and loud, 
Throbb'd on the dizzy sense. 

The ascending vale, 
Long straiten'd by the narrowing mountains, 

here 
Was closed. In front, a rock, abrupt and bare, 
Stood eminent, in height exceeding far 
All edifice of human power, by King, 
Or Caliph, or barbaric Sultan rear'd. 
Or mightier tyrants of the world of old, 
Assyrian or Egyptian, in their pride ; 
Yet, far above, beyond the reach of sight. 
Swell after swell, the heathery mountain rose 
Here, in two sources, from the living rock 
The everlasting springs of Deva gush'd. 
Upon a smooth and grassy plat below. 
By nature there, as for an altar, dress'd, 
Theyjoin'd their sister stream, which from the 

earth 
Well'd silently. In such a scene, rude man, 
With pardonable error, might have knelt. 
Feeling a present Deity, and made 
His offering to the fountain Nymph devout. 



684 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



The arching rock disclosed, above the springs, 
A cave, where hugest son of giant birth, 
That e'er of old in forest of romance 
'Gainst knights and ladies waged discourteous war, 
Erect within the portal, might have stood. 
The broken stone allow'd for hand and foot 
No difficult ascent, above the base 
In height a tall man's stature, measured thrice. 
No holier spot than Covadonga Spain 
Boasts in her wide extent, though all her realms 
Be with the noblest blood of martyrdom, 
In elder or in later days, enrich'd, 
And glorified with tales of heavenly aid 
By many a miracle made manifest ; 
Nor in the heroic annals of her fame 
Doth she show forth a scene of more renown. 
Then, save the hunter, drawn in keen pursuit 
Beyond his wonted haunts, or shepherd's boy. 
Following the pleasure of his straggling flock, 
None knew the place. 

Pelayo, when he saw 
Those glittering sources and their sacred cave, 
Took from his side the bugle, silver-tipt, 
And with a breath long drawn, and slow expired, 
Sent forth that strain, which, echoing from the 

walls 
Of Cangas, wont to tell his glad return 
When from the chase he came. At the first sound 
Favila started in the cave, and cried. 
My father's horn ! — A sudden flush suffused 
Hermesind's cheek, and she with quicken'd eye 
Look'd eager to her mother silently ; 
But Gaudiosa trembled and grew pale. 
Doubting her sense deceived. A second time 
The bugle breathed its well-known notes abroad ; 
And Hermesind around her mother's neck 
Threw her white arms, and earnestly exclaim'd, 
'Tis he ! — But when a third and broader blast 
Rung in the echoing archway, ne'er did wand, 
With magic power endued, call up a sight 
So strange, as sure in that wild solitude 
It seem'd, when from the bowels of the rock 
The mother and her children hastened forth ; 
She in the sober charms and dignity 
Of womanhood mature, nor verging yet 
Upon decay ; in gesture like a Queen, 
Such inborn and habitual majesty 
Ennobled all her steps — or Priestess, chosen 
Because within such faultless work of Heaven 
Inspiring Deity might seem to make 
Its habitation known, — Favila such 
In form and stature as the Sea Nymph's son, 
When that wise Centaur from his cave well pleased 
Beheld the boy divine his growing strength 
Against some shaggy lionet essay, 
And fixing in the half-grown mane his hands. 
Roll with him in fierce dalliance intertwined. 
But like a creature of some higher sphere 
His sister came ; she scarcely touch' d the rock. 
So light was Hermesind's acirial speed. 
Beauty, and grace, and innocence in her 
In heavenly union shone. One who had held 
The faith of elder Greece, would sure have thought 
She was some glorious nymph of seed divine, 



Oread or Dryad, of Diana's train 

The youngest and the loveliest: yea, she seem'd 

Angel, or soul beatified, from realms 

Of bliss, on errand of parental love. 

To earth re-sent, — if tears and trembling limbs 

With such celestial natures might consist. 

Embraced by all, in turn embracing each. 
The husband and the father for a while 
Forgot his country and all things beside : 
Life hath few moments of such pure delight, 
Such foretaste of the perfect joy of Heaven. 
And when the thought recurr'd of sufferings past,; 
Perils which threaten'd still, and arduous toil 
Yet to be undergone, remember'd griefs 
Heighten'd the present happiness ; and hope 
Upon the shadows of futurity 
Shone like the sun upon the morning mists. 
When driven before his rising rays they roll. 
And melt, and leave the prospect bright and cleari 



When now Pelayo's eyes had drank their fill 
Of love from those dear faces, he went up 
To view the hiding-place. Spacious it was 
As that Sicilian cavern in the hill. 
Wherein earth-shaking Neptune's giant son 
Duly at eve was wont to fold his flock. 
Ere the wise Ithacan, over that brute force 
By wiles prevailing, for a life-long night 
Seel'd his broad eye. The healthful air had here 
Free entrance, and the cheerful light of heaven; 
But at the end, an opening in the floor 
Of rock disclosed a wider vault below, 
Which never sunbeam visited, nor breath 
Of vivifying morning came to cheer. 
No light was there but that which from above 
In dim reflection fell, or found its way. 
Broken and quivering, through the glassy streami 
Where through the rock it gush'd. That shadowy 

light 
Sufficed to show, where from their secret bed 
The waters issued ; with whose rapid course, 
And with whose everlasting cataracts 
Such motion to the chill, damp atmosphere 
Was given, as if the solid walls of rock 
Were shaken with the sound. 

Glad to respire 
The upper air, Pelayo hasten'd back 
From that drear den. Look ! Hermesind ex-s 

claim'd. 
Taking her father's hand ; thou hast not seen 
My chamber : — See ! — did ever ringdove choosf 
In so secure a nook her hiding-place. 
Or build a warmer nest .'' 'Tis fragrant too, 
As warm, and not more sweet than soft ; for thym< 
And myrtle with the elastic heath are laid. 
And, over all, this dry and pillowy moss, — 
Smiling she spake. Pelayo kiss'd the child, 
And, sighing, said within himself, I trust 
In Heaven, whene'er thy May of life is come. 
Sweet bird, that thou shalt have a blither bower 
Fitlier, he thought, such chamber might beseem 
Some hermit of Hilarion's school austere, 
Or old Antonius, he who from the hell 



XVI. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



685 



Of his bewilder'd phantasy saw fiends 
In actual vision, a foul throng grotesque 
Of all horrific shapes and forms obscene 
Crowd in broad day before his open eyes. 
That feeling cast a momentary shade 
Of sadness o'er his soul. But deeper thoughts. 
If he might have foreseen the things to come. 
Would there have fill'd him; for within that 

cave 
His own remains were one day doom'd to find 
Their final place of rest; and in that spot, 
Where that dear child with innocent delight 
Had spread her mossy couch, the sepulchre 
Shall in the consecrated rock be hewn, 
Where with Alphonso, her beloved lord. 
Laid side by side, must Hermesind partake 
The everlasting marriage-bed, when he. 
Leaving a name perdurable on earth. 
Hath changed his earthly for a heavenly crown. 
Dear child, upon that fated spot she stood, 
In all the beauty of her opening youth. 
In health's rich bloom, in virgin innocence. 
While her eyes sparkled and her heart o'erflow'd 
With pure and perfect joy of filial love. 

Many a slow century since that day hath fill'd 
Its course, and countless multitudes have trod 
With pilgrim feet that consecrated cave ; 
Yet not in all those ages, amid all 
The untold concourse, hath one breast been swollen 
With such emotions as Pelayo felt 
That hour. O Gaudiosa, he exclaim'd, 
And thou couldst seek for shelter here, amid 
This awful solitude, in mountain caves ! 
Thou noble spirit ! Oh, when hearts like thine 
Grow on this sacred soil, would it not be 
In me, thy husband, double infamy. 
And tenfold guilt, if I despair'd of Spain .= 
In all her visitations, favoring Heaven 
Hath left her still the unconquerable mind ; 
And thus being worthy of redemption, sure 
Is she to be redeem'd. 

Beholding her 
Through tears he spake, and press'd upon her lips 
A kiss of deepest love. Think ever thus, 
;She answer'd, and that faith will give the power 
In which it trusts. When to this mountain hold 
These children, thy dear images, I brought, 
[ said within myself, Where should they fly 
Bat to the bosom of their native hills .^ 
[ brought them here as to a sanctuary, 
Where, for the temple's sake, the indwelling 

God 
Would guard his supplicants. O my dear Lord, 
^'roud as I was to know that they were thine, 
vVas it a sin if I almost believed. 
That Spain, her destiny being link'd with theirs, 
Vlust save the precious charge ? 

So let us think. 
The chief replied, so feel, and teach, and act. 
5pain is our common parent : let the sons 
le to the parent true, and in her strength 
Ind Heaven, their sure deliverance they will 
j find. 



XVII. 

RODERICK AND SIVERIAN. 

O HOLIEST Mary, Maid and Mother ! thou 

In Covadonga, at thy rocky shrine. 

Hast witness'd whatsoe'er of human bliss 

Heart can conceive most perfect ! Faithful love. 

Long cross'd by envious stars, hath there attain'd 

Its crown, in endless matrimony given ; 

The youthful mother there hath to the font 

Her first-born borne, and there, with deeper sense 

Of gratitude for that dear babe redeem'd 

From threatening death, return'd to pay her vows. 

But ne'er on nuptial, nor baptismal day. 

Nor from their grateful pilgrimage discharged. 

Did happier group their way down Deva's vale 

Rejoicing hold, than this blest family. 

O'er whom the mighty Spirit of the Land 

Spread his protecting wings. The children, free 

In youthliead's happy season from all cares 

That might disturb the hour, yet capable 

Of that intense and unalloyed delight 

Which childhood feels when it enjoys again 

The dear parental presence long deprived ; 

Nor were the parents now less bless'd than they, 

Even to the height of human happiness ; 

For Gaudiosa and her Lord that hour 

Let no misgiving thoughts intrude : she fix'd 

Her hopes on him, and his were fix'd on Heaven , 

And hope in that courageous heart derived 

Such rooted strength and confidence assured 

In righteousness, that 'twas to him like faith — 

An everlasting sunshine of the soul. 

Illumining and quickening all its powers. 

But on Pionia's side meantime a heart 
As generous, and as full of noble thoughts. 
Lay stricken with the deadliest bolts of grief. 
Upon a smooth gray stone sat Roderick there ; 
The wind above him stirr'd the hazel boughs, 
And murmuring at his feet the river ran. 
He sat with folded arms and head declined 
Upon his breast, feeding on bitter thoughts. 
Till nature gave him in the exhausted sense 
Of woe a respite something like repose ; 
And then the quiet sound of gentle winds 
And waters with their lulling consonance 
Beguiled him of himself. Of all within* 
Oblivious there he sat, sentient alone 
Of outward nature, — of the whispering leaves 
That soothed his ear, — the genial breath of Heaven 
That fann'd his cheek, — the stream's perpetual 

flow. 
That, with its shadows and its glancing lights, 
Dimples and thread-like motions infinite, 
Forever varying and yet still the same, 
Like time toward eternity, ran by. 
Resting his head upon his master's knees, 
Upon the bank beside him Theron lay. 
What matters change of state and circumstance. 
Or lapse of years, with all their dread events. 
To him ? What matters it that Roderick wears 



686 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



The crown no longer, nor the sceptre wields ? — 
It is the dear-loved hand, whose friendly touch 
Had flatter'd him so oft; it is the voice, 
At whose glad summons to the field so oft 
From slum°ber he had started, shaking off 
Dreams of the chase, to share the actual joy; 
The eye, whose recognition he was wont 
To watch and welcome with exultant tongue. 

A coming step, unheard by Roderick, roused 
His watchful ear, and turning he beheld 
Siverian. Father, said the good old man. 
As Theron rose and fawn'd about his knees, 
Hast thou some charm, which draws about thee thus 
The hearts of all our house, — even to the beast 
That lacks discourse of reason, but too oft, 
With uncorropted feeling and dumb faith. 
Puts lordly man to shame ? — The king replied, 
'Tis that mysterious sense by which mankind 
To fix their friendships and their loves are led, 
And which with fainter influence doth extend 
To such poor things as this. As we put off 
The cares and passions of this fretful world, 
It may be too that we thus far approach 
To elder nature, and regain in part 
The privilege through sin in Eden lost. 
The timid hare soon learns that she may trust 
The solitary penitent, and birds 
Will light upon the hermit's harmless hand. 



Thus Roderick answer'd in excursive speech, 
Thinking to draw the old man's mind from what 
Might touch him else too nearly, and himself 
Disposed to follow on the lure he threw, 
As one whom such imaginations led 
Out of the world of his own miseries. 
But to regardless ears his words were given. 
For on the dog Siverian gazed the while. 
Pursuing his own thoughts. Thou hast not felt. 
Exclaimed the old man, the earthquake and the 

storm ; 
The kingdom's overthrow, the wreck of Spain, 
The ruin of thy royal master's house, 
Have reach' d not thee ! — Then turning to the 

King, 
When the destroying enemy drew nigh 
Toledo, he continued, and we fled 
Before their fury, even while her grief 
Was fresh, my Mistress would not leave behind 
This faithful creature. Well we knew she thought 
Of Roderick then, although she named him not; 
For never since the fatal certainty 
Fell on us all, hath that unhappy name. 
Save in her prayers, been known to pass her lips 
Before this day. She names him now, and weeps ; 
But now her tears are tears of thankfulness ; 
For blessed hath thy coming been to her 
And all who loved the King. 

His faltering voice 
Here fail'd him, and he paused : recovering soon. 
When that poor injured Lady, he pursued, 
Did in my presence to the Prince absolve 
The unhappy King — 

Absolve him ! Roderick cried. 
And in that strong emotion turn'd his face 



Sternly toward Siverian, for the sense 

Of shame and self-reproach drove from his mind 

All other thoughts. The good old man replied. 

Of human judgments humanly I speak. 

Who knows not what Pelayo's life hath been .'' 

Not happier in all dear domestic ties, 

Than worthy for his virtue of the bliss 

Which is that virtue's fruit; and yet did he 

Absolve, upon Florinda's tale, the King. 

Siverian, thus he said, what most I hoped, 

And still within my secret heart believed. 

Is now made certain. Roderick hath been 

More sinn'd against than sinning. And with that 

He clasp'd his hands, and, lifting them to Heaven, 

Cried, Would to God that he were yet alive ! 

For not more gladly did I draw my sword 

Against Witiza in our common cause, 

Than I would fight beneath his banners now, 

And vindicate his name ! 

Did he say this .'' 
The Prince ? Pelayo ? in astonishment 
Roderi<ik exclaim'd. — He said it, quoth the old 

man. 
None better knew his kinsman's noble heart, 
None loved him better, none bewail'd him more : 
And as he felt, like me, for his reproach 
A deeper grief than for his death, even so 
He cherish d in his heart the constant thought 
Something was yet untold, which, being known, 
Would palliate his offence, and make the fall 
Of one, till then, so excellently good. 
Less monstrous, less revolting to belief, 
More to be pitied, more to be forgiven. 



While thus he spake, the fallen King felt his face 
Burn, and his blood flow fast. Down, guilty 

tliouglits ! 
Frmly he said within his soul; lie still. 
Thou heart of flesh ! I thought thou hadst been 

quell'd. 
And quell'd thou shalt be ! Help me, O my God, 
That I may crucify this inward foe ! 
Yea, thou hast help'd me, Father ! I am strong, 

Savior, in thy strength. 

As he breath'd thus 
His inward supplications, the old man 
Eyed him with frequent and unsteady looks. ■ 

He had a secret trembling on his lips, : 

And hesitated, still irresolute 

In utterance to imbody the dear hope : | 

Fain would he have it strengthen'd and assured ] 
By this concording judgment, yet he fear'd 
To have it chill'd in cold accoil. At length 
Venturing, he brake with interrupted speech 
The troubled silence. Father Maccabee, 

1 cannot rest till I have laid my heart 
Open before thee. When Pelayo wish'd 
That his poor kinsman were alive to rear 
His banner once again, a sudden thought — 
A hope — a fancy — what shall it be call'd ? 
Possess'd me, that perhaps the wish might see 
Its glad accomplishment, — that Roderick hved, 
And might in glory take the field once more 
For Spain. — I see thou startest at the thought ! 
Yet spurn it not with hasty unbelief, 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



687 



As though 'twere utterly beyond the scope 

Of possible contingency . I think 

That I have calmly satisfied myself 

How this is more than idle fancy, more 

Than mere imaginations of a mind 

Which from its wishes builds a baseless faith. 

His horse, his royal robe, his horned helm, 

His mail and sword were found upon the field ; 

But if King Roderick had in battle fallen, 

That sword, I know, would only have been found 

Clinch'd in the hand which, living, knew so well 

To wield the dreadful steel ! Not in the throng 

Confounded, nor amid the torpid stream, 

Opening with ignominious arms a way 

For flight, would he have perish'd ! Where the 

strife 
Was hottest, ring'd about with slaughter'd foes, 
Should Roderick have been found: by this sure 

mark 
Ye should have known him, if nought else re- 

main'd. 
That his whole body had been gored with wounds, 
And quill'd with spears, as if the Moors had felt 
That in his single life the victory lay, 
More than in all the host ! 

Siverian's eyes 
Shone with a youthful ardor while he spake ; 
His gathering brow grew stern ; and as he raised 
His arm, a warrior's impulse character'd 
The impassion'd gesture. But the King was calm. 
And heard him with unchanging countenance ; 
For he had taken his resolve, and felt 
Once more the peace of God within his soul, 
As in that hour when by his father's grave 
He knelt before Pelayo. 

Soon the old man 
Pursued in calmer tones — Thus much I dare 
Believe, that Roderick fell not on that day 
When treason brought about his overthrow. 
If yet he live, for sure I think I know 
His noble mind, 'tis in some wilderness, 
Where, in some savage den inhumed, he drags 
The weary load of life, and on his flesh. 
As on a mortal enemy, inflicts 
Fierce vengeance with immitigable hand. 
Oh that I knew but where to bend my way 
In his dear search ! my voice perhaps might reach 
His heart, might reconcile him to himself, 
Restore him to his mother ere she dies. 
His people and his country : with the sword, 
Them and his own good name should he redeem. 
Oh might I but behold him once again 
Leading to battle these intrepid bands. 
Such as he was, — yea, rising from his fall 
More glorious, more beloved ! Soon, I believe, 
Joy would accomphsh then what grief hath fail'd 
To do with this old heart, and I should die 
Clasping his knees with such intense delight, 
That when I woke in Heaven, even Heaven 

itself 
Could have no higher happiness in store. 

Thus fervently he spake, and copious tears 
Ian down his cheeks. Full oft the Royal Goth, 
since he came forth again among mankind. 



Had trembled lest some curious eye should read 
His lineaments too closely ; now he long'd 
To fall upon the neck of that old man, 
And give his full heart utterance. But the sense 
Of duty, by the pride of self-control 
Corroborate, made him steadily repress 
His yearning nature. Whether Roderick live, 
Paying in penitence the bitter price 
Of sin, he answered, or if earth hath given 
Rest to his earthly part, is only known 
To him and Heaven. Dead is he to the world ; 
And let not these imaginations rob 
His soul of thy continual prayers, whose aid 
Too surely, in whatever world, he needs. 
The faithful love that mitigates his fault, 
Heavenward address'd, may mitigate his doom. 
Living or dead, old man, be sure his soul, — 
It were unworthy else, — doth hold with thine 
Entire communion ! Doubt not he relies 
Firmly on thee, as on a father's love, 
Counts on thy offices, and joins with thee 
In sympathy and fervent act of faith. 
Though regions, or though worlds, should in- 
tervene. 
Lost as he is, to Roderick this must be 
Thy first, best, dearest duty ; next must be 
To hold right onward in that noble path. 
Which he would counsel, could his voice be heard. 
Now therefore aid me, while I call upon 
The Leaders and the People, that this day 
We may acclaim Pelayo for our King. 



XVIIL 

THE ACCLAMATION. 

Now, when from Covadonga, down the vale 
Holding his way, the princely mountaineer 
Came with that happy family in sight 
Of Cangas and his native towers, far off" 
He saw before the gate, in fair array, 
The assembled land. Broad banners were dis- 
play 'd. 
And spears were sparkling to the sun ; shields shone, 
And helmets glitter'd, and the blaring horn. 
With frequent sally of impatient joy, 
Provoked the echoes round. Well he areeds, 
From yonder ensigns and augmented force. 
That Odoar and the Primate from the west 
Have brought their aid; but wherefore all were 

thus 
Instructed as for some great festival, 
He found not, till Favila's quicker eye 
Catching the ready buckler, the glad boy 
Leap'd up, and clapping his exultant hands, 
Shouted, King ! King ! my father shall be King 
This day ! Pelayo started at the word. 
And the first thought which smote him brought a 

sigh 
For Roderick's fall ; the second was of hope. 
Deliverance for his country, for himself 
Enduring fame, and glory for his line. 
That high prophetic forethought gather'd strength, 



688 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



As looking to his honor'd mate, he read 
Her soul's accordant augury ; her eyes 
JBrighten'd; the quicken'd action of the blood 
Tinged with a deeper hue her glowing cheek, 
And on her lips there sat a smile which spake 
The honorable pride of perfect love. 
Rejoicing, for her husband's sake, to share 
The lot he chose, the perils he defied, 
The lofty fortune which their faith foresaw. 

Roderick, in front of all the assembled troops, 
Held the broad buckler, following to the end 
That steady purpose to the which his zeal 
Had this day wrought the Chiefs. Tall as himself, 
Erect it stood beside him, and his hands 
Hung resting on the rim. This was an hour 
That sweeten'd life, repaid and recompensed 
All losses ; and although it could not heal 
All griefs, yet laid them for a while to rest. 
The active, agitating joy that fill'd 
The vale, that with contagious influence spread 
Through all the exulting mountaineers, that gave 
New ardor to all spirits, to all breasts 
Inspired fresh impulse of excited hope. 
Moved every tongue, and strengthen'd every 

limb, — 
That joy which every man reflected saw 
From every face of all the multitude. 
And heard in every voice, in every sound, 
Reach'd not the King. Aloof from sympathy, 
He from the solitude of his own soul 
Beheld the busy scene. None shared or knew 
His deep and incommunicable joy ; 
None but that heavenly Father, who alone 
Beholds the struggles of the heart, alone 
Sees and rewards the secret sacrifice. 

Among the chiefs conspicuous. Urban stood. 
He whom, with well-weigh'd choice, in arduous 

time, 
To arduous office the consenting Church 
Had call'd when Sindered, fear-smitten, fled ; 
Unfaithful shepherd, who for life alone 
Solicitous, forsook his flock, when most 
In peril and in suffering they required 
A pastor's care. Far off" at Rome he dwells 
In ignominious safety, while the Church 
Keeps in her annals the deserter's name. 
But from the service, which with daily zeal 
Devout her ancient prelacy recalls. 
Blots it, unworthy to partake her prayers. 
Urban, to that high station thus being call'd, 
From whence disanimating fear had driven 
The former primate, for the general weal 
Consulting first, removed with timely care 
The relics and the written works of Saints, 
Toledo's choicest treasure, prized beyond 
All wealth, their living and their dead remains ; 
These to the mountain fastnesses he bore 
Of unsubdued Cantabria, there deposed, 
One day to be the boast of yet unbuilt 
Oviedo, and the dear idolatry 
Of multitudes unborn. To things of state 
Then giving thought mature, he held advice 
With Odoar, whom of counsel competent 



And firm of heart he knew. What then they 

plann'd. 
Time and the course of overruled events 
To earlier act had ripen' d, than their hope 
Had ever in its gladdest dream proposed ; 
And here by agents unforeseen, and means 
Beyond the scope of foresight brought about, 
This day they saw their dearest heart's desire 
Accorded them ; all-able Providence 
Thus having ordered all, that Spain this hour 
With happiest omens, and on surest base, 
Should from its ruins rear again her throne. 

For acclamation and for sacring now 
One form must serve, more solemn for the breach 
Of old observances, whose absence here 
Deeplier impress'd the heart, than all display 
Of regal pomp and wealth pontifical. 
Of vestments radiant with their gems, and stiff" 
With ornature of gold ; the glittering train. 
The lon^ procession, and the full-voiced choir. 
This day the forms of piety and war 
In strange but fitting union must combine. 
Not in his alb, and cope, and orary, 
Came Urban now, nor wore he mitre here, 
Precious or auriphrygiate ; bare of head 
He stood, all else in arms complete, and o'er 
His gorget's iron rings the pall was thrown 
Of wool undyed, which on the Apostle's tomb 
Gregory had laid, and sanctified with prayer; 
That from the living Pontiff" and the dead, 
Replete with holiness, it might impart 
Doubly derived its grace. One Page beside 
Bore his broad-shadow'd helm; another's hand 
Held the long spear, more suited in these times 
For Urban, than the crosier richly wrought 
With silver foliature, the elaborate work 
Of Grecian or Italian ai'tist, train'd 
In the eastern capital, or sacred Rome, 
Still o'er the west predominant, though fallen. 
Better the spear befits the shepherd's hand 
When robbers break the fold. Now he had laid 
The weapon by, and held a natural cross 
Of rudest form, unpeel'd, even as it grew 
On the near oak that morn. 

Mutilate alike 
Of royal rites was this solemnity. 
Where was the rubied crown, the sceptre where, 
And where the golden pome, the proud array 
Of ermines, aureate vests, and jewelry. 
With all which Leuvigild for after kings 
Left, ostentatious of his power ? The Moor 
Had made his spoil of these, and on the field 
Of Xeres, where contending multitudes 
Had trampled it beneath their bloody feet, 
The standard of the Goths forgotten lay 
Defiled, and rotting there in sun and rain. 
Utterly is it lost ; nor evermore 
Herald or antiquary's patient search 
Shall from forgetfulness avail to save 
Those blazon' d arms, so fatally of old 
Renown'd through all the affi-ighted Occident. 
That banner, before which imperial Rome 
First to a conqueror bow'd her head abased ; 
Which when the dreadful Hun, with all his power 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Came like a deluge rolling o'er the world, 
Made head, and in the front of battle broke 
His force, till then resistless; which so oft 
Had with alternate fortune braved the Frank ; 
Driven the Byzantine from the farthest shores 
Of Spain, long lingering there, to final flight ; 
And of their kingdoms and their name despoil'd 
The Vandal, and the Alan, and the Sueve ; 
Blotted from human records is it now 
As it had never been. So let it rest 
With things forgotten ! But Oblivion ne'er 
Shall cancel from the historic roll, nor Time, 
Who changeth all, obscure that fated sign. 
Which brighter now than mountain snows at noon 
To the bright sun displays its argent field. 

Rose not the vision then upon thy soul, 
O Roderick, when within that argent field 
Thou saw'st the rampant Lion, red as if 
Upon some noblest quarry he had roll'd, 
Rejoicing in his satiate rage, and drunk 
With blood and fury ? Did the auguries 
Which open'd on thy spirit bring with them 
A perilous consolation, deadening heart 
And soul, yea, worse than death — that thou 

through all 
Thy checker'd way of life, evil and good. 
Thy errors and thy virtues, hadst but been 
The poor, mere instrument of things ordain'd, — 
Doing or suffering, impotent alike 
To will or act, — perpetually bemock'd 
With semblance of volition, yet in all 
Blind worker of the ways of destiny ! 
That thought intolerable, which in the hour 
Of woe indignant conscience had repell'd, 
As little might it find reception now. 
When the regenerate spirit self-approved 
Beheld its sacrifice complete. With faith 
Elate, he saw the banner'd Lion float 
Refulgent, and recall' d that thrilling shout 
Which he had heard when on Romano's grave 
The joy of victory woke him from his dream, 
And sent him with prophetic hope to work 
Fulfilment of the great events ordain'd, 
There in imagination's inner world 
Prefigured to his soul. 

Alone, advanced 
Before the ranks, the Goth in silence stood. 
While from all voices round, loquacious joy 
Mingled its buzz continuous with the blast 
Of horn, shrill pipe, and tinkling cymbals' clash. 
And sound of deafening drum. But when the 

Prince 
Drew nigh, and Urban, with the Cross upheld, 
Stepp'd forth to meet him, all at once were still'd 
With instantaneous hush ; as when the wind, 
Before whose violent gusts the forest oaks, 
Tossing like billows their tempestuous heads, 
Roar like a raging sea, suspends its force. 
And leaves so dead a calm that not a leaf 
Moves on the silent spray. The passing air 
Bore with it from the woodland undisturb'd 
The ringdove's wooing, and the quiet voice 
Of waters warbling near. 

Son of a race 
87 



Of Heroes and of Kings ! the Primate thus 
Address'd him, Thou in whom the Gothic blood, 
Mingling with old Iberia's, hath restored 
To Spain a ruler of her native line. 
Stand forth, and in the face of God and man 
Swear to uphold the right, abate the wrong, 
With equitable hand, protect the Cross 
Whereon thy lips this day shall seal their vow, 
And underneath that hallow'd symbol, wage 
Holy and inextinguishable war 
Against the accursed nation that usurps 
Thy country's sacred soil ! 

So speak of me 
Now and forever, O my countrymen ! 
Replied Pelayo ; and so deal with me 
Here and hereafter, thou Almighty God, 
In whom I put my trust ! * 

Lord God of Hosts, 
Urban pursued, of Angels and of Men 
Creator and Disposer, King of Kings, 
Ruler of Earth and Heaven, — look down this day, 
And multiply thy blessings on the head 
Of this thy servant, chosen in thy sight ! 
Be thou his counsellor, his comforter. 
His hope, his joy, his refuge, and his strength; 
Crown him with justice, and with fortitude ; 
Defend him with thine all-sufficient shield ; 
Surround him every where with the right hand 
Of thine all-present power, and with the might 
Of thine omnipotence ; send in his aid 
Thy unseen Angels forth, that potently 
And royally against all enemies 
He may endure and triumph I Bless the land 
O'er which he is appointed ; bless thou it 
With the waters of the firmament, the springs 
Of the low-lying deep, the fruits which Sun 
And Moon mature for man, the precious stores 
Of the eternal hills, and all the gifts 
Of Earth, its wealth and fulness ! 

Then he took 
Pelayo's hand, and on his finger placed 
The mystic circlet. — With this ring, O Prince, 
To our dear Spain, who like a widow now 
Mourneth in desolation, I thee wed • 
For weal or woe thou takest her, till death 
Dispart the union. Be it blest to her, 
To thee, and to thy seed ! 

Thus when he ceased, 
He gave the awaited signal. Roderick brought 
The buckler : Eight for strength and stature chosen 
Came to their honor'd office : Round the shield 
Standing, they lower it for the Chieftain's feet. 
Then, slowly raised upon their shoulders, lift 
The steady weight. Erect Pelayo stands. 
And thrice he brandishes the burnish'd sword, 
While Urban to the assembled people cries, 
Spaniards, behold your King ! The multitude 
Then sent forth all their voice with glad acclaim, 
Raising the loud Real; thrice did the word 
Ring through the air, and echo from the walls 
Of Cangas. Far and wide the thundering shout, 
Rolling among reduplicating rocks, 
Peal'd o'er the hills, and up the mountain vales. 
The wild ass starting in the forest glade 
Ran to the covert ; the affrighted wolf 



690 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XIX. 



Skulk'd through the thicket to a closer brake ; 
The sluggish bear, awakened in his den, 
Roused up and answer'd with a sullen growl, 
Low-breathed and long ; and at the uproar scared, 
The brooding eagle from her nest took wing. 

Heroes and Chiefs of old ! and ye who bore 
Firm to the last your part in that dread strife, 
When Julian and Witiza's viler race 
Betray'd their country, hear ye from yon Heaven 
The joyful acclamation which proclaims 
That Spain is born again ! O ye who died 
In that disastrous field, and ye who fell 
Embracing with a martyr's love your death 
Amid the flames of Auria ; and all ye 
Victims innumerable, whose cries unheard 
On earth, but heard in Heaven, from all the land 
Went up for vengeance ; not in vain ye cry 
Before the eternal throne I — Rest, innocent blood ! 
Vengeance is due, and vengeance will be given. 
Rest, innocent blood .? The appointed age is come ! 
The star that harbingers a glorious day [there 

Hath risen ! Lo, there the Avenger stands ! Lo, 
He brandishes the avenging sword ! Lo, there 
The avenging banner spreads its argent field 
Refulgent with auspicious light ! — Rejoice, 
O Leon, for thy banner is displayed ; 
Rejoice with all thy mountains, and thy vales 
And streams ! And thou, O Spain, through all thy 

realms. 
For thy deliverance eometh ! Even now. 
As from all sides the miscreant hosts move on ; — 
From southern Betis ; from the western lands. 
Where through redundant vales smooth Minho 

flows. 
And Douro pours through vine-clad hills the wealth 
Of Leon's gathered waters ; from the plains 
Burgensian, in old time Vardulia call'd, 
But in their castellated strength erelong 
To be design'd Castille, a deathless name ; 
From midland regions where Toledo reigns 
Proud city on her royal eminence. 
And Tagus bends his sickle round the scene 
Of Roderick's fall ; from rich Rioja's fields ; 
Dark Ebro's shores ; the walls of Salduba, 
Seat of the Sedetanians old, by Rome 
Caesarian and August denominate. 
Now Zaragoza, in this later time 
Above all cities of the earth renown'd 
For duty perfectly perform'd ; — East, West, 
And South, where'er their gather'd multitudes. 
Urged by the speed of vigorous tyranny. 
With more than with commeasurable strength 
Haste to prevent the danger, crush the hopes 
Of rising Spain, and rivet round her neck 
The eternal yoke, — the ravenous fowls of heaven 
Flock there presentient of their food obscene. 
Following the accursed armies, whom too well 
They know their purveyors long. Pursue their 

march. 
Ominous attendants ! Ere the moon hath fill'd 
Her horns, these purveyors shall become the prey, 
And ye on Moorish, not on Christian flesh 
Wearying your beaks, shall clog your scaly feet 
With foreign gore. Soon will ye learn to know, 



Followers and harbingers of blood, the flag 

Of Leon where it bids you to your feast ! 

Terror and flight shall with that flag go forth. 

And Havock and the Dogs of War and Death 

Thou Covadonga with the tainted stream 

Of Deva, and this now rejoicing vale. 

Soon its primitial triumphs wilt behold ! 

Nor shall the glories of the noon be less 

Than such miraculous promise of the dawn : 

Witness Clavijo, where the dreadful cry 

Of Santiago, then first heard o'erpower'd 

The Akbar, and that holier name blasphemed 

By misbelieving lips ! Simancas, thou 

Be witness ! And do ye your record bear, 

Tolosan mountains, where the Almohade 

Beheld his myriads scatter'd and destroy'd. 

Like locusts swept before the stormy North ! 

Thou too, Salado, on that later day 

When Africa received her final foil, 

And thy swollen stream incarnadined, roll'd back 

The invaders to the deep, — there shall they toss 

Till, on their native Mauritanian shore. 

The waves shall cast their bones to whiten there. 



XIX. 

RODERICK AND RUSILLA. 

When all had been perform'd, the royal Goth 
Look'd up towards the chamber in the tower, 
Where, gazing on the multitude below, 
Alone Rusilla stood. He met her eye. 
For it was singling him amid the crowd ; 
Obeying then the hand which beckon'd him, 
He went with heart prepared, nor shrinking now, 
But arm'd with self- approving thoughts that hour. 
Entering in tremulous haste, he closed the door. 
And turn'd to clasp her knees; but lo, she spread 
Her arms, and catching him in close embrace, 
Fell on his neck, and cried. My Son, my Son ! — 
Erelong, controlling that first agony 
With effort of strong will, backward she bent. 
And gazing on his head, now shorn and gray, 
And on his furrow'd countenance, exclaim'd. 
Still, still my Roderick ! the same noble mind ! 

The same heroic heart ! Still, still my Son ! 

Changed, — yet not wholly fallen, — not wholly 

lost. 
He cried, — not wholly in the sight of Heaven 
Unworthy, O my Mother, nor in thine ! 
She lock'd her arms again around his neck, 
Saying, Lord, let me now depart in peace ! 
And bow'd her head again, and silently 
Gave way to tears. 

When that first force was spent, 
And passion in exhaustment found relief, — 
I knew thee, said Rusilla, when the dog 
Rose from my feet, and lick'd his master's hand. 
All flash'd upon me then ; the instinctive sense 
That goes unerringly where reason fails, — 
The voice, the eye, — a mother's thoughts are 

quick, — 
Miraculous as it seem'd, — Siverian's tale, — 



XIX. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



691 



Florinda's, — every action, — every word, — 
Each strengthening each, and all confirming all, 
Reveal'd thee, O my Son ! but I restrain'd 
My heart, and yielded to thy holier will 
The thoughts which rose to tempt a soul not yet 
Wean'd wholly from the world. 

What thoughts ? replied 
Roderick. That I might see thee yet again 
Such as thou wert, she answer'd; not alone 
To Heaven and me restored, but to thyself, — 
Thy Crown, — thy Country, — all within thy 

reach ; 
Heaven so disposing all things, that the means 
Which wrought the ill, might work the remedy. 
Methought I saw thee once again the hope, — 
The strength, — the pride of Spain ! The miracle 
Which I beheld made all things possible. 
I know the inconstant people, how their mind, 
With every breath of good or ill report. 
Fluctuates, like summer corn before the breeze ; 
Quick in their hatred, quicker in their love. 
Generous and hasty, soon would they redress 
All wrongs of former obloquy. — I thought 
Of happiness restored, — the broken heart 
Heal'd, — and Count Julian, for his daughter's 

sake, 
Turning in thy behalf against the Moors 
His powerful sword : — all possibilities. 
That could be found or fancied, built a dream 
Before me ; such as easiest might illude 
A lofty spirit train'd in palaces. 
And not alone amid the flatteries 
Of youth with thoughts of high ambition fed 
When all is sunshine, but through years of woe. 
When sorrows sanctified their use, upheld 
By honorable pride and earthly hopes. 
I thought I yet might nurse upon my knee 
Some young Theodofred, and see in him 
Thy Father's image and thine own renew'd. 
And love to think the little hand which there 
Play'd with the bauble should in after days 
Wield the transmitted sceptre ; — that through him 
The ancient seed should be perpetuate, — 
That precious seed revered so long, desired 
So dearly, and so wondrously preserved. 

Nay, he replied. Heaven hath not with its bolts 
Scathed the proud summit of the tree, and left 
The trunk unflaw'd ; ne'er shall it clothe its boughs 
Again, nor push again its scions forth. 
Head, root, and branch, all mortified alike ! — 
Long ere these locks were shorn had I cut off 
The thoughts of royalty ! Time might renew 
Their growth, as for Manoah's captive son, 
And I too on the miscreant race, like him, 
Might prove my strength regenerate ; but the hour, 
When, in its second best nativity. 
My soul was born again through grace, this heart 
Died to the world. Dreams such as thine pass now 
Like evening clouds before me ; if I think 
How beautiful they seem, 'tis but to feel 
How soon they fade, how fast the night shuts in. 
But in that World to which my hopes look on, 
Time enters not, nor Mutability ; 
Beauty and goodness are unfading there ; 



Whatever there is given us to enjoy, 

That we enjoy forever, still the same. — 

Much might Count Julian's sword achieve for 

Spain 
And me, but more will his dear daughter's soul 
Effect in Heaven ; and soon will she be there, 
An Angel at the throne of Grace, to plead 
In his behalf and mine. 

I knew thy heart, 
She answer'd, and subdued the vain desire. 
It was the World's last effort. Thou hast chosen 
The better part. Yes, Roderick, even on earth 
There is a praise above the monarch's fame, 
A higher, holier, more enduring praise, 
And this will yet be thine ! 

O tempt me not, 
Mother ! he cried ; nor let ambition take 
That specious form to cheat us ! What but this, 
Fallen as I am, have I to offer Heaven ? 
The ancestral sceptre, public fame, content 
Of private life, the general good report. 
Power, reputation, happiness, — whate'er 
The heart of man desires to constitute 
His earthly weal, — unerring Justice claim'd 
In forfeiture. I with submitted soul 
Bow to the righteous law and kiss the rod. 
Only while thus submitted, suffering thus, — 
Only while offering up that name on earth, 
Perhaps in trial offer 'd to my choice. 
Could I present myself before thy sight; 
Thus only could endure myself, or fix 
My thoughts upon that fearful pass, where Death 
Stands in the Gate of Heaven ! — Time passes on, 
The healing work of sorrow is complete ; 
All vain desires have long been weeded out. 
All vain regrets subdued ; the heart is dead. 
The soul is ripe and eager for her birth. 
Bless me, my Mother ! and come when it will 
The inevitable hour, we die in peace. 

So saying, on her knees he bow'd his head ; 
She raised her hands to Heaven and blest her child 
Then bending forward, as he rose, embraced 
And clasp'd him to her heart, and cried. Once more 
Theodofred, with pride behold thy son ! 



XX. 

THE MOORISH CAMP. 

The times are big with tidings ; every hour 
From east, and west, and south, the breathle 

scouts 
Bring swifl alarums in; the gathering foe. 
Advancing from all quarters to one point. 
Close their wide crescent. Nor was aid of fear 
To magnify their numbers needed now ; 
They came in myriads. Africa had pour'd 
Fresh shoals upon the coast of wretched Spain ; 
Lured from their hungry deserts to the scene 
Of spoil, like vultures to the battle-field. 
Fierce, unrelenting, habited in crimes. 
Like bidden guests the mirthful ruffians flock 



693 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



To that free feast which in their Prophet's name 

Rapine and Lust proclaim'd. Nor were the chiefs 

Of victory less assured, by long success 

Elate, and proud of that o'erwhelming strength, 

Which, surely they believed, as it had roll'd 

Thus far uncheck'd, would roll victorious on, 

Till, like the Orient, the subjected West 

Should bow in reverence at Mahomrned's name ; 

And pilgrims, from remotest Arctic shores. 

Tread with religious feet the burning sands 

Of Araby, and Mecca's stony soil. 

Proud of his part in Roderick's overthrow, 

Their leader Abulcacem came, a man 

Immitigable, long in war renown'd. 

Here Magued comes, who on the conquer'd walls 

Of Cordoba, by treacherous fear betray'd. 

Planted the moony standard : Ibrahim here. 

He, who, by Genii and in Darro's vales, 

Had for the Moors the fairest portion won 

Of all their spoils, fairest and best maintain'd, 

And to the Alpuxarras given in trust 

His other name, through them preserved in song. 

Here too Alcahman, vaunting his late deeds 

At Auria, all her children by the sword 

Cut off, her bulwarks razed, her towers laid low, 

Her dwellings by devouring flames consumed, 

Bloody and hard of heart, he little ween'd. 

Vain-boastful chief! that from those fatal flames 

The fire of retribution had gone forth. 

Which soon should wrap him round. 

The renegades 
Here too were seen, Ebba and Sisibert; 
A spurious brood, but of their parent's crimes 
True heirs, in guilt begotten, and in ill 
Train'd up. The same unnatural rage that turn'd 
Their swords against their country, made them seek. 
Unmindful of their wretched mother's end, 
Pelayo's life. No enmity is like 
Domestic hatred. For his blood they thirst, 
As if that sacrifice might satisfy 
Witiza's guilty ghost, eflace the shame 
Of their adulterous birth, and one crime more 
Crowning a hideous course, emancipate 
Thenceforth their spirits from all earthly fear. 
This was their only care ; but other thoughts 
Were rankling in that elder villain's mind. 
Their kinsman Orpas, he of all the crew 
Who in this fatal visitation fell. 
The foulest and the falsest wretch that e'er 
Renounced his baptism. From his cherish'd views 
Of royalty cut off", he coveted 
Count Julian's wide domains, and hopeless now 
To gain them through the daughter, laid his toils 
Against the father's life, — the instrument 
Of his ambition first, and now design'd 
Its victim. To this end, with cautious hints. 
At favoring season ventured, he possess'd 
The leader's mind ; then, subtly fostering 
The doubts himself had sown, with bolder charge 
He bade him warily regard the Count, 
Lest underneath an outward show of faith 
The heart uncircumcised were Christian still ; 
Else, wherefore had Florinda not obey'd 
Her dear-loved sire's example, and embraced 
The saving truth ? Else, wherefore was her hand, 



Plighted to him so long, so long withheld, 

Till she had found a fitting hour to fly 

With that audacious Prince, who now, in arms, 

Defied the Caliph's power ; — for who could doubt 

That in his company she fled, perhaps 

The mover of his flight ? What if the Count 

Himself had plann'd the evasion which he feign'd 

In sorrow to condemn ? What if she went, 

A pledge assured, to tell the mountaineers 

That when they met the Mussulmen in the heat 

Of fight, her father, passing to their side, 

Would draw the victory with him ? — Thus he 

breathed 
Fiend-like in Abulcacem's ear his schemes 
Of murderous malice ; and the course of things, 
Erelong, in part approving his discourse, 
Aided his aim, and gave his wishes weight. 
For scarce on the Asturian territory 
Had they set foot, when, with the speed of fear. 
Count Eudon, nothing doubting that their force 
Would like a flood sweep all resistance down, 
Hasten'd to plead his merits; — he alone. 
Found faithful in obedience through reproach 
And danger, when the madden'd multitude 
Hurried their chiefs along, and high and low 
With one infectious frenzy seized, provoked 
The invincible in arms. Pelayo led 
The raging crew, — he doubtless the prime spring 
Of all these perilous movements ; and 'twas said 
He brought the assurance of a strong support. 
Count Julian's aid, for in his company 
From Cordoba, Count Julian's daughter came. 

Thus Eudon spake before the assembled chiefs ; 
When instantly a stern and wrathful voice 
Replied, I know Pelayo never made 
That senseless promise ! He who raised the tale 
Lies foully ; but the bitterest enemy 
That ever hunted for Pelayo's life 
Hath never with the charge of falsehood touch'd 
His name. 

The Baron had not recognized 
Till then, beneath the turban's shadowing folds, 
Julian's swart visage, where the fiery skies 
Of Africa, through many a year's long course, 
Had set their hue inburnt. Something he sought 
In quick excuse to say of common fame, 
Lightly believed and busily diffused. 
And that no enmity had moved his speech 
Repeating rumor's tale. Julian replied, 
Count Eudon, neither for thyself nor me 
Excuse is needed here. The path I tread 
Is one wherein there can be no return. 
No pause, no looking back ! A choice like mine 
For time and for eternity is made, 
Once and forever ! and as easily 
The breath of vain report might build again 
The throne which my just vengeance overthrew, 
As in the Caliph and his Captain's mind 
Affect the opinion of my well-tried truth. 
The tidings which thou givest me of my child 
Touch me more vitally ; bad though they be, 
A secret apprehension of aught worse 
Makes me with joy receive them. 

'Then the Count 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



693 



To Abulcacem turn'd his speech, and said, 

I pray thee. Chief, give me a messenger 

By whom I may to this unhappy cliild 

Despatch a father's bidding, such as yet 

May win her back. What I would say requires 

No veil of privacy ; before ye all 

The errand shall be given. 

Boldly he spake, 
Yet wary in that show of open truth. 
For well he knew what dangers girt him round 
Amid the faithless race. Blind with revenge, 
For them in madness had he sacrificed 
His name, his baptism, and his native land, 
To feel, still powerful as he was, that life 
Hung on their jealous favor. But his heart 
Approved him now, where love, too long restrain'd. 
Resumed its healing influence, leading him 
Right on with no misgiving. Chiefs, he said. 
Hear me, and let your wisdom judge between 
Me and Prince Orpas ! — Known it is to all, 
Too well, what mortal injury provoked 
My spirit to that vengeance which your aid 
So signally hath given. A covenant 
We made when first our purpose we combined, 
That he should have Florinda for his wife, 
My only child ; so should she be, I thought. 
Revenged and honor'd best. My word was given 
Truly, nor did I cease to use all means 
Of counsel or command, entreating her 
Sometimes with tears, seeking sometimes with 

threats 
Of an offended father's curse to enforce 
Obedience ; that, she said, the Christian law 
Forbade ; moreover she had vow'd herself 
A servant to the Lord. In vain I strove 
To win her to the Prophet's saving faith. 
Using perhaps a rigor to that end 
Beyond permitted means, and to my heart, 
Which loved her dearer than its own life-blood, 
Abhorrent. Silently she suffer'd all ; 
Or, when I urged her with most vehemence, 
Only replied, I knew her fix'd resolve, 
And craved my patience but a little while, 
Till death should set her free. Touch'd as I was, 
I yet persisted, till at length, to escape 
The ceaseless importunity, she fled : 
And verily I fear'd, until this hour, 
My rigor to some fearfuler resolve 
Than flight, had driven my child. Chiefs, I 

appeal 
To each and all, and, Orpas, to thyself 
Especially, if, having thus essay'd 
All means that law and nature have allow'd 
To bend her will, I may not rightfully 
Hold myself free, that promise being void 
Which cannot be fulfill' d. 

Thou sayest then, 
Orpas replied, that from her false belief 
Her stubborn opposition drew its force. 
I should have thought that from the ways corrupt 
Of these idolatrous Christians, little care 
Might have sufficed to wean a duteous child, 
The example of a parent so beloved 
Leading the way ; and yet I will not doubt 
Thou didst enforce with all sincerity 



And holy zeal upon thy daughter's mind 
The truths of Islam. 

Julian knit his brow, 
And scowling on the insidious renegade, 
He answer'd. By what reasoning my poor mind 
Was from the old idolatry reclaim'd, 
None better knows than Seville's mitred chief. 
Who, first renouncing errors which he taught, 
Led me his follower to the Prophet's pale. 
Thy lessons I repeated as I could ; 
Of graven images, unnatural vows. 
False records, fabling creeds, and juggling priests, 
Who, making sanctity the cloak of sin, 
Laugh'd at the fools on whose credulity 
They fatten'd. To these arguments, whose worth 
Prince Orpas, least of all men, should impeach, 
I added, like a soldier bred in arms. 
And to the subtleties of schools unused. 
The flagrant fact, that Heaven with victory. 
Where'er they turn'd, attested and approved 
The chosen Prophet's arms. If thou wert still 
The mitred Metropolitan, and I 
Some wretch of Arian or of Hebrew race. 
Thy proper business then might be to pry 
And question me for lurking flaws of faith. 
We Mussulmen, Prince Orpas, live beneath 
A wiser law, which with the iniquities 
Of thine old craft, hath abrogated this 
Its foulest practice ! 

As Count Julian ceased, 
From underneath his black and gather'd brow 
There went a look, which with these wary words 
Bore to the heart of that false renegade 
Their whole envenom'd meaning. Haughtily 
Withdrawing then his alter'd eyes, he said. 
Too much of this ! Return we to the sum 
Of my discourse. Let Abulcacem say. 
In whom the Caliph speaks, if with all faith 
Having essay'd in vain all means to win 
My child's consent, I may not hold henceforth 
The covenant discharged. 

The Moor replied, 
Well hast thou said, and rightly mayst assure 
Thy daughter that the Prophet's holy law 
Forbids compulsion. Give thine errand now; 
The messenger is here. 

Then Julian said. 
Go to Pelayo, and from him entreat 
Admittance to my child, where'er she be. 
Say to her, that her father solemnly 
Annuls the covenant with Orpas pledged. 
Nor with solicitations, nor with threats. 
Will urge her more, nor from that liberty 
Of faith restrain her, which the Prophet's law, 
Liberal as Heaven from whence it came, to all 
Indulges. Tell her that her father says 
His days are number'd, and beseeches her 
By that dear love, which from her infancy 
Still he hath borne her, growing as she grew, 
Nursed in our weal and strengthen'd in our woe, 
She will not in the evening of his life 
Leave him forsaken and alone. Enough 
Of sorrow, tell her, have her injuries 
Brought on her father's head ; let not her act 
Thus aggravate the burden. Tell her, too, 



694 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XXI. 



That when he pray'd her to return, he wept 
Profusely as a child ; but bitterer tears 
Than ever fell from childhood's eyes, were those 
Which traced his hardy cheeks. 

With faltering voice 
He spake, and after he had ceased from speech 
His lip was quivering still. The Moorish chief 
Then to the messenger his bidding gave. 
Say, cried he, to these rebel infidels. 
Thus Abulcacem, in the Caliph's name 
Exhorteth them : Repent and be forgiven ! 
Nor think to stop the dreadful storm of war, 
Which, conquering and to conquer, must fulfil 
Its destined circle, rolling eastward now, 
Back from the subjugated west, to sweep 
Thrones and dominions down, till in the bond 
Of unity all nations join, and Earth 
Acknowledge, as she sees one Sun in heaven, 
One God, one Chief, one Prophet, and one Law. 
Jerusalem, the holy City, bows 
To holier Mecca's creed; the Crescent shines 
Triumphant o'er the eternal pyramids; 
On the cold altars of the worshippers 
Of Fire, moss grows, and reptiles leave their slime ; 
The African idolatries are fallen. 
And Europe's senseless gods of stone and wood 
Have had their day. Tell these misguided men, 
A moment for repentance yet is left, ^ 

And mercy the submitted neck will spare 
Before the sword is drawn ; but once unsheath'd, 
Let Auria witness how that dreadful sword 
Accomplisheth its work ! They little know 
The Moors, wbo hope in battle to withstand 
Their valor, or in flight escape their rage ! 
Amid our deserts, we hunt down the birds 
Of heaven , — wings do not save them ! Nor shall 

rocks. 
And holds, and fastnesses, avail to save 
These mountaineers. Is not the Earth the Lord's ? 
And we, his chosen people, whom he sends 
To conquer and possess it in his name ? 



XXI. 

THE FOUNTAIN IN THE FOREST. 

The second eve had closed upon their march 
Within the Asturian border, and the Moors 
Had pitch'd their tents amid an open wood 
Upon the mountain side. As day grew dim. 
Their scatter' d fires shone with distincter light 
Among the trees, above whose top the smoke 
Diffused itself, and stain'd the evening sky. 
Erelong the stir of occupation ceased, 
And all the murmur of the busy host. 
Subsiding, died away, as through the camp 
The crier, from a knoll, proclaim'd the hour 
For prayer appointed, and with sonorous voice, 
Thrice, in melodious modulation full, 
Pronounced the highest name. There is no God 
But God, he cried; there is no God but God! 
Mahommed is the Prophet of the Lord ! 



Come ye to prayer ! to prayer ! The Lord is 

great ! 
There is no God but God ! — Thus he pronounced 
His ritual form, mingling with holiest truth 
The audacious name accursed. The multitude 
Made their ablutions in the mountain stream 
Obedient, then their faces to the earth 
Bent in formality of easy prayer. 

An arrow's flight above that mountain stream 
There was a little glade, where underneath 
A long, smooth, mossy stone a fountain rose. 
An oak grew near, and with its ample boughs 
O'ercanopied the spring; its fretted roots 
Emboss'd the bank, and on their tufted bark 
Grew plants which love the moisture and the 

shade ; 
Short ferns, and longer leaves of wrinkled green 
Which bent toward the spring, and when the wind 
Made itself felt, just touch'd with gentle dip 
The glassy surface, ruffled ne'er but then, 
Save when a bubble rising from the depth 
Burst, and with faintest circles mark'd its place, 
Or if an insect skimm'd it with its wing. 
Or when in heavier drops the gather'd rain 
Fell from the oak's high bower. The mountain roe. 
When, having drank there, he would bound 

across. 
Drew up upon the bank his meeting feet. 
And put forth half his force. With silent lapse 
From thence through mossy banks the water stole, 
Then murmuring hastened to the glen below. 
Diana might have loved in that sweet spot 
To take her noontide rest; and when she stoop'd 
Hot from the chase to drink, well pleased had seen 
Her own bright crescent, and the brighter face 
It crown'd, reflected there. 

Beside that spring 
Count Julian's tent was pitch'd upon the glade; 
There his ablutions Moor-like he perform 'd, 
And Moor-like knelt in prayer, bowing his head 
Upon the mossy bank. There was a sound 
Of voices at the tent when he arose. 
And lo ! with hurried step a woman came 
Toward him ; rightly then his heart presaged, 
And ere he could behold her countenance, 
Florinda knelt, and with uplifted arms 
Embraced her sire. He raised her from the ground, 
Kiss'd her, and clasp'd her to his heart, and said, 
Thou hast not then forsaken me, my child ! 
Howe'er the inexorable will of Fate 
May, in the world which is to come, divide 
Our everlasting destinies, in this 
Thou wilt not, O my child, abandon me ! 
And then, with deep and interrupted voice, 
Nor seeking to restrain his copious tears. 
My blessing be upon thy head, he cried, 
A father's blessing ! Though all faiths were false. 
It should not lose its worth ! — She lock'd her hands 
Around his neck, and gazing in his face 
Through streaming tears, exclaim'd, Oh, never 

more. 
Here or hereafter, never let us part! 
And breathing then a prayer in silence forth. 
The name of Jesus trembled on her tongue. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



695 



Whom hast thou there ? cried Juhan, and drew 
back, 
Seeing that near them stood a meagre man 
In humble garb, who rested with raised hands 
On a long staff, bending his head like one 
Who, when he hears the distant vesper-bell, 
Halts by the way, and, all unseen of men, 
OiEFers his homage in the eye of Heaven, 
She answered. Let not my dear father frown 
In anger on his child ! Thy messenger 
Told me that I should be restrain'd no more 
From liberty of faith, which the new law 
Indulged to all ; how soon my hour might come 
I knew not, and although that hour will bring 
Few terrors, yet methinks I would not be 
Without a Christian comforter in death. 

A Priest ! exclaimed the Count, and drawing 

back. 
Stoop 'd for his turban, that he might not lack 
Some outward symbol of apostasy ; 
For still in war his wonted arms he wore, 
Nor for the cimeter had changed the sword 
Accustomed to his hand. He covered now 
His short, gray hair, and under the white folds, 
His swarthy brow, which gather'd as he rose, 
Darken'd. Oh, frown not thus ! Florinda said ; 
A kind and gentle counsellor is this. 
One who pours balm into a wounded soul, 
And mitigates the griefs he cannot heal. 
I told him 1 had vow'd to pass my days 
A servant of the Lord, yet that my heart. 
Hearing the message of thy love, was drawn 
With powerful yearnings back. Follow thy 

heart — 
It answers to the call of duty here. 
He said, nor canst thou better serve the Lord 
Than at thy father's side. 

Count Julian's brow. 
While thus she spake, insensibly relax'd. 
A Priest, cried he, and thus with even hand 
Weigh vows and natural duty in the scale .'' 
In what old heresy hath he been traiu'd.-* 
Or in what wilderness hath he escaped 
The domineering Prelate's fire and sword ? 
Come hither, man, and tell me who thou art ! 

A sinner, Roderick, drawing nigh, replied. 
Brought to repentance by the grace of God, 
And trusting for forgiveness through the blood 
Of Christ in humble hope. 

A smile of scorn 
Julian assumed, but merely from the lips 
It came ; for he was troubled while he gazed 
On the strong countenance and thoughtful eye 
Before him. A new law hath been proclaim'd. 
Said he, which overthrows in its career 
The Christian altars of idolatry. 
What think'st thou of the Prophet? — Roderick 
Made answer, I am in the Moorish camp, 
And he who asketh is a Mussulman. 
How then should I reply ? — Safely, rejoin'd 
The renegade, and freely mayst thou speak 
To all that Julian asks. Is not the yoke 
Of Mecca easy, and its burden light.'' — 



Spain hath not found it so, the Goth replied, 
And groaning, turn'd away his countenance. 

Count Julian knit his brow, and stood awhile 
Regarding him with meditative eye 
In silence. Thou art honest too ! he cried ; 
Why, 'twas in quest of such a man as this 
That the old Grecian search'd by lantern light, 
In open day, the city's crowded streets ; 
So rare he deem'd the virtue. Honesty, 
And sense of natural duty in a Priest ! 
Now for a miracle, ye Saints of Spain ! 
I shall not pry too closely for the wires, 
For, seeing what I see, ye have me now 
In the believing mood ! 

O blessed Saints, 
Florinda cried, 'tis from the bitterness. 
Not from the hardness of the heart, he speaks ! 
Hear him ! and in your goodness give the scoff 
The virtue of a prayer ! So saying, she raised 
Her hands, in fervent action clasp'd, to Heaven, 
Then as, still clasp'd, they fell, toward her sire 
She turn'd her eyes, beholding him through tears. 
The look, the gesture, and that silent woe, 
Soften'd her father's heart, which in this hour 
Was open to the influences of love. 
Priest, thy vocation were a blessed one. 
Said Julian, if its mighty power were used 
To lessen human misery, not to swell 
The mournful sum, already all-too-great. 
If, as thy former counsel should imply. 
Thou art not one who would for his craft's sake 
Fret with corrosives and inflame the wound. 
Which the poor sufferer brings to thee in trust 
That thou with virtuous balm wilt bind it up, — 
If, as I think, thou art not one of those 
Whose villany makes honest men turn Moors, 
Thou then wilt answer with unbias'd mind 
What I shall ask thee, and exorcise thus 
The sick and feverish conscience of my child. 
From inbred phantoms, fiend-like, which possess 
Her innocent spirit. Children we are all 
Of one great Father, in whatever clime 
Nature or chance hath cast the seeds of life. 
All tongues, all colors ; neither after death 
Shall we be sorted into languages 
And tints, — white, black, and tawny, Greek and 

Goth, 
Northmen and offspring of hot Africa; 
The All-Father, He in whom we live and move, 
He the indifferent Judge of all, regards 
Nations, and hues, and dialects alike ; 
According to their works shall they be judged. 
When even-handed Justice in the scale 
Their good and evil weighs. All creeds, I ween, 
Agree in this, and hold it orthodox. 

Roderick, perceiving here that Julian paused, 
As if he waited for acknowledgment 
Of that plain truth, in motion of assent 
Inclined his brow complacently, and said. 
Even so: What follows.' — This, resumed the 

Count ; 
That creeds, like colors, being but accident. 
Are therefore in the scale imponderable ; — 



696 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Thou seest my meaning; — That from every faith, 
As every clime, there is a way to Heaven ; 
And thou and I may meet in Paradise. 

Oh grant it, God ! cried Roderick fervently. 
And smote his breast. Oh grant it, gracious God! 
Through the dear blood of Jesus, grant that he 
And I may meet before the mercy -throne ! 
That M^ere a triumph of Redeeming Love, 
For which admiring Angels would renew 
Their hallelujahs through the choir of Heaven ! 
Man ! quoth Count Julian, wherefore art thou 

moved 
To this strange passion ? I require of thee 
Thy judgment, not thy prayers ! 

Be not displeased ! 
In gentle voice subdued the Goth replies ; 
A prayer, from whatsoever lips it flow. 
By thine own rule should find the way to Heaven, 
So that the heart in its sincerity 
Straight forward breathe it forth. I, like thyself. 
Am all untrain'd to subtilties of speech, 
Nor competent of this great argument 
Thou openest; and perhaps shall answer thee 
Wide of the words, but to the purport home. 
There are to whom the light of gospel truth 
Hath never reach'd ; of such I needs must deem 
As of the sons of men who had their day 
Before the light was given. But, Count, for those 
Who, born amid the light, to darkness turn. 
Wilful in error, — I dare only say, 
God doth not leave the unhappy soul without 
An inward monitor, and till the grave 
Open, the gate of mercy is not closed. 

Priest-like ! the renegade replied, and shook 
His head in scorn. What is not in the craft 
Is error, and for error there shall be 
No mercy found in Him whom yet ye name 
The Merciful ! 

Now God forbid, rejoin'd 
The fallen King, that one who stands in need 
Of mercy for his sins should argue thus 
Of error ! Thou hast said that thou and I, 
Thou dying in name a Mussulman, and I 
A servant of the Cross, may meet in Heaven. 
Time was when in our fathers' ways we walk'd 
Regardlessly alike ; faith being to each — 
For so far thou hast reason'd rightly — like 
Our country's fashion and our mother-tongue, 
Of mere inheritance, — no thing of choice 
In judgment fix'd, nor rooted in the heart. 
Me have the arrows of calamity 
Sore stricken ; sinking underneath the weight 
or sorrow, yet more heavily oppress'd 
Beneath the burden of my sins, I turn'd 
In that dread hour to Him who from the Cross 
Calls to the heavy-laden. There I found 
Relief and comfort ; there I have my hope. 
My strength, and my salvation ; there, the grave 
Ready beneath my feet, and Heaven in view, 
I to the King of Terrors say, Come, Death, — 
Come quickly ! Thou too wert a stricken deer, 
Julian, — God pardon the unhappy hand 
That M'-ounded thee I — but whither didst thou go 



For healing ? Thou hast turn'd away from Him, 
Who saith. Forgive, as ye would be forgiven ; 
And, that the Moorish sword might do thy work, 
Received the creed of Mecca : with what fruit 
For Spain, let tell her cities sack'd, her sons 
Slaughter'd, her daughters than thine own dear 

child 
More foully wrong'd, more wretched ! For thyself, 
Thou hast had thy fill of vengeance, and, perhaps, 
The cup was sweet ; but it hath left behind 
A bitter relish ! Gladly would thy soul 
Forget the past ; as little canst thou bear 
To send into futurity thy thoughts. 
And for this Now, what is it, Count, but fear, — 
However bravely thou mayst bear thy front, — 
Danger, remorse, and stinging obloquy .-' 
One only hope, one only remedy, 
One only refuge yet remains. — My life 
Is at thy mercy. Count ! Call, if thou wilt, 
Thy men, and to the Moors deliver me ! 
Or strike thyself! Death were from any hand 
A welcome gift; from thine, and in this cause, 
A boon indeed ! My latest words on earth 
Should tell thee that all sins may be effaced, 
Bid thee repent, have faith, and be forgiven ! 
Strike, Julian, if thou wilt, and send my soul 
To intercede for thine, that we may meet. 
Thou, and thy child, and I, beyond the grave. 

Thus Roderick spake, and spread his arms as if 
He offer' d to the sword his willing breast, 
With looks of passionate persuasion fix'd 
Upon the Count, who, in his first access 
Of anger, seem'd as though he would have call'd 
His guards to seize the Priest. The attitude 
Disarm'd him, and that fervent zeal sincere. 
And more than both, the look and voice, which 

like 
A mystery troubled him. Florinda too 
Hung on his arm with both her hands, and cried, 

father, wrong him not ! he speaks from God I 
Life and salvation are upon his tongue ! 
Judge thou the value of that faith whereby. 
Reflecting on the past, I murmur not. 

And to the end of all look on with joy 
Of hope assured ! 

Peace, innocent! replied 
The Count, and from her hold withdrew his arm ; 
Then, with a gather'd brow of mournfulness 
Rather than Avrath, regarding Roderick, said, 
Thou preachest that all sins may be effaced ; 
Is there forgiveness, Christian, in thy creed 
For Roderick's crime .' — For Roderick and for thee, 
Count Julian, said the Goth, and, as he spake, 
Trembled through every fibre of his frame, 
The gate of Heaven is open. Julian threw 
His wrathful hand aloft, and cried. Away ! 
Earth could not hold us both, nor can one Heaven 
Contain my deadliest enemy and me ! 

My father, say not thus ! Florinda cried ; 

1 have forgiven him ! I have pray'd for him! 
For him, for thee, and for myself I pour 

One cojistant prayer to Heaven ! In passion then 
She knelt, and bending back, with arms and face 



I 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



697 



Raised toward the sky, the supplicant exclaim'd. 
Redeemer, heal his heart ! It is the grief 
Which festers there that hath bewilder'd him ! 
Save him, Redeemer ! by thy precious death 
Save, save him, O my God ! Then on her face 
She fell, and thus with bitterness pursued 
In silent throes her agonizing prayer. 

Afflict not thus thyself, my child, the Count 
Exclaim'd ; O dearest, be thou comforted ; 
Set but thy heart at rest, I ask no more ! 
Peace, dearest, peace ! — and weeping as he spake. 
He knelt to raise her. Roderick also knelt ; 
Be comforted, he cried, and rest in faith 
That God will hear thy prayers ! they must be 

heard. 
He who could doubt the worth of prayers like thine. 
May doubt of all things ! Sainted as thou art 
In sufferings here, this miracle will be 
Thy work and thy reward i 

Then, raising her, 
They seated her upon the fountain's brink, 
And there beside her sat. The moon had risen. 
And that fair spring lay blackened half in shade, 
Half like a burnish'd mirror in her light. 
By that reflected light Count Julian saw 
That Roderick's face was bathed with tears, and 

pale 
As monumental marble. Friend, said he, 
Whether thy faith be fabulous, or sent 
Indeed from Heaven, its dearest gift to man. 
Thy heart is true : and had the mitred Priest 
Of Seville been like thee, or hadst thou held 
The place he fill'd ; — but this is idle talk, — 
Things are as they will be ; and we, poor slaves, 
Fret in the harness as we may, must drag 
The Car of Destiny where'er she drives, 
Inexorable and blind ! 

Oh wretched man ! 
Cried Roderick, if thou seekest to assuage 
Thy wounded spirit with that deadly drug, 
Hell's subtlest venom ; look to thine own heart, 
Where thou hast Will and Conscience to belie 
This juggling sophistry, and lead thee yet 
Through penitence to Heaven ! 

Whate'er it be 
That governs us, in mournful tone the Count 
Replied, Fate, Providence, or Allah's will. 
Or reckless Fortune, still the effect the same, 
A world of evil and of misery ! 
Look where we will, we meet it; wheresoe'er 
We go, we bear it with us. Here we sit 
Upon the margin of this peaceful spring. 
And oh ! what volumes of calamity 
Would be unfolded here, if either heart 
Laid open its sad records ! Tell me not 
Of goodness ! Either in some freak of power 
This frame of things was fashion'd, then cast off 
To take its own wild course, the sport of chance ; 
Or the bad Spirit o'er the Good prevails. 
And in the eternal conflict hath arisen 
j Lord of the ascendant ! 

j Rightly wouldst thou say, 

Were there no world but this ! the Goth replied. 
The happiest child of earth that e'er was mark'd 



To be the minion of prosperity. 

Richest in corporal gifts and wealth of mind, 

Honor and fame attending him abroad. 

Peace and all dear domestic joys at home, 

And sunshine till the evening of his days 

Closed in without a cloud, — even such a man 

Would from the gloom and horror of his heart 

Confirm thy fatal thought, were this world all ! 

Oh ! who could bear the haunting mystery, 

If death and retribution did not solve 

The riddle, and to heavenliest harmony 

Reduce the seeming chaos ! — Here we see 

The w^ater at its well-head ; clear it is. 

Not more transpicuous the invisible air ; 

Pure as an infant's thoughts ; and here to life 

And good directed all its uses serve. 

The herb grows greener on its brink ; sweet flowers 

Bend o'er the stream that feeds their freshened 

roots ; 
The red-breast loves it for his wintry haunts ; 
And when the buds begin to open forth, 
Builds near it with his mate their brooding nest ; 
The thirsty stag, with widening nostrils, there 
Invigorated draws his copious draught ; 
And there, amid its flags, the wild boar stands. 
Nor suffering wrong nor meditating hurt. 
Through woodlands wild and solitary fields. 
Unsullied thus it holds its bounteous course ; 
But when it reaches the resorts of men, 
The service of the city there defiles 
The tainted stream ; corrupt and foul it flows 
Through loathsome banks and o'er a bed impure. 
Till in the sea, the appointed end to which 
Through all its way it hastens, 'tis received. 
And, losing all pollution, mingles there 
In the wide world of waters. So is it 
With the great stream of things, if all were seen; 
Good the beginning, good the end shall be, 
And transitory evil only make 
The good end happier. Ages pass away. 
Thrones fall, and nations disappear, and worlds 
Grow old and go to wreck ; the soul alone 
Endures, and what she chooseth for herself, 
The arbiter of her own destiny, 
That only shall be permanent. 

But guilt, 
And all our suffering ^ said the Count. The Goth 
Replied, Repentance taketh sin away. 
Death remedies the rest. — Soothed by the strain 
Of such discourse, Julian was silent then, 
And sat contemplating. Florinda too 
Was calm'd. If sore experience may be thought 
To teach the uses of adversity. 
She said, alas ! who better learn 'd than I 
In that sad school ! Methinks, if ye would know 
How visitations of calamity 
Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there ! 
Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky 
Sailing alone, doth cross, in her career, 
The rolling Moon ! I watch'd it as it came. 
And deem'd the deep opake would blot her beams; 
But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs 
In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes 
The orb with richer beauties than her own, 
Then passing, leaves her in her light serene. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Thus having said, the pious sufferer sat, 
Beholding with fix'd eyes that lovely orb, 
Till quiet tears confused in dizzy light 
The broken moonbeams. They too by the toil 
Of spirit, as by travail of the day 
Subdued, were silent, yielding to the hour. 
The silver cloud diffusing slowly past, 
And now into its airy elements 
Resolved is gone ; while through the azure depth 
Alone in heaven the glorious Moon pursues 
Her course appointed, with indifferent beams 
Shining upon the silent hills around, 
And the dark tents of that unholy host, 
Who, all unconscious of impending fate, 
Take their last slumber there. The camp is still; 
The fires have mouldered, and the breeze which stirs 
The soft and snowy embers, just lays bare 
At times a red and evanescent light, 
Or for a moment wakes a feeble flame. 
They by the fountain hear the stream below, 
Whose murmurs, as the wind arose or fell, 
Fuller or fainter reach the ear attuned. 
And now the nightingale, not distant far, 
Began her solitary song, and pour'd 
To the cold moon a richer, stronger strain 
Than that with which the lyric lark salutes 
The new-born day. Her deep and thrilling song 
Seem'd with its piercing melody to reach 
The soul, and in mysterious unison 
Blend with all thoughts of gentleness and love. 
Their hearts were open to the healing power 
Of nature ; and the splendor of the night, 
The flow of waters, and that sweetest lay 
Came to them like a copious evening dew 
Falling on vernal herbs which thirst for rain. 



XXH. 

THE MOORISH COUNCIL. 

Thus they beside the fountain sat, of food 
And rest forgetful, when a messenger 
Summon'd Count Julian to the Leader's tent. 
In council there, at that late hour, he found 
The assembled Chiefs, on sudden tidings call'd 
Of unexpected weight from Cordoba. 
Jealous that Abdalaziz had assumed 
A regal state, affecting in his court 
The forms of Gothic sovereignty, the Moors, 
Whom artful spirits of ambitious mould 
Stirr'd up, had risen against him in revolt : 
And he who late had in the Caliph's name 
Ruled from the Ocean to the Pyrenees, 
A mutilate and headless carcass now, 
From pitying hands received beside the road 
A hasty grave, scarce hidden there from dogs 
And ravens, nor from wintry rains secure. 
She, too, who in the wreck of Spain preserved 
Her queenly rank, the wife of Roderick first, 
Of Abdalaziz after, and to both 
Alike unhappy, shared the ruin now 
Her counsels had brought on ; for she had led 
The infatuate Moor, in dangerous vauntery, 



To these aspiring forms, — so should he gain 

Respect and honor from the Mussulman, 

She said, and that the obedience of the Goths 

Folio w'd the sceptre. In an evil hour 

She gave the counsel, and in evil hour 

He lent a willing ear ; the popular rage 

Fell on them both ; and they to whom her name 

Had been a mark for mockery and reproach, 

Shudder'd with human horror at her fate. 

Ayub was heading the wild anarchy ; 

But Avhere the cement of authority 

Is wanting, all things there are dislocate : 

The mutinous soldiery, by every cry 

Of rumor set in wild career, were driven 

By every gust of passion, setting up 

One hour, what in the impulse of the next. 

Equally unreasoning, they destroy'd ; thus all 

Was in misrule where uproar gave the law, 

And ere from far Damascus they could learn 

The Caliph's pleasure, many a moon must pass. 

What should be done ? should Abulcacem march 

To Cordoba, and in the Caliph's name 

Assume the power which to his rank in arms 

Rightly devolved, restoring thus the reign 

Of order ? or pursue, with quicken'd speed, 

The end of this great armament, and crush 

Rebellion first, then to domestic ills 

Apply his undivided mind and force 

Victorious .'' What, in this emergency, 

Was Julian's counsel, Abulcacem ask'd ; 

Should they accomplish soon their enterprise ? 

Or would the insurgent infidels prolong 

The contest, seeking by protracted war 

To weary them, and trusting in the strength 

Of these wild hills ? 

Julian replied, The Chief 
Of this revolt is wary, resolute. 
Of approved worth in war : a desperate part 
He for himself deliberately hath chosen, 
Confiding in the hereditary love 
Borne to him by these hardy mountaineers — 
A love which his own noble qualities 
Have strengthen'd so that every heart is his. 
When ye can bring them to the open proof 
Of battle, ye will find them in his cause 
Lavish of life ; but well they know the strength 
Of their own fastnesses, the mountain paths 
Impervious to pursuit, the vantages 
Of rock, and pass, and woodland, and ravine ; 
And hardly will ye tempt them to forego 
These natural aids wherein they put their trust 
As in their stubborn spirit, each alike 
Deem'd by themselves invincible, and so 
By Roman found and Goth — beneath whose sway 
Slowly persuaded rather than subdued 
They came, and still through every change retain'd 
Their manners obstinate and barbarous speech. 
My counsel, therefore, is, that we secure 
With strong increase of force the adjacent posts, 
And chiefly Gegio, leaving them so mann'd 
As may abate the hope of enterprise, 
Their strength being told. Time, in a strife like 

this, 
Becomes the ally of those who trust in him : 
Make then with Time your covenant. Old feuds- 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



699 



May disunite the cliiefs : some may be gain'd 

By fair entreaty, others by the stroke 

Of nature, or of policy, cut off. 

Tliis was the counsel which in Cordoba 

I offer 'd Abdalaziz : in ill hour 

Rejecting it, he sent upon this war 

His father's faithful friend ! Dark are the ways 

Of Destiny ! Had 1 been at his side, 

Old Muza would not now have mourn'd his age 

Left childless, nor had Ayub dared defy 

The Caliph's represented power. The case 

Calls for thine instant presence, with the weight 

Of thy legitimate authority. 

Julian, said Orpas, turning from beneath 
His turban to the Count a crafty eye. 
Thy daughter is return'd ; doth she not bring 
Some tidings of the movements of the foe .'' 
The Count replied. When child and parent meet 
First reconciled from discontents which wrung 
The hearts of both, ill should their converse be 
Of warlike matters ! There hath been no time 
For such inquiries, neither should I think 
To ask her touching that for which I know 
Slie hath neither eye nor thought. 

There was a time — 
Orpas with smile malignant thus replied — 
When in the progress of the Caliph's arms 
Count Julian's daughter had an interest 
Which touch'd her nearly ! But her turn is served, 
And hatred of Prince Orpas may beget 
Indifference to the cause. Yet Destiny 
Still guideth to the service of the faith 
The wayward heart of woman ; for as one 
Delivered Roderick to the avenging sword, 
So hath another at this hour betray'd 
Pelayo to his fall. His sister came 
At nightfall to my tent a fugitive. 
She tells me that, on learning our approach, 
The rebel to a cavern in the hills 
Had sent his wife and children, and with them 
Those of his followers, thinking, there conceal'd, 
They might be safe. She, moved by injuries 
Which stung her spirit, on the way escaped. 
And for revenge will guide us. In reward 
She asks her brother's forfeiture of lands 
In marriage with Numacian : something too 
Touching his life, that for her services 
It might be spared, she said ; — an after-thought 
To salve decorum, and if conscience wake. 
Serve as a sop ; but when the sword shall smite 
Pelayo and his dangerous race, I ween, 
That a thin kerchief will dry all the tears 
The Lady Guisla sheds ! 

'Tis the old taint ! 
Said Julian mournfully ; from her mother's womb 
She brought the inbred wickedness which now 
In ripe infection blossoms. Woman, woman. 
Still to the Goths art thou the instrument 
Of overthrow ; thy virtue and thy vice 
I Fatal alike to them ! 
! Say rather, cried 

1 The insidious renegade, that Allah thus 
, By woman punisheth the idolatry 
; Of those who raise a woman to the rank 



Of godhead, calling on their Mary's name 
With senseless prayers. In vain shall they invoke 
Her trusted succor now ! Like silly birds, 
By fear betray'd, they fly into the toils ; 
And this Pelayo, who, in lengthen'd war 
Baffling our force, has thought perhaps to reign 
Prince of the Mountains, when we hold his wife 
And offspring at our mercy, must himself 
Come to the lure. 

Enough, the Leader said ; 
This unexpected work of favoring Fate 
Opens an easy way to our desires. 
And renders further counsel needless now. 
Great is the Prophet whose protecting power 
Goes with the faithful forth ! The rebels' days 
Are number'd ; Allah hath deliver'd them 
Into our hands ! 

So saying he arose ; 
The Chiefs withdrew ; Orpas alone remain'd 
Obedient to his indicated will. 
The event, said Abulcacem, hath approved 
Thy judgment in all points ; his daughter comes 
At the first summons, even as thou saidst ; 
Her errand with the insurgents done, she brings 
Their well-concerted project back, a safe 
And unexpected messenger ; — the Moor — 
The shallow Moor — must see and not perceive ; 
Must hear and understand not ; yea, must bear, 
Poor easy fool, to serve their after-mirth, 
A part in his own undoing ! But just Heaven 
With this unlook'd-for incident hath marr'd 
Their complots, and the sword shall cut this web 
Of treason. 

Well, the renegade replied, 
Thou knowest Count Julian's spirit, quick in wiles, 
In act audacious. Baffled now, he thinks 
Either by instant warning to apprize 
The rebels of their danger, or preserve 
The hostages when fallen into our power, 
Till secret craft contrive, or open force 
Win their enlargement. Haply, too, he dreams 
Of Cordoba, the avenger and the friend 
Of Abdalaziz, in that cause to arm 
Moor against Moor, preparing for himself 
The victory o'er the enfeebled conquerors. 
Success in treason hath imbolden'd him. 
And power but serves him for fresh treachery, 

false 
To Roderick first, and to the Caliph now. 

The guilt, said Abulcacem, is confirm'd, 
The sentence past ; all that is now required 
Is to strike sure and safely. He hath with him 
A veteran force devoted to his will. 
Whom to provoke were perilous ; nor less 
Of peril lies there in delay : what course 
Between these equal dangers should we steer? 

They have been train'd beneath him in the wars 
Of Africa, the renegade replied ; 
Men are they, who, from their youth up, have 

found 
Their occupation and their joy in arms ; 
Indifferent to the cause for which they fight. 
But faithful to their leader, who hath won 



700 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XXIII. 



By license largely given, yet temper'd still 

With exercise of firm authority, 

Their whole devotion. Vainly should we seek 

By proof of Julian's guilt to pacify 

Such martial spirits, unto whom all creeds 

And countries are alike ; but take away 

The head, and forthwith their fidelity 

Goes at the market price. The act must be 

Sudden and secret ; poison is too slow. 

Thus it may best be done ; the Mountaineers, 

Doubtless, erelong will rouse us with some spur 

Of sudden enterprise ; at such a time 

A trusty minister approaching him 

May smite him, so that all shall think the spear 

Comes from the hostile troops. 

Right counsellor ! 
Cried Abulcacem, thou shalt have his lands, 
The proper meed of thy fidelity : 
His daughter thou mayst take or leave. Go now 
And find a faithful instrument to put 
Our purpose in effect ! — And when 'tis done, — 
The Moor, as Orpas from the tent withdrew. 
Muttering pursued, — look for a like reward 
Thyself! That restless head of wickedness 
In the grave will brood no treasons. Other babes 
Scream when the Devil, as they spring to life, 
Infects them with his touch ; but thou didst stretch 
Thine arms to meet him, and, like mother's milk, 
Suck the congenial evil ! Thou hast tried 
Both lawS; and, were there aught to gain, wouldst 

prove 
A third as readily ; but when thy sins 
Are weigh'd, 'twill be against an empty scale, 
And neither Prophet will avail thee then ! 



XXIII. 

THE VALE OF COVADONGA. 

The camp is stirring, and ere day hath dawn'd 

The tents are struck. Early they rise whom Hope 

Awakens, and they travel fast with whom 

She goes companion of the way. By noon 

Hath Abulcacem in his speed attain'd 

The Vale of Cangas. Well the trusty scouts 

Observe his march, and, fleet as mountain roes. 

From post to post, with instantaneous speed. 

The warning bear : none else is nigh : the vale 

Hath been deserted, and Pelayo's hall 

Is open to the foe, who on the tower 

Hoist their white signal-flag. In Sella's stream 

The misbelieving multitudes perform, 

With hot and hasty hand, their noontide rite. 

Then hurryingly repeat the Impostor's prayer. 

Here they divide ; the Chieftain halts with half 

The host, retaining Julian and his men. 

Whom where the valley widen'd he disposed, 

Liable to first attack, that so the deed 

Of murder plann'd with Orpas might be done. 

The other force the Moor Alcahman led, 

Whom Guisla guided up Pionia's stream 

Eastward to Soto. Ibrahim went with him. 

Proud of Granada's snowy heights subdued, 



And boasting of his skill in mountain war ; 
Yet sure he deem'd an easier victory 
Awaited him this day. Little, quoth he. 
Weens the vain Mountaineer, who puts his trust 
In dens and rocky fastnesses, how close 
Destruction is at hand ! Belike he thinks 
The Humma's happy wings have shadow'd him, 
And therefore Fate with royalty must crown 
His chosen head ! Pity the cimeter 
With its rude edge so soon should interrupt 
The pleasant dream ' 

There can be no escape 
For those who in the cave seek shelter, cried 
Alcahman ; yield they must, or from their holes 
Like bees we smoke them out. The Chief perhaps 
May reign awhile King of the wolves and bears, 
Till his own subjects hunt him down, or kites 
And crows divide what hunger may have left 
Upon his ghastly limbs. Happier for him 
That destiny should this day to our hands 
Deliver him ; short would be his sufferings then ; 
And we right joyfully should in one horn- 
Behold our work accomplish'd, and his race 
Extinct. 

Thus these, in mockery and in thoughts 
Of bloody triumph, to the future blind. 
Indulged the scornful vein ; nor deem'd that they 
Whom to the sword's unsparing edge they doom'd, 
Even then in joyful expectation pray'd 
To Heaven for their approach, and, at their post 
Prepared, were trembling with excess of hope. 
Here in these mountain straits the Mountaineer 
Had felt his country's strength insuperable ; 
Here he had pray'd to see the Mussulman 
With all his myriads ; therefore had he look'd 
To Covadonga as a sanctuary 
Apt for concealment, easy of defence ; 
And Guisla's flight, though to his heart it sent 
A pang more poignant for their mother's sake, 
Yet did it further in its consequence 
His hope and project, surer than decoy 
Well-laid, or best-concerted stratagem. 
That sullen and revengeful mind, he knew, 
Would follow to the extremity of guilt 
Its long fore-purposed shame : the toils were laid, 
And she who by the Mussulmen full sure 
Thought on her kindred her revenge to wreak, 
Led the Moors in. 

Count Pedro and his son 
Were hovering with the main Asturian force 
In the wider vale to watch occasion there. 
And with hot onset when the alarm began 
Pursue the vantage. In the fated straits 
Of Deva had the King disposed the rest : 
Amid the hanging woods, and on the cliffs, 
A long mile's length on either side its bed. 
They lay. The lever, and the axe, and saw 
Had skilfully been plied; and trees and stones, 
A dread artillery, ranged on crag, and shelf. 
And steep descent, were ready at the word 
Precipitate to roll resistless down. 
The faithful maiden not more wistfully 
Looks for the day that brings her lover home ; — 
Scarce more impatiently the horse endures j 

The rein, when loud and shrill the hunter's horn 



XXIII. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



701 



Rings in his joyous ears, than at their post 
The Mountaineers await their certain prey ; 
Yet mindful of their Prince's order, oft 
And solemnly enforced, with eagerness 
Subdued by minds well-master'd, they expect 
The appointed signal. 

Hand must not be raised, 
Foot stirr'd, nor voice be utter'd, said the Chief, 
Till the word pass : impatience would mar all. 
God hath deliver'd over to your hands 
His enemies and ours, so we but use 
The occasion wisely. Not till the word pass 
From man to man transmitted, "In the name 
'"• Of God, for Spain and Vengeance ! " let a hand 
Be lifted ; on obedience all depends. 
Their march below with noise of horse and foot, 
And haply with the clang of instruments, 
Might drown all other signal, this is sure ; 
But wait it calmly ; it will not be given 
Till the whole line hath enter'd in the toils. 
Comrades, be patient, so shall none escape 
Who once set foot within these straits of death. 
Thus had Pelayo on the Mountaineers 
With frequent and impressive charge enforced 
The needful exhortation. This alone 
He doubted, that the Mussulmen might see 
The perils of the vale, and warily 
Forbear to enter. But they thought to find, 
As Guisla told, the main Asturian force 
Seeking concealment there, no other aid 
Soliciting from these their native hills ; 
And that, the babes and women having fallen 
In thraldom, they would lay their weapons down. 
And supplicate forgiveness for their sake. 
Nor did the Moors perceive in what a strait 
They enter'd ; for the morn had risen o'ercast. 
And when the Sun had reach'd the height ofheaven. 
Dimly his pale and beamless orb was seen 
Moving through mist. A soft and gentle rain. 
Scarce heavier than the summer's evening dew, 
Descended, — through so still an atmosphere. 
That every leaf upon the moveless trees 
Was studded o'er with rain-drops, bright and full. 
None falling till from its own weight o'ersv/ollen 
The motion came. 

Low on the mountain side 
The fleecy vapor hung, and in its veil. 
With all their dreadful preparations, wrapp'd 
The Mountaineers ; — in breathless hope they lay. 
Some blessing God in silence for the power 
This day vouchsafed ; others with fervency 
Of prayer and vow invoked the Mother-Maid, 
Beseeching her that in this favoring hour 
She would be strongly with them. From below, 
Meantime, distinct they heard the passing tramp 
Of horse and foot, continues as the sound 
Of Deva's stream, and barbarous tongues commix'd 
With laughter, and with frequent shouts, — for all 
Exultant came, expecting sure success; 
Blind wretches, over whom the ruin hung ! 

They say, quoth one, that though the Prophet's 
soul 
Doth, with the black-eyed Houris bathe in bliss, 
Life hath not left his body, which bears up 



By its miraculous power the holy tomb, 
And holds it, at Medina, in the air, 
Buoyant between the temple's floor and roof; 
And there the Angels fly to him with news 
From East, West, North, and South, of what be- 
falls 
His faithful people. If, when he shall hear 
The tale of this day's work, he should, for joy, 
Forget that he is dead, and walk abroad, — 
It were as good a miracle as when 
He sliced the moon ! Sir Angel, hear me now, 
Whoe'er thou be'st who art about to speed 
From Spain to Araby ! when thou hast got 
The Prophet's ear, be sure thou tellest him 
How bra.vely Ghauleb did his part to-day. 
And with what special reverence he alone 
Desired thee to commend him to his grace ! — 
Fie on thee, scoffer that thou art ! replied 
His comrade ; thou wilt never leave these gibes 
Till some commissioh'd arrow through the teeth 
Shall nail the offending tongue. Hast thou not 

heard 
How, when our clay is leaven'd first with life. 
The ministering Angel brings it from that spot 
Whereon 'tis written in the eternal book 
That soul and body must their parting take, 
And earth to earth return ? How knowest thou 
But that the spirit who compounded thee, 
To distant Syria from this very vale 
Bore thy component dust, and Azrael here 
Awaits thee at this hour ? — Little thought he 
Who spake, that, in that valley, at that hour. 
One death awaited both ! 

Thus they pursued 
Toward the cave their inauspicious way. 
Weak childhood there, and ineffective age, 
In the chambers of the rock, were placed secure; 
But of the women, all whom with the babes 
Maternal care detain' d not, Avere aloft 
To aid in the destruction ; by the side 
Of fathers, brethren, husbands, station'd there, 
They watch and pray. Pelayo in the cave, 
With the venerable primate, took his post. 
Ranged on the rising cliffs, on either hand, 
Vigilant sentinels, with eye intent, 
Observe his movements, when to take the word 
And pass it forward. He, in arms complete. 
Stands in the portal ; a stern majesty 
Reign'd in his countenance severe that hour, 
And in his eye a deep and dreadful joy 
Shone, as advancing up the vale he saw 
The Moorish banners. God hath blinded them ! 
He said; the measure of their crimes is full ! 
O Vale of Deva, famous shalt thou be 
From this day forth forever ; and to these 
Thy springs shall unborn generations come 
In pilgrimage, and hallow with their prayers 
The cradle of their native monarchy ! 

There was a stirring in the air ; the sun 
Prevail'd, and gradually the brightening mist 
Began to rise and melt. A jutting crag 
Upon the right projected o'er the stream, 
Not farther from the cave than a strong hand 
Expert, with deadly aim, might cast the spear, 



702 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XXIV. 



Or a strong voice, pitch'd to full compass, make 

Its clear articulation heard distinct. 

A venturous dalesman, once ascending there 

To rob the eagle's nest, had fallen, and hung 

Among the heather, wondrously preserved : 

Therefore had he with pious gratitude 

Placed on that overhanging brow a Cross, 

Tall as the mast of some light fisher's skiff. 

And from the vale conspicuous. As the Moors 

Advanced, the Chieftain in the van was seen, 

Known by his arms, and from the crag a voice 

Pronounced his name, — Alcahman ! hoa, look up, 

Alcahman ! As the floating mist drew up, 

It had divided there, and open'd round 

The Cross; part clinging to the rock beneath, 

Hovering and waving part in fleecy folds, 

A canopy of silver light condensed 

To shape and substance. In the midst there stood 

A female form, one hand upon the Cross, 

The other raised in menacing act ; below 

Loose flow'd her raiment, but her breast was arm'd. 

And helmeted her head. The Moor turn'd pale, 

For on the walls of Auria he had seen 

That well-known figure, and had well believed 

She rested with the dead. What, hoa ! she cried, 

Alcahman ! In the name of all who fell 

At Auria in the massacre, this hour 

I summon thee before the throne of God 

To answer for the innocent blood ! This hour, 

Moor, Miscreant, Murderer, Child of Hell, this hour 

I summon thee to judgment ! — In the name 

Of God ! for Spain and Vengeance ! 

Thus she closed 
Her speech; for taking from the Primate's hand 
That oaken cross which at the sacring rites 
Had served for crosier, at the cavern's mouth, 
Pelayo lifted it and gave the word. 
From voice to voice on either side it pass'd 
With rapid repetition, — In the name 
Of God ! for Spain and Vengeance ! and forthwith. 
On either side, along the whole defile. 
The Asturians, shouting in the name of God, 
Set the whole ruin loose ! Huge trunks and stones. 
And loosen'd crags, down, down they roll'd with 

rush. 
And bound, and thundering force. Such was the 

fall. 
As when some city, by the laboring earth 
Heaved from its strong foundations, is cast down. 
And all its dwellings, towers, and palaces, 
In one wide desolation prostrated. 
From end to end of that long strait, the crash 
Was heard continuous, and, commix'd with sounds 
More dreadful, shrieks of horror, and despair, 
And death, — the wild and agonizing cry 
Of that whole host in one destruction whelm'd. 
Vain was all valor there, all martial skill ; 
The valiant arm is helpless now ; the feet 
Swift in the race avail not now to save ; 
They perish ; all their thousands perish there, — 
Horsemen and infantry, they perish all, — 
The outward armor and the bones within 
Broken, and bruised, and crush'd. Echo prolong'd 
The long uproar : a silence then ensued, 



Through which the sound of Deva's stream was 

heard, 
A lonely voice of waters, wild and sweet ; 
The lingering groan, the faintly -utter'd prayer, 
The louder curses of despairing death. 
Ascended not so high. Down from the cave 
Pelayo hastes ; the Asturians hasten down ; 
Fierce and immitigable down they speed 
On all sides; and along the vale of blood 
The avenging sword did mercy's work that hour. 



XXIV. 

RODERICK AND COUNT JULIAN. 

Thou hast been busy. Death ! this day, and yet 
But half thy work is done ; the Gates of Hell 
Are throng'd, yet twice ten thousand spirits more, 
Who from their warm and healthful tenements 
Fear no divorce, must, ere the sun go down. 
Enter the Avorld of woe ! The Gate of Heaven 
Is open too, and Angels round the throne 
Of Mercy on their golden harps this day 
Shall sing the triumphs of Redeeming Love. 

There was a Church at Cangas dedicate 
To that Apostle unto whom his Lord 
Had given the kej^s — a humble edifice, 
Whose rude and time-worn structure suited well 
That vale among the mountains. Its low roof 
With stone plants and with moss was overgrown, 
Short fern, and richer weeds, which from the eaves 
Hung their long tresses down. White lichens 

clothed 
The sides, save where the ivy spread, which bower'd 
The porch, and clustering round the pointed wall, 
Wherein two bells, each open to the wind, 
Hung side by side, threaded with hairy shoots 
The double niche ; and climbing to the cross, 
Wreathed it, and half conceal'd its sacred form 
With bushy tufts luxuriant. Here in the font — 
Borne hither with rejoicing and with prayers 
Of all the happy land, who saw in him 
The lineage of their ancient Chiefs renew'd — 
The Prince had been immersed : and here within 
An oaken galllee, now black with age, 
His old Iberian ancestors were laid. 

Two stately oaks stood nigh, in the full growth 
Of many a century. They had flourish'd there 
Before the Gothic sword was felt in Spain, 
And when the ancient sceptre of the Goths 
Was broken, there they flourish'd still. Their 

boughs. 
Mingled on high, and stretching wide around, 
Form'd a deep shade, beneath which canopy. 
Upon the ground Count Julian's board was spread ; 
For to his daughter he had left his tent. 
Pitched for her use hard by. He at the board 
Sat with his trusted Captains, Gunderick, 
Felix and Miro, Theudered and Paul, 
Basil and Cottila, and Viriraar, 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



703 



Men through all fortunes faithful to their Lord, 

And to that old and tried fidelity, 

By personal love and honor held in ties 

Strong as religious bonds. As there they sat. 

In the distant vale a rising dust was seen, 

And frequent flash of steel, — the flying fight 

Of men who, by a fiery foe pursued. 

Put forth their coursers at full speed, to reach 

The aid in which they trust. Up sprung the Chiefs, 

And hastily taking helm, and shield, and spear. 

Sped to their post. 

Amid the chestnut groves 
On Sella's side, Alphonso had in charge 
To watch the foe : a prowling band came nigh, 
Whom, with the ardor of impetuous youth. 
He charged, and followed them in close pursuit : 
Quick succors join'd them ; and the strife grew hot. 
Ere Pedro, hastening to bring off" his son. 
Or Julian and his Captains, — bent alike 
That hour to abstain from combat, (for by this 
Full sure they deem'd Alcahman had secured 
The easy means of certain victory,) — 
Could reach the spot. Both thus in their intent 
According, somewhat had they now allay'd 
The fury of the fight, though still spears flew, 
And strokes of sword and mace were interchanged. 
When, passing through the troop, a Moor came up 
On errand from the Chief, to Julian sent ; 
A fatal errand fatally perform'd 
For Julian, for the Chief, and for himself, 
And all that host of Mussulmen he brought ; 
For while with well-dissembled words he lured 
The warrior's ear, the dexterous ruffian mark'd 
The favoring moment and unguarded place. 
And plunged a javelin in his side. The Count 
Fell, but in falling called to Cottila, — 
Treachery ! the Moor ! the Moor ! — He too on 

whom 
He call'd had seen the blow from whence it came. 
And seized the Murderer. Miscreant! he ex- 

claim'd. 
Who set thee on ? The Mussulman, who saw 
His secret purpose baffled, undismayed, 
Replies, What I have done is authorized ; 
To punish treachery and prevent worse ill, 
Orpas and Abulcacem sent me here ; 
The service of the Caliph and the Faith 
Required the blow. 

The Prophet and the Fiend 
Reward thee then ! cried Cottila ; meantime 
Take thou from me thy proper earthly meed ; 
Villain! — and lifting, as he spake, the sword. 
He smote him on the neck ; the trenchant blade 
Through vein and artery pass'd and yielding bone ; 
And on the shoulder, as the assassin dropp'd. 
His head half-severed fell. The curse of God 
Fall on the Caliph, and the Faith, and thee ! 
Stamping for anguish, Cottila pursued ; 
African dogs, thus is it ye requite 
Our services ? — But dearly shall ye pay 
For this day's work ! — O fellow-soldiers, here. 
Stretching his hands toward the host, he cried. 
Behold your noble leader basely slain ! 
He who for twenty years hath led us forth 
To war, and brought us home with victory, — 



Here he lies foully murdered, — by the Moors, — 
Those whom he trusted, whom he served so well ! 
Our turn is next ! but neither will we wait 
Idly, nor tamely fall I 

Amid the grief, 
Tumult, and rage, of those who gather'd round, 
When Julian could be heard, I have yet life. 
He said, for vengeance. Virimar, speed thou 
To yonder Mountaineers, and tell their Chiefs 
That Jxilian's veteran army joins this day 
Pelayo's standard I The command devolves 
On Gunderick. Fellow-soldiers, who so well 
Redress'd the wrongs of your old General, 
Ye will not let his death go unrevenged ! — 
Tears then were seen on many an iron cheek, 
And groans were heard from many a resolute heart, 
And vows with imprecations mix'd went forth, 
And curses check'd by sobs. Bear me apart. 
Said Julian, with a faint and painful voice, 
And let me see my daughter ere I die. 

Scarce had he spoken when the pitymg throng 
Divide before her. Eagerly she came ; 
A deep and fearful lustre in her eye, 
A look of settled woe, — pale, deadly pale, 
Yet to no lamentations giving way. 
Nor tears nor groans ; — within her breaking heart 
She bore the grief, and kneeling solemnly 
Beside him, raised her awful hands to heaven. 
And cried, Lord God ! be with him in this hour ! 
Two things have I to think of, O my child — 
Vengeance and thee, said Julian. For the first 
I have provided: what remains of life 
As best may comfort thee may so be best 
Employ'd ; let me be borne within the church, 
And thou, with that good man who follows thee, 
Attend me there. 

Thus when Florinda heard 
Her father speak, a gleam of heavenly joy 
Shone through the anguish of her countenance. 

gracious God, she cried, my prayers are heard ; 
Now let me die ! — They raised him from the earth ; 
He, knitting, as they lifted him, his brow, 

Drsw in, through open lips and teeth firm-closed, 
His painful breath, and on the lance laid hand, 
Lest its long shaft should shake the mortal wound. 
Gently his men, with slow and steady step. 
Their suffering burden bore, and in the Church 
Before the altar laid him down, his head 
Upon Florinda's knees. — Now, friends, said he, 
Farewell. I ever hoped to meet my death 
Among ye, like a soldier, — but not thus ! 
Go join the Asturians ; and in after-3'ears, 
When of your old commander ye shall talk. 
How well he loved his followers, what he was 
In battle, and how basely he was slain, 
Let not the tale its fit completion lack, 
But say how bravely v/as his death revenged. 
Vengeance ! in that good word doth Julian make 
His testament ; your faithful swords must give 
The will its full performance. Leave me now; 

1 have done with worldly things. Comrades, fare- 

well. 
And love my memory ! 

They with copious tears 



704 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XXV. 



Of burning anger, grief exasperating 

Their rage, and fury giving force to grief, 

Hasten' d to form their ranks against the Moors. 

Julian meantime toward the altar turn'd 

His languid eyes. That Image, is it not 

St. Peter ? he inquired ; he who denied 

His Lord, and was forgiven ? — Roderick rejoin'd, 

It is the Apostle ; and may that same Lord, 

Julian, to thy soul's salvation bless 
The seasonable thought ! 

The dying Count 
Then fix'd upon the Goth his earnest eyes. 
No time, said he, is this for bravery, 
As little for dissemblance. I would fain 
Die in the faith wherein my fathers died. 
Whereto they pledged me in mine infancy. 
A soldier's habits, he pursued, have steel'd 
My spirit, and perhaps I do not fear 
This passage as I ought. But if to feel 
That I have sinn'd, and from my soul renounce 
The Impostor's faith, which never in that soul 
Obtain'd a place, — if at the Savior's feet, 
Laden with guilt, to cast myself and cry, 
Lord, I believe ! help thou my unbelief ! 
If this in the sincerity of death 
Sufficeth, — Father, let me from thy lips 
Receive the assurances with which the Church 
Doth bless the dying Christian. 

Roderick raised 
His eyes to heaven, and crossing on his breast 
His open palms — Mysterious are thy ways 
And merciful, O gracious Lord ! he cried, 
Who to this end hast thus been pleased to lead 
My wandering steps ! O Father, this thy son 
Hath sinn'd and gone astray : but hast not Thou 
Said, When the sinner from his evil ways 
Turneth, that he shall save his soul alive. 
And Angels at the sight rejoice in Heaven ! 
Therefore do I, in thy most holy name, 
Into thy family receive again 
Him who was lost, and in that name absolve 
The Penitent. — So saying, on the head 
Of Julian solemnly he laid his hands. 
Then to the altar tremblingly he turn'd. 
And took the bread, and breaking it, pursued — 
Julian ! receive from me the Bread of Life ! 
In silence reverently the Count partook 
The reconciling rite, and to his lips 
Roderick then held the consecrated cup. 

Me too ! exclaim'd Florinda, who till then 
Had listen'd speechlessly ; thou Man of God, 

1 also must partake ! The Lord hath heard 

My prayers ! one sacrament, — one hour, — one 

grave, — 
One resurrection ! 

That dread office done. 
Count Julian with amazement saw the Priest 
Kneel down before him. By the sacrament 
Which we have here partaken, Roderick cried, 
In this most awful moment; by that hope, — 
That holy faith which comforts thee in death. 
Grant thy forgiveness, Julian, ere thou diest ! 
Behold the man who most hath injured thee ! 
Roderick, the wretched Goth, the guilty cause 



Of all thy guilt, — the unworthy instrument 
Of thy redemption, — kneels before thee here, 
And prays to be forgiven ! 

Roderick ! exclaim'd 
The dying Count, — Roderick ! — and from the floor 
With violent effort half he raised himself; 
The spear hung heavy in his side, and pain 
And weakness overcame him, that he fell 
Back on his daughter's lap. O Death, cried he, — 
Passing his hand across his cold, damp brow, — 
Thou tamest the strong limb, and conquerest 
The stubborn heart ! But yesterday I said 
One Heaven could not contain mine enemy 
And me ; and now I lift my dying voice 
To say. Forgive me. Lord, as I forgive [eyes 

Him who hath done the wrong ! — He closed his 
A moment ; then with sudden impulse cried, — 
Roderick, thy wife is dead, — the Church hath 

power 
To free thee from thy vows, — the broken heart 
Might yet be heal'd, the wrong redress'd, the throne 
Rebuilt by that same hand which pull'd it down, 
And these cursed Africans — Oh for a month 
Of that waste life which millions misbestow ! — 
His voice was passionate, and in his eye 
With glowing animation while he spake 
The vehement spirit shone : its effort soon 
Was past, and painfully, with feeble breath, 
In slow and difficult utterance he pursued, — 
Vain hope, if all the evil was ordain'd. 
And this wide wreck the will and work of Heaven, 
We but the poor occasion ! Death will make 
All clear, and, joining us in better worlds. 
Complete our union there ! Do for me now 
One friendly office more : — draw forth the spear, 
And free me from this pain ! — Receive his soul, 
Savior ! exclaim'd the Goth, as he perform'd 
The fatal service. Julian cried, O friend ! — 
True friend ! — and gave to him his dying hand. 
Then said he to Florinda, I go first. 
Thou followest ! — kiss me, child ! — and now, good 

night ! 

When from her father's body she arose. 
Her cheek was flush'd, and in her eyes there 

beam'd 
A wilder brightness. On the Goth she gazed. 
While underneath the emotions of that hour 
Exhausted life gave way. O God ! she said. 
Lifting her hands, thou hast restored me all, — 
All — in one hour! — and round his neck she 

threw 
Her arms, and cried. My Roderick ! mine in 

Heaven ! 
Groaning, he clasp'd her close, and in that act 
And agony her happy spirit fled. 



XXV. 

RODERICK IN BATTLE. 

Eight thousand men had to Asturias march'd 
Beneath Count Julian's banner ; the remains 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



705 



Of that brave army which in Africa 

So well against the Mussulman made head, 

Till sense of injuries insupportable. 

And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew 

Their leader's noble spirit. To revenge 

His quarrel, twice that number left their bones, 

Slain in unnatural battle, on the field 

Of Xeres, when the sceptre from the Goths 

By righteous Heaven was reft. Others had fallen 

Consumed in sieges, alway by the Moor 

To the front of war opposed. The policy. 

With whatsoever show of honor cloak'd, 

Was gross; and this surviving band had oft 

At their carousals, of the flagrant wrong, 

Held such discourse as stirs the mounting blood. 

The common danger with one discontent 

Affecting chiefs and men. Nor had the bonds 

Of rooted discipline and faith attach'd 

Thus long re strain 'd them, had they not known 

well 
That Julian in their just resentment shared. 
And fix'd their hopes on him. Slight impulse now 
Sufficed to make these fiery martialists 
Break forth in open fury ; and though first 
Count Pedro listen'd with suspicious ear 
To Julian's dying errand, deeming it 
Some new decoy of treason, — when he found 
A second legate follow'd Virimar, 
And then a third, and saw the turbulence 
Of the camp, and how against the Moors in haste 
They form'd their lines, he knew that Providence 
This hour had for his country interposed. 
And in such faith advanced to use the aid 
Thus wondrously ordain' d. The eager Chiefs 
Hasten to greet him, Cottila and Paul, 
Basil and Miro, Theudered, Gunderick, 
Felix, and all who held authority ; 
The zealous services of their brave host 
They proffer'd, and besought him instantly 
To lead against the African their force 
Combined, and in good hour assail a foe 
Divided, nor for such attack prepared. 

While thus they communed, Roderick from the 
church 
Came forth, and seeing Pedro, bent his way 
Toward them. Sirs, said he, the Count is dead ; 
He died a Christian, reconciled to Heaven, 
In faith ; and when his daughter had received 
His dying breath, her spirit too took flight. 
One sacrament, one death, united them : 
And I beseech ye, ye who from the work 
Of blood which lies before us may return, — 
If, as I think, it should not be my fate, — 
iThat in one grave with Christian ceremonies 
Ye lay them side by side. In Heaven I ween 
I They are met through mercy : — ill befall the man 
Who should in death divide them ! — Then he 

turn'd 

His speech to Pedro in an under voice. 
The King, said he, I know, with noble mind 
Will judge of the departed; Christian-like 
He died, and with a manly penitence : 
They who condemn him most should call to mind 
89 



How grievous was the wrong which madden'd 

him; 
Be that remember'd in his history, 
And let no shame be offer'd his remains. 

As Pedro would have answer'd, a loud cry 
Of menacing imprecation from the troops 
Arose ; for Orpas, by the Moorish Chief 
Sent to allay the storm his villany 
Had stirr'd, came hastening on a milk-white steed, 
And at safe distance having check'd the rein, 
Beckon'd for parley. 'Twas Orelio 
On which he rode, Roderick's own battle-horse, 
Who from his master's hand had wont to feed, 
And with a glad docility obey 
His voice familiar. At the sight the Goth 
Started, and indignation to his soul 
Brought back the thoughts and feelings of old 

times. 
Suffer me, Count, he cried, to answer him. 
And hold these back the Avhile ! Thus having said, 
He waited no reply, but as he was, 
Bareheaded, in his weeds, and all unarm'd, 
Advanced toward the renegade. Sir Priest, 
Quoth Orpas as he came, I hold no talk 
With thee ; my errand is with Gunderick 
And the Captains of the host, to whom I bring 

Such liberal offers and clear proof 

The Goth, 
Breaking with scornful voice his speech, ex- 

claim'd. 
What, could no steed but Roderick's serve thy 

turn ! 
I should have thought some sleek and sober mule, 
Long train'd in shackles to procession pace. 
More suited to my lord of Seville's use 
Than this good war-horse, — he who never bore 
A villain, until Orpas cross'd his back ! — 
Wretch ! cried the astonish'd renegade, and stoop'd, 
Foaming with anger, from the saddle-bow. 
To reach his weapon. Ere the hasty hand, 
Trembling in passion, could perform its will, 
Roderick had seized the reins. How now, he cried, 
Orelio ! old companion, — my good horse, — 
Off" with this recreant burden ! — And with that 
He raised his hand, and rear'd and back'd the steed, 
To that remember'd voice and arm of power 
Obedient. Down the helpless traitor fell. 
Violently thrown, and Roderick over him 
Thrice led, with just and unrelenting hand, 
The trampling hoofs. Go, join Witiza now. 
Where he lies howling, the avenger cried, 
And tell him Roderick sent thee ! 

At that sight, 
Count Julian's soldiers and the Asturian host 
Set up a shout, a joyful shout, which rung 
Wide through the welkin. Their exulting cry 
With louder acclamation was renew'd. 
When from the expiring miscreant's neck they saw 
That Roderick took the shield, and round his own 
Hung it, and vaulted in the seat. My horse ! 
My noble horse ■ he cried, with flattering hand 
Patting his high-arch'd neck ! the renegade — 
I thank him for't — hath kept thee daintily ! 



706 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Orelio, thou art in thy beauty still, 

Thy pride and strength ! Orelio, my good horse, 

Once more thou bearest to the field thy Lord, 

He who so oft hath fed and cherish'd thee, 

He for whose sake, wherever thou wert seen. 

Thou wert by all men honor'd. Once again 

Thou hast thy proper master ! Do thy part 

As thou wert wont ; and bear him gloriously, 

My beautiful Orelio, — to the last — 

The happiest of his fields ! — Then he drew forth 

The cimeter, and waving it aloft. 

Rode toward the troops; its un accustom' d shape 

Disliked him. Renegade in all things ! cried 

The Goth, and cast it from him ; to the Chiefs 

Then said. If I have done ye service here. 

Help me, I pray you, to a Spanish sword ! 

The trustiest blade that e'er in Bilbilis 

Was dipp'd, would not to-day be misbestowed 

On this right hand ! — Go, some one, Gunderick 

cried. 
And bring Count Julian's sword. Whoe'er thou 

art. 
The worth which thou hast shown avenging him 
Entitles thee to wear it. But thou goest 
For battle unequipp'd ; — haste there, and strip 
Yon villain of his armor ! 

Late he spake. 
So fast the Moors came on. It matters not. 
Replied the Goth ; there's many a mountaineer, 
Who in no better armor cased this day 
Than his wonted leathern gipion, will be found 
In the hottest battle, yet bring off untouch'd 
The unguarded life he ventures. — Taking then 
Count Julian's sword, he fitted round his wrist 
The chain, and eyeing the elaborate steel 
With stern regard of joy — The African 
Under unhappy stars was born, he cried. 
Who tastes thy edge ! — Make ready for the 

charge I 
They come — they come ! — On, brethren, to the 

field ! — 
The word is. Vengeance ! 

Vengeance was the word ; 
From man to man, and rank to rank it pass'd, 
By every heart enforced, by every voice 
Sent forth in loud defiance of the foe. 
The enemy in shriller sounds return'd 
Their Akbar and the Prophet's trusted name. 
The horsemen lower'd their spears, the infantry. 
Deliberately, with slow and steady step. 
Advanced ; the bow-strings twang'd, and arrows 

liiss'd. 
And javelins hurtled by. Anon the hosts 
Met in the shock of battle, horse and man 
Conflicting ; shield struck shield, and sword, and 

mace. 
And curtle-axe on helm and buckler rung ; 
Armor was riven, and wounds were interchanged, 
And many a spirit from its mortal hold 
Hurried to bliss or bale. Well did the Chiefs 
Of Julian's army in that hour support 
Their old esteem ; and well Count Pedro there 
Enhanced his former praise ; and by his side, 
Piejoicing like a bridegroom in the strife, 
Alphonso through the host of infidels 



Bore on his bloody lance dismay and death. 
But there was worst confusion and uproar. 
There widest slaughter and dismay, where, proud 
Of his recover'd Lord, Orelio plunged 
Through thickest ranks, trampling beneath his feet 
The living and the dead. Where'er he turns, 
The Moors divide and fly. What man is this, 
Appall'd they say, who to the front of war 
Bareheaded offers thus his naked life ? 
Pteplete with power he is, and terrible, 
Like some destroying Angel ! Sure his lips 
Have drank of Kaf's dark fountain, and he comes 
Strong in his immortality ! Fly ! fly ! 
They said ; this is no human foe ! — Nor less 
Of wonder fill'd the Spaniards when they saw 
How flight and terror went before his way. 
And slaughter in his path. Behold, cries one. 
With what command and knightly ease he sits 
The intrepid steed, and deals from side to side 
His dreadful blows ! Not Roderick in his power 
Bestrode with such command and majesty 
That noble war-horse. His loose robe this day 
Is death's black banner, shaking from its folds 
Dismay and ruin. Of no mortal mould 
Is he who in that garb of peace affronts 
Whole hosts, and sees them scatter where he turns ! 
Auspicious Heaven beholds us, and some Saint 
Revisits earth ! 

Ay, cries another. Heaven 
Hath ever with especial bounty bless'd 
Above all other lands its favor'd Spain ; 
Choosing her children forth from all mankind 
For its peculiar people, as of yore 
Abraham's ungrateful race beneath the Law. 
Who knows not how on that most holy night 
When peace on Earth by Angels was proclaim'd, 
The light which o'er the fields of Bethlehem shone. 
Irradiated whole Spain .'' not just display'd. 
As to the Shepherds, and again v/ithdrawn ; 
All the long winter hours from eve till morn 
Her forests, and her mountains, and her plains, 
Her hills and valleys, were imbathed in light, 
A light which came not from the sun, or moon, 
Or stars, by secondary powers dispensed. 
But from the fountain-springs, the Light of Light 
Effluent. And wherefore should we not beheve 
That this may be some Saint or Angel, charged 
To lead us to miraculous victory ? 
Hath not the Virgin Mother, oftentimes 
Descending, clothed in glory, sanctified 
With feet adorable our happy soil ! — 
Mark'd ye not, said another, how he cast 
In wrath the unhallow'd cimeter away, 
And called for Christian weapon ? Oh, be sure 
This is the aid of Heaven ! On, comrades, on ! 
A miracle to-day is wrought for Spain ! 
Victory and Vengeance ! Hew the miscreants 

down. 
And spare not ! hew them down in sacrifice ! 
God is with us ! his Saints are in the field ! 
Victory, miraculous Victory ! 

Thus they 
Inflamed with wild belief the keen desire 
Of vengeance on their enemies abhorr'd. 
The Moorish Chief, meantime, o'erlooked the fight 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



707 



From an eminence, and cursed the renegade 

Whose counsels sorting to such ill effect 

Had brought this danger on. Lo, from the East 

Comes fresh alarm ! a few poor fugitives 

Weil nigh with fear exanimate came up, 

From Covadonga flying, and the rear 

Of that destruction, scarce with breath to tell 

Their dreadful tale. When Abulcacem heard, 

Stricken with horror, like a man bereft 

Of sense, he stood. O Prophet, he exclaim'd, 

A hard and cruel fortune hast thou brought 

This day upon thy servant ! Must I then 

Here with disgrace and ruin close a life 

Of glorious deeds ? But how should man resist 

Fate's irreversible decrees, or why 

Murmur at what must be ? They who survive 

May mourn the evil which this day begins : 

My part will soon be done ! — Grief then gave way 

To rage, and cursing Guisla, he pursued — 

Oh that that treacherous woman were but here ! 

It were a consolation to give her 

The evil death she merits ! 

That reward 
She hath had, a Moor replied. For when we 

reach'd 
The entrance of the vale, it was her choice 
There in the farthest dwellings to be left. 
Lest she should see her brother's face ; but thence 
We found her flying at the overthrow. 
And visiting the treason on her head, 
Pierced her with wounds. — Poor vengeance for 

a host 
Destroyed ! said Abulcacem in his soul. 
Howbeit, resolving to the last to do 
His ofiice, he roused up his spirit. Go, 
Strike off Count Eudon's head ! he cried ; the fear 
Which brought him to our camp will bring him else 
In arms against us now ; for Sisibert 
And Ebba, he continued thus in thought. 
Their uncle's fate forever bars all plots 
Of treason on their part ; no hope have they 
Of safety but with us. He call'd them then 
With chosen troops to join him in the front 
Of battle, that, by bravely making head. 
Retreat might now be won. Then fiercer raged 
The conflict, and more frequent cries of death, 
Mingling with imprecations and with prayers. 
Rose through the din of war. 

By this the blood 
Which Deva down her fatal channel pour'd. 
Purpling Pionia's course, had reach'd and stain'd 
The wider stream of Sella. Soon far off" 
The frequent glance of spears and gleam of arms 
Were seen, which sparkled to the westering orb, 
Where down the vale impatient to complete 
The glorious work so well that day begun, 
Pelayo led his troops. On foot they came. 
Chieftains and men alike ; the Oaken Cross 
Triumphant, borne on high, precedes their march. 
And broad and bright the argent banner shone. 
Roderick, who, dealing death from side to side, 
Had through the Moorish army now made way, 
Beheld it flash, and judging we41 what aid 
Approach'd, with sudden impulse that way rode. 
To tell of what had pass'd, — lest in the strife 



They should engage with Julian's men, and mar 

The mighty consummation. One ran on 

To meet him fleet of foot, and having given 

His tale to this swift messenger, the Goth 

Halted awhile to let Orelio breathe. 

Siverian, quoth Pelayo, if mine eyes 

Deceive me not, yon horse, whose reeking sides 

Are red with slaughter, is the same on whom 

The apostate Orpas m his vauntery 

Wont to parade the streets of Cordoba. 

But thou shouldst know him best ; regard him well ; 

Is't not Orelio ? 

Either it is he, 
The old man replied, or one so like to him. 
Whom all thought matchless, that similitude 
Would be the greater wonder. But behold, 
What man is he who in that disarray 
Doth with such power and majesty bestride 
The noble steed, as if he felt himself 
In his own proper seat ? Look, how he leans 
To cherish him; and how the gallant horse 
Curves up his stately neck, and bends his head, 
As if again to court that gentle touch. 
And answer to the voice which praises him ! 
Can it be Maccabee P rejoin'd the King, 
Or are the secret wishes of my soul 
Indeed fulfill'd, and hath the grave given up 
Its dead? — So saying, on the old man he turn'd 
Eyes full of wide astonishment, which told 
The incipient thought that for incredible 
He spake no further. But enough had pass'd, 
For old Siverian started at the words 
Like one who sees a spectre, and exclaim'd, 
Blind that I was to know him not till now 1 
My Master, O my Master ! 

He meantime 
With easy pace moved on to meet their march. 
King, to Pelayo he began, this day. 
By means scarce less than miracle, thy throne 
Is stablish'd, and the wrongs of Spain revenged. 
Orpas, the accursed, upon yonder field 
Lies ready for the ravens. By the Moors 
Treacherously slain. Count Julian will be found 
Before Saint Peter's altar ; unto him 
Grace was vouchsafed ; and by that holy power 
Which at Visonia by the Primate's hand 
Of his own proper act to me was given. 
Unworthy as I am, — yet sure I think 
Not without mystery, as the event hath shown, — 
Did I accept Count Julian's penitence. 
And reconcile the dying man to Heaven. 
Beside him hath his daughter gone to rest. 
Deal honorably with his remains, and let 
One grave with Christian rites receive them both. 
Is it not written that as the Tree falls 
So it shall lie ? 

In this and all things else, 
Pelayo answer'd, looking wistfully 
Upon the Goth, thy pleasure shall be done. 
Then Roderick saw that he was known, and turn d 
His head away in silence. But the old man 
Laid hold upon his bridle, and look'd up 
In his master's face, weeping and silently. 
Thereat the Goth, with fervent pressure, took 
His hand, and bending down toward him, said, 



708 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



XXV. 



My good Siverian, go not thou this day 

To war ! I charge thee keep thyself from harm ! 

Thou art past the age for combats, and with whom 

Hereafter should thy mistress talk of me 

If thou wert gone ? — Thou seest I am unarm'd ; 

Thus disarray'd as thou beholdest me, 

Clean through yon miscreant army have I cut 

My way unhurt ; but being once by Heaven 

Preserved, I would not perish with the guilt 

Of having wilfully provoked my death. 

Give me thy helmet and thy cuirass ! — Nay, — 

Thou wert not wont to let me ask in vain. 

Nor to oppose me when my will was known ! 

To thee, methinks, I should be still the King. 

Thus saying, they withdrew a little way 
Within the trees. Roderick alighted there. 
And in the old man's armor dight himself. 
Dost thou not marvel by what wondrous chance. 
Said he, Orelio to his master's hand 
Hath been restored ? I found the renegade 
Of Seville on his back, and hurl'd him down 
Headlong to the earth. The noble animal 
Rejoicingly obey'd my hand to shake 
His recreant burden off, and trample out 
The life which once I spared in evil hour. 
Now let me meet Witiza's viperous sons 
In yonder field, and then I may go rest 
In peace, — my work is done ! 

And nobly done ! 
Exclaim'd the old man. Oh! thou art greater 

now 
Than in that glorious hour of victory 
When grovelling in the dust Witiza lay. 
The prisoner of thy hand! — Roderick replied, 
O good Siverian, happier victory 
Thy son hath now achieved, — the victory 
Over the world, his sins, and his despair. 
If on the field my body should be found. 
See it, I charge thee, laid in Julian's grave, 
And let no idle ear be told for whom 
Thou mournest. Thou wilt use Orelio 
As doth beseem the steed which hath so oft 
Carried a King to battle ; — he hath done 
Good service for his rightful Lord to-day. 
And better yet must do. Siverian, now 
Farewell ! I think we shall not meet again 
Till it be in that world where never change 
Is known, and they who love shall part no more. 
Commend me to my mother's prayers, and say 
That never man enjoy'd a heavenlier peace 
Than Roderick at this hour. O faithful friend. 
How dear thou art to me these tears may tell ! 

With that he fell upon the old man's neck ; 
Then vaulted in the saddle, gave the reins. 
And soon rejoin'd the host. On, comrades, on ! 
Victory and Vengeance ! he exclaim'd, and took 
The lead on that good charger, be alone 
Horsed for the onset. They, with one consent. 
Gave all their voices to the inspiring cry. 
Victory and Vengeance ! and the hills and rocks 
Caught the prophetic shout and roll'd it round. 
Count Pedro's people heard amid the heat 
Of battle, and return'd the glad acclaim. 



The astonish'd Mussulmen, on all sides charged, 

Hear that tremendous cry ; yet manfully 

They stood, and every where, with gallant front. 

Opposed in fair array the shock of war. 

Desperately they fought, like men expert in arms, 

And knowing that no safety could be found. 

Save from their own right hands. No former day 

Of all his long career had seen their chief 

Approved so well ; nor had Witiza's sons 

Ever before this hour achieved in fight 

Such feats of resolute valor. Sisibert 

Beheld Pelayo in the field afoot. 

And twice essay 'd beneath his horse's feet 

To thrust him 'down. Twice did the Prince evade 

The shock, and twice upon his shield received 

The fratricidal sword. Tempt me no more. 

Son of Witiza, cried the indignant chief. 

Lest I forget what mother gave thee birth ! 

Go meet thy death from any hand but mine I 

He said, and turn'd aside. Fitliest from me I 

Exclaim'd a dreadful voice, as through the throng 

Orelio forced his way : fitliest from me 

Receive the rightful death too long withheld ! 

'Tis Roderick strikes the blow ! And as he spake, 

Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove 

The weapon, well-bestow'd. He in the seat 

Totter'd and fell. The Avenger hasten'd on 

In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight 

Rejoicing, and forgetful of all else. 

Set up his cry, as he was wont in youth — 

Roderick the Goth! — his war-cry known so well. 

Pelayo eagerly took up the word. 

And shouted out his kinsman's name beloved — 

Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory 1 

Roderick and Vengeance ! Odoar gave it forth ; 

Urban repeated it, and through his ranks 

Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field 

Of his great victory, when Witiza fell. 

With louder acclamations had that name 

Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven. 

The unreflecting throng, who yesterday. 

If it had pass'd their lips, would with a curse 

Have clogg'd it, echoed it as if it came 

From some celestial voice in the air, reveal'd 

To be the certain pledge of all their hopes. 

Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory ! 

Roderick and Vengeance ! O'er the field it 



All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry ; 
Mountains, and rocks, and vales reechoed round , 
And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on. 
Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and 

smote, 
And overthrew, and scatter'd, and destroy'd, 
And trampled down ; and still at every blow 
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth, 
Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory ! 
Roderick and Vengeance ! 

Thus he made his way, 
Smiting and slaying, through the astonish'd ranks, 
Till he beheld, where, on a fiery barb, 
Ebba, performing well a soldier's part, 
Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows. 
With mutual rage they met. The rene^ 
Displays a cimeter, the splendid gift 



XXV. 



RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



709 



Of Walid from Damascus sent ; its hilt 
Emboss'd with gems, its blade of perfect steel, 
Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun 
With dazzling splendor, fiash'd. The Goth objects 
His shield, and on its rim received the edge 
Driven from its aim aside, and of its force 
Diminish'd. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt 
On either part, and many a foin and thrust 
Aim'd and rebated ; many a deadly blow 
Straight, or reverse, delivered and repell'd. 
Roderick at length with better speed hath reach'd 
The apostate's turban, and through all its folds 
The true Cantabrian weapon making way 
Attain'd his forehead. Wretch ! the avenger cried, 
It comes from Roderick's hand ! Roderick the 

Goth ! 
Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betray'd ! 
Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped 
With all thy treasons ! Saying thus, he seized 
The miserable, who, blinded now with blood, 
Reel'd in the saddle ; and with sidelong step 
Backing Orelio, drew him to the ground. 
He shrieking, as beneath the horse's feet 
He fell, forgot his late-learnt creed, and called 
On Mary's name. The dreadful Goth pass'd on, 
Still plunging through the thickest war, and still 
Scattering, where'er he turn'd, the affrighted ranks. 

O who could tell what deeds were wrought that 
day; 
Or who endure to hear the tale of rage. 
Hatred, and madness, and despair, and fear, 
Horror, and wounds, and agony, and death. 
The cries, the blasphemies, the shrieks, and groans. 
And prayers, which mingled with the din of arms 
In one wild uproar of terrific sounds ; 
While over all predominant was heard, 
Reiterate from the conquerors o'er the field, 
Roderick the Goth ! Roderick and Victory ! 
Roderick and Vengeance ! — Woe for Africa ! 
Woe for the circumcised ! Woe for the faith 
Of the lying Ishmaelite that hour ! The Chiefs 
Have fallen ; the Moors, confused, and captainless. 
And panic-stricken, vainly seek to escape 
The inevitable fate. Turn where they will, 
Strong in his cause, rejoicing in success, 
Insatiate at the banquet of revenge. 
The enemy is there ; look where they will. 
Death hath environed their devoted ranks : 
Fly where they will, the avenger and the sword 
Await them, — wretches ! whom the righteous arm 
Hath overtaken ! — Join'd in bonds of faith 
Accurs'd, the most flagitious of mankind 
From all parts met are here ; the apostate Greek, 
The vicious Syrian, and the sullen Copt, 
The Persian cruel and corrupt of soul. 
The Arabian robber, and the prowling sons 
Of Africa, who from their thirsty sands 
Pray that the locusts on the peopled plain 
May settle and prepare their way. Conjoined 
Beneath an impious faith, which sanctifies 
To thern all deeds of wickedness and blood, — 
Yea, and halloos them on, — here are they met 
To be conjoin'd in punishment this hour. 
For plunder, violation, massacre, 



All hideous, all unutterable things. 
The righteous, the immitigable sword 
Exacts due vengeance now ! the cry of blood 
Is heard : the measure of their crimes is full ; 
Such mercy as the Moor at Auria gave. 
Such mercy hath he found this dreadful hour ! 

The evening darken'd, but the avenging sword 
Turn'd not away its edge till night had closed 
Upon the field of blood. The Chieftains then 
Blew the recall, and from their perfect work 
Return' d rejoicing, all but he for whom 
All look'd with most expectance. He full sure 
Had thought upon that field to find his end 
Desired, and with Florinda in the grave 
Rest, in indissoluble union join'd. 
But still where through the press of war he went 
Half-arm'd, and like a lover seeking death, 
The arrows pass'd him by to right and left ; 
The spear-point pierced him not; the cimeter 
Glanced from his helmet ; he, when he beheld 
The rout complete, saw that the shield of Heaven 
Had been extended over him once more, 
And bowed before its will. Upon the banks 
Of Sella was Orelio found, his legs 
And flanks incarnadined, his poitral smeared 
With froth, and foam, and gore, his silver mane 
Sprinkled with blood, which hung on every hair. 
Aspersed like dew-drops ; trembling there he stood 
From the toil of battle, and at times sent forth 
His tremulous voice far echoing loud and shrill, 
A frequent, anxious cry, with which he seem'd 
To call the master whom he loved so well, 
And who had thus again forsaken him. 
Siverian's helm and cuirass on the grass 
Lay near ; and Julian's sword, its hilt and chain 
Clotted with blood ; but where was he whose hand 
Had wielded it so well that glorious day ? — 

Days, months, and years, and generations pass'd, 
And centuries held their course, before, far off 
Within a hermitage near Viseu's walls 
A humble tomb was found, which bore inscribed 
In ancient characters King Roderick's name. 



NOTES. 



Count Julian called the invaders. — I. p. 649. col. 2. 

The story of Count Julian and his daughter has been treated 
as a fable by some authors, because it is not mentioned by the 
three writers who lived nearest the time. But those writers 
state the mere fact of the conquest of Spain as briefly as pos- 
sible, without entering into particulars of any kindj and the 
best Spanish historians and antiquaries are persuaded that 
there is no cause for disbelieving the uniform and concurrent 
tradition of both Moors and Christians. 

For the purposes of poetry, it is immaterial whether the 
story be true or false. 1 have represented the Count as a man 
both sinned against and sinning, and equally to be commiser- 
ated and condemned. The author of the Tragedy of Count 
Julian has contemplated his character in a grander point of 
view, and represented him as a man self-justified in bringing 
an army of foreign auxiliaries to assist liim in delivering his 



710 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



country from a tyrant, and foreseeing, when it is too late to 
recede, the evils which he is thus bringing upon her. 

Not victory that o'ershadows him, sees he I 
No airy and light passion stirs abroad 
To ruffle or to soothe him ; ail are quell'd 
Beneath a mightier, sterner, stress of mind : 
Wakeful he sits, and lonely and unmoved, 
Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men : 
As oftentimes an eagle, wlien the sun 
Throws o'er the varying earth his early ray, 
Stands solitary, stands immovable 
Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye, 
Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased, 
In the cold light, above the dews of morn. 

Act 5, Scene 2. 

Parts of this tragedy are as fine in their kind as any thing 
which can be found in the whole compass of English poetry. 

Juan de Mena places Count Julian with Orpas, the rene- 
gade Archbishop of Seville, in the deepest pit of hell. 

JVo buenamente te puedo collar 
Orpas maldito, ni a ti Julian, 
Pues soys en el valle mas hondo de afan. 

Que no se redime jamas por llorar: 

Qual ya crueia vos pudo indignar 
Ji vender un dia las tierras y leyes 
De Espana, las quales pujanga de reyes 

En anos a tantos no pudo cobrar. 

Copla 91. 

A Portuguese poet, Andre da Sylva Mascarenhas, is more 
indulgent to the Count, and seems to consider it as a mark of 
degeneracy in his own times, that the same crime would no 
longer provoke the same vengeance. His catalogue of women 
who have become famous by the evil of which they have been 
the occasion, begins with Eve, and ends with Anne Boleyn. 

Louvar se pode ao Conde o sentimento 

Da offensa da sua honestidade, 
Se nam vituperara co cruento 

Disbarate da Hispaaa Christandade ; 
Se hoje ouvera stupros cento e cento 

JVesta nossainfelii lasciva idade, 
JVon seperdera nam a forte Espanha, 
Q,ue crime frequentado nam se estranha. 

Por mulheres porem se tern perdido 
Muitos reynos da outra e desta vida ; 

Por Eva se perdeo o Ceo sobido, 
Por Helena a Asia esclarecida ; 

Por Cleopatra o Egypto foi vencido, 
Assinapor Simiramis perdida, 

Por Cava se perdeo a forte Espanha, 

E por Anna Bolena a Oram Bretanha. 

Uestruicam de Espanha, p. 9. 



Inhuman priests with unoffending blood 
Had stained their country. — I. p. 649, col. 2. 

Never has any country been so cursed by the spirit of per- 
secution as Spain. Under the Heathen Emperors it had its 
full share of suffering, and the first fiital precedent of appeal- 
ing to the secular power to punish heresy with death, occurred 
in Spain. Then came the Arian controversy. There was as 
much bigotry, as much rancor, as little of the spirit of Chris- 
tianity, and as much intolerance, on one part as on the other : 
but the successful party were better politicians, and more 
expert in the management of miracles. 

Near to the city of Osen, or Ossel, there was a famous 
Catholic church, and a more famous baptistery, which was 
in the form of a cross. On Holy Thursday in every year, the 
bishop, the clergy, and the people assembled there, saw that 
the baptistery was empty, and enjoyed a marvellous fragrance, 
which differed from that of any, or all, flowers and spices, for 
it was an odor which came as the vesper of the divine virtue 
that was about to manifest itself. Then they fastened the 
doors of the church, and sealed them. On Easter Eve the 



doors were opened, the baptistery was found full of water, and 
all the children born within the preceding twelve months were 
baptized. Theudisclo, an Arian king, set his seal also upon 
the doors for two successive years, and set a guard there. 
Still the miraculous baptistery was filled. The third year he 
suspected pipes, and ordered a trench to be dug round the 
building ; but before the day of trial arrived, he was murdered, 
as opportunely as Arius himself. The trench was dry, but 
the workmen did not dig deep enough, and the miracle was 
continued. When the victory of the Catholic party was com- 
plete, it was no longer necessary to keep it up. The same 
baptistery was employed to convince the Spaniards of their 
error in keeping Easter. In Brito's time, a few ruins, called 
Oscla, were shown near the river Cambria 3 the broken bap- 
tistery was then called the Bath, and some wild superstitions 
which the peasantry related bore traces of the original legend. 
The trick was not uncommon ; it was practised in Sicily and 
in other places. The story, however, is of some value, as 
showing that baptism was administered* only once a year, 
(except in cases of danger,) that immersion was the manner, 
and that infants were baptized, 

Arianism seems to have lingered in Spain long after its 
defeat. The names Pelayo (Pelagius) and Arias certainly 
appear to indicate a cherished heresy, and Brito f must have 
felt this when he deduced the former name from Saint Pelayo 
of the tenth century ; for how came the Saint by it, and how 
could Brito have forgotten the founder of the Spanish 
monarchy .'' 

In the latter half of the eleventh century, the Count of Bar- 
celona, Ramon Berenguer, Cap de estopa, as he was called, for 
his bushy head, made war upon some Christians who are said 
to have turned Arians, and took the castles into which they 
retired. J By the number of their castles, which he gave to 
those chiefs who assisted him in conquering them, they appear 
to have been numerous. It is not improbable that those people 
were really what they are called ; for Arian has never been, 
like Manichasan, a term ignorantly and indiscriminately given 
to heretics of all descriptions ; and there is no heresy which 
would be so well understood in Spain, and so likely to have 
revived there. 

The feelings of the triumphant party toward their oppo- 
nents are well marked by the manner in which St. Isidore 
speaks of the death of the emperor Valens, Thraciam ferro 
incendiisque depopulantur, deletoque Romanorum exercitu ipsum 
Valentem jaculo vulneratum, in quadam villa fugieniem succen- 
derunt, %it merito ipse ab eis vivus lemporali cremarctur incendioj 
qui tam pulchras animas ignibus mternis'^ tradiderat. If the 
truth of this opinion should be doubted, there is a good Atha- 
nasian miracle in the Chronicon || of S. Isidore and Melitus, 
to prove it. A certain Arian, by name Olympius, being in the 
bath, blasphemed the Holy Trinity, and, behold ! being struck 
by an angel with three fiery darts, he was visibly consumed. 

With regard to the Arians, the Catholics only did to the 
others as tne others would have done to them 5 but the per- 
secution of the Jews was equally unprovoked and inhuman. 
They are said to have betrayed many towns to the Moors ; 
and it would be strange indeed if they had not, by every means 
in their power, assisted in overthrowing a government under 
which they were miserably oppressed. St. Isidore has a mem- 
orable passage relating to their cruel persecution and com- 
pulsory conversion under Sisebut ; Qwi initio regni Judoeos ad 
Fidem Christianam permovens (Bmulationem qiddem habuit, sed 
non secundum scicntiam .- potestate enim compulit, quos provocare 
fidci ratione oportu.it. Sed sicut est scriptum sive per occasionem 
sive per veritatem , Christus annuntiatur,in hoc gaudeo etgaude- 
bo. — S. Isidor. Christ. Goth. Espana Sagrada, 6, 502. 

The Moorish conquest procured for them an interval of 
repose, till the Inquisition was established, and by its damnable 

* In the seventeenth and last council ot Toledo, it was decreed that the 
baptistery should be sh\it up, and sealed with the episcopal seal, during the 
whole year, till Good Friday ; on that day the bishop in his pontificals, 
was to open it with great solemnity, in token that Christ, by his passion 
and resurrection, had opened the way to heaven for mankind, as on that 
day the hope was opened of obtaining' redemption through the holy sacra- 
ment of baptism. —MomZes, 12, 62, 3. 

\ Monarchia Lusitana, 2, 7, 19. 

t Pere Tomicli. c. 24, ff. 26. 

§ Hist. Goth, apud Florez. Espana Sagrada, t. 6, 486. 

II Espana Sagrada, t. 6, 474. 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 711 



acts put all former horrors out of remembrance. When To- 
ledo was recovered from tlie Moors by Alonso VI., the Jews 
of that city waited upon the conqueror, and assured him that 
they were part of the ten tribes whom Nebuchadnezzar had 
transported into Spaing not the descendants of the Jerusalem 
Jews who had crucified Christ. Their ancestors, thsy said, 
were entirely innocent of the crucifixion ; for when Caiaphas 
the liigh-priest had written to the Toledan synagogues to ask 
their advice respecting tlie person who called himself the 
Messiali, and whether he should bo slain, the Toledan Jews 
returned for answer, that in tlieir judgment the prophecies 
seemed to be fulfilled in this person, and, therefore, he ought 
not by any means to be put to death. This reply they pro- 
duced in the original Hebrew, and in Arabic, as it had been 
translated by command of King Galifre. Alonso gave ear to 
the story, had the letter rendered into Latin and Castilian, 
and deposited it among the archives of Toledo. The latter 
version is thus printed by Sandoval : — 

Levi Archismagogo^ et Samuel, et Joseph, homes ionos del Jil- 
javia de Toledo, a Eleazar Muyd gran Sacerdote, e a Samuel 
Canud, y Anas, y Caijphas, homes bonos de la Mjama de 
la Terra Santa, Salud en el Dios de Israel. 

Aiarias voso home, Maeso en ley nos aduxo las cartas que vos 
nos embiavades, par las quales nos faziades saber cuemo passava 
la facienda del Prophcta N'azaret, que diz que facie muchas 
sennas. Colo por esta vila, nan ha mucho, un cierto Samuel, fil 
de Amacias, et fablo nusco, et reconto muchas bondades deste 
home, que ye, que es home homildoso et manso, qucfabla con los 
lageriados, quefaz a todos bien, e que faciendole a el mal, el non 
faz mal a ningucm ; et que es homefuerte con supcrbos et homes 
malos, et que vos malamente teniades enemiga con ele, por quanto 
en faz el descubria vosos pecados, ca por quanto facia esto, le 
aviades mala voluntad. Et perquirimos deste home, en que uno, 
vies dia, avianacido : et que nos lo dixesse: falamos que cl 
dia de la sua JVatividade foron vistos en estas partes tres soles 
viuelle a muelle, fizieron soldemente un sol ; et cuemo nosos padres 
cataroncsta senna, asmados dixeron que cedo el Messias naceria, 
et que por aventura eraja nacido. Catad hermanos si por aven- 
tura ha ja venido et non le ayades acatado. Relataba tambien 
el susodicho home, que el suopayle recoiitava, que ciertos Magos, 
homes de mucha sapiencia, en la sua JVatividade legaron a tierra 
santa, perquiriendo logar donde el nino sancto era nacido ; y que 
Herodes voso Rcy se asmo, et diposito junto a homes sabios de 
sua vila, e perqiiirio donde nasceria el Infante, por quien per- 
quirian Magos, et le respondieron, en Betlem de Juda, segun que 
Micheas depergino profeto. Et que dixeron aqueles Magos, que 
una estrclla de gran craredad, de lueune aduxo a tierra santa .- 
catad non sea esta qucla yrofezia, cataran Reyes, et andaran en 
craridad de la sua JVatividade. Otrosi, catad non persigades 
al queforades tenudos mucho honrar et recibir de hon talante. 
Mais fazed lo que tuvieres por bien aguisada ; nos vos deiimos 
que nin pur consejo, nin por noso alvedrio veniremos en consenti- 
miento de la sua morte. Ca, si nos esto fiziessemos, logo seria 
nuesco, que laprofezia que diz, congregaronse de consuno contra 
el Sennor, et contra el suo Messias. E damos vos este consejo, 
maguera sodes homes de muyta sapenga, que tengades grande 
aficamento sobre tamana fazienda, porque el Dios de Israel cno- 
jado con vusco, non destruya casa segunda de voso segundo 
iemplo. Ca sepades cierto, cedo ha de ser destruyda ; et por esta 
rason nosos antepassados, que salieron de captiverio de Baby- 
lonia, siendo suo Capitane Pyrro, que embio Rey Cyro, et aduxo 
nusco mmjtas riquegas que tollo de Babylonia el ano de sesenta et 
nueve de captividadc, et foron recebidos en Toledo de Gentiles 
que y moravan, et edijicaron una grande Alama, et non quisieron 
bolver a Jerusalem otra vegada a edificar Temple, aviendo ser 
destruido otra vegada. De Toledo catorze dias del mes JVisan, 
Era de Cesar diet y oclio, y de Augusta Octaviano setcnta y uno. 
— Sandoval, 71. 

Had Alonso been as zealous as some of his Gothic preae- 
cessors, or his most Catholic successors, he might have found 
a fair pretext in this letter for ordering all the Jews of Toledo 
to the font, unless they would show cause why they should 
ji adhere to the opinion of Caiaphas and the Jerusalem Jews, 
rather than to that of their own ancestors. 

General Valiancy believes that the Spanish Jews were 
brought into the Peninsula by Nebuchadnezzar, and admits 



these Toledans as authority. He quotes Count de Gebelin, 
and refers to Strabo and Ezekiel. The proof from Ezekiel 
rests upon the word Orb, Earb, Warb, or Gharb ; which is 
made into Algarve ! 

A Jew in Tirante el Blanco (p. 2, c. 74, f. 243) explains 
the diflference between the different races of Jews. They are 
three, he says. One, the progeny of those who took counsel 
for the death of Christ ; and they were known by this, that 
they were in continual motion, hands and feet, and never 
could rest ; neither could tlieir spirit ever be still, and they 
had very little shame. The second were the descendants of 
those who put in execution and assisted at the various parts 
of the sufferings and death of Christ, and they never could 
look any man in the face, nor could they, without great diffi- 
culty, ever look up to heaven. The third were the children 
of David, Vv-ho did all they could to prevent the death of 
Christ, and shut themselves up m the temple that they 
might not witness it. These are affable, good men, who love 
their neighbors 5 a quiet, peaceable race, who can look any 
where. 

Thomas Tamaio de Vargas, the editor of the spurious Luit- 
prand, says, that not only many Hebrew words are mixed with 
the old Spanish, hut that, p-o dolor! the black and stinking 
Jewish blood had been mingled with the most pure blood of 
the Spaniards, (p. 96.) Tliey were very anxious, he says, to 
intermarry, and spoil the pure blood. And he adds, that the 
Spaniards call them putos, quia putant. " But," says Sir 
Thomas Browne, " that an unsavory odor is gentilitious, or 
national to the Jews, we cannot well concede. And if, (ac- 
cording to good relations,) where they may freely speak it, 
they forbear not to boast that there are at present many thou- 
sand Jews in Spain, France, and England, and some dispensed 
withal even to the degree of priesthood, it is a matter very 
considerable, and could they be smelled out, would much ad- 
vantage not only the church of Christ, but also the coffers of 
princes. — The ground that begat or propagated this assertion 
might be the distasteful averseness of the Christian from the 
Jew upon the villany of that fact, which made them abomi- 
nable, and ' stink in the nostrils of all men.' Which real 
practice and metaphorical expression did after proceed into a 
literal construction, but was a fraudulent illation ; for such an 
evil savor their father Jacob acknowledged in himself, when 
he said his sons had made him stink in the land, that is, to be 
abominable unto the inhabitants thereof. Another cause is 
urged by Campegius, and much received by Christians ; that 
this ill savor is a curse derived upon them by Christ, and 
stands as a badge or brand of a generation that crucified their 
Salvator. But this is a conceit without all warrant, and an 
easy way to take off dispute in what point of obscurity soever." 
Vulgar Errors, Book iv. ch. 10. 

The Mahommedans also hold a like opinion of the unsavori- 
ness of the Jews, and account for it by this legend, which is 
given by Sale. " Some of the children of Israel abandoned 
their dwellings because of a pestilence, or, as others say, to 
avoid serving in a religious war ; but as they fled, God struck 
them all dead in a certain valley. About eight days or more 
after, when their bodies were corrupted, the Prophet Ezekiel 
happening to pass tliat way, at the sight wept ; whereupon 
God said to him, ' Call to them, O Ezekiel, and I will restore 
them to life.' And accordingly, on the prophet's call, they all 
arose, and lived several years after ; but they retained the 
color and stench of dead corpses as long as they lived, and the 
clothes they wore were changed as black as pitch, which 
qualities they transmitted to their posterity." 

One of our own travellers* tells us of a curious practical 
application of this belief in Barbary. " The Moors of Tan- 
gier," he says, " when they want rain, and have prayed in vain 
for it, set the Jews to work, saying, that though God would 
not grant it to the prayers of the faithful, he would to the 
Jews, in order to be rid of their stink." Ludicrous as this is, 
South has a passage concerning the Jews, which is little more 
reasonable, in one of his sermons. " The truth is," he says, 
" they were all along a cross, odd, untoward sort of people, 
and such as God seems to have chosen, and (as the Prophets 
sometimes phrase it) to have espoused to himself, upon the 
very same account that Socrates espoused Xantippe, only for 
her extreme ill conditions, above all that he could possibly find 
or pick out of that sex : and so the fittest argument both to 
* Hist, of the Captivity of Thomas Pellew, p. 257. 



712 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



exercise and declare his admirable patience to the world." — 
Vol. i. 421. 



^ yoke 
Of iron servitude oppressed and gaWd 
The children of the soil. — I. p. 649, col. 2. 

Of the condition of slaves under the Spanish Wisigoths, I 
have given an account in the Introduction to the Clironicle of 
the Cid. This also, like the persecution of the Jews, must 
greatly have facilitated the Moorish conquest. Another 
facilitating cause was, that notwithstanding their frequent 
civil disturbances, they had in great measure ceased to be a 
warlike people. The many laws in the Fuero Juzgo, for 
compelling men to military service, prove this. These laws 
are full of complaints that the people would avoid the service 
if they could. Habits of settled life seem throughout Europe 
to have effeminated the northern conquerors, till the Normans 
renovated the race, and the institutions of chivalry and the 
crusades produced a new era. 



Thou, Calpe, sawest their coming' .- ancient Rock 

RenowJi^d, no longer now shalt thou be calPd 

From Ouds and Heroes of the years of yore, 

Kronos, or hundred-handed Briareus, 

Bacchus, or Hercules ; but doom'd to bear 

Tlie name of thy new conqueror. — 1. p. 649, col. 2. 

Gibel-al-Tarif, the mountain of Tarif, is the received etymol- 
ogy of Gibraltar : Ben Hazel, a Granadan Moor, says ex- 
pressly, that the mountain derived its name from this general. 
Its former appellations may be seen in the Historia de Gib- 
raltar, by Don Ignacio Lopez de Ayala. The derivation of 
the word Calpe is not known : Florian de Ocampo identifies 
it with the English word galloping, in a passage which may 
amuse the Spanish scholar. " La segunda nombradia fue lla- 
marle Calpe, ciiya razon, segun dicen algunos, procedio de que 
los Andaluces ancianos en su lengua vieja solian llamar Calepas 
y Calpes a qualesquier cosas enhiestasy levantadas, agora fuesen 
penascos, o pizarras, o maderos, opiedras menores, como lo sig- 
nificamos en los diez y ocko capitulos precedentes -• y dicen que con 
estar alii junto de Gibraltar sobre S7is marinas el risco, queya 
dixe muy encumbrado y enhiesto, qual hoy dia parcce, lo llamaban 
Calpes aquellos Andaluces pasados -. y por su respecto la mesma 
poblacion vino tambicn a tener despues aquel propria nombre. JVo 
faltan otras pcrsonas que siguiendo las Escrituras Griegas pon- 
gan esta razon del nombre Calpes mucho diversamente, diciendo, 
que quando los cosarios Argonautas desembarcaron en Espana, 
ccrca del estrecho, segun ya lo declaramos, el tiempo que hacian 
sus exercicios arriba dichos, de saltos y luchas, y musicas acor- 
dadas, bien asi como los pastores Espanoles comarcanos recibian 
contcntamientos grande,mirado las talcs desenvoltur as yligerezas, 
no menos aquellos Griegos recien venidos notaban algunos juegos, 
dado que trabajosos y dificiles, que los mesmos pastores obraban 
entre si para su recreacion y deporte ; particularmente conside- 
raran un regocijo de caballos, donde cicrtos dias aplazados venian 
todos a sejuntar como para cosa de gran pundonor. 

" El qual regocijo hacian desta manera. Tomaban yeguas en 
pelo, quanta mas corredoras y ligeraspodian haher, y puestos ellos 
encima dcsnudos sin alguna ropa, ataban en las quixadas barbi- 
cachos de rama, torcidos y majados a manera de frcno, con que 
salian del pnesto dos a dos a la par cori-iejido lo mas que sus 
yeguas podian, para llegar a cierta senal de pizarras cnhiestas o 
de maderos hincados y Icvantados en fin de la carrera. Venidos 
al medio trccho de su corrida saltaban de las yeguas en tierra, no 
l-as purando ni dcteviendo .- y asi trabados por el barbicacho, 
corrian tamhien ellos a pie, sin las dexar, pucsto que mas furia 
llevasen ■. porque si las dczaban 6 se desprendian dellas, y no 
sustentaban elfreno continuamente, hasta scr pasada la carrera, 
perdian la reputation y las apuestas, quedando tan amenguados y 
vencidos, quanta quedaria triunfante quicn primero llegase con su 
yegua para tomar la presa que tenian en elfin de la carrera sobre 
las pizarras o maderos hincados. Quando saltaban de sus ye- 
guas, dicen que les iban hablando porque no se detuviesen, vocean- 
doles y diciendoles a menudo palabras animosos y dulces .- llama- 
banles pies hermosas, gcnerosas en el correr, casta real, hembras 
preciosas, acrecentadoras de sus honras, y mas otras razones 
muchas con que las tenian vezadas, a no se parar ni perder el 



impetu comenzado .• de manera que los tropeles en estepunto, los 
pundonores y regocijos de correr, y de no mostrar fioxedad era 
cosa macho de notar, asi por la parte de los hombres, como por 
parte de las yeguas. A los Griegos Argonautas les parecio juego 
tan varonil que muchas veccs lo probaron tambien ellos a 
revuelta de los Espanoles, como quiera que jamas pudieron tener 
aquella vigilancia ni ligereza, ni reciura que tenian estos otros 
para durar con sus yeguas. Y dado que las tales yeguas 
corriesen harto furiosas, y les ensenasen muchos dias antes 
a seguir estas parejas, quanta mcjor entendian a la verdad, 
ni las de los unos, ni las de los otros corrian tanto despues 
que saltaban dellas, como quando los traian encima .- y asi las 
palabras que los Griegos en aquella sazon puestos a pie hablaban 
eran tambien al mesmo proposito conformes a las de los Andaluces 
Espanoles en su lengua provincial, nombrandolas Calopes, Ca- 
lopes, Calopes a la contina, que fue palabra Griega, compuesta de 
dos vocablos .- UJio Calos, que significa cosa hermosa, ligera y 
agraciada .- otro Pus, que quiere decir pie, como qxie las llamascn 
pies agraciados, o pies desenvueltos y ligeros .- y par abreviar 
mas el vocablo,para que sus yeguas lo pudiesen mas presto sentir, 
acortabanlo con una letra menos en el medio, y en luga.r de nom~ 
brarlas Calopes, les deciam Calpes, que significa lo mesmo Ca- 
lopes : la qual palabra meparece dura todavia hasta nuestro siglo 
presente, donde pocas letras mudadas, por decir Calopes o Calpes, 
lo pronunciamos Galopes, quando los caballos y yeguas, o quales- 
quier otros animales, no corren a todo poder sino trote largo se- 
guido. Vino desto que las mesmas fiestas y manera del juego se 
nombraron Calpes .• dado que para conmigo bastara saber la vic- 
toria deste juego consistir en ligereza de pies, y por eso solo de- 
berse llamar Calopes a Calpe, sin anadir lo que hablaban a las 
yeguas, pues aquello primero comprehende bastantemente la razon 
deste vocablo. Pcro si todavia fue cierto que les decian aquellas 
quando corrian sus parejas, ninguna cosa dana dexar- 
aqui puestas." — Coronica General de Espana, c. 38. 



Famine and Pestilence had wasted them. — I. p. 650, col. 1. 

In the reign of Egica, Witiza's father, — plaga inguinalts 
immisericorditer illabitur. (Isid. Paccnsis.) And for two years 
before the Moorish invasion, — habia habido continua hambre y 
pestileiicia en Espana, con que se habian debilitado mucho los 
cuerpos, sin lo que el ocio las habia emflaquecido. — Morales, 12, 
69,5. 

St. Isidore, in his History of the Goths, distinctly describes 
the Northern Lights among the signs that announced the 
wars of Attila. " Multa eodem tempore caeli et terra signa prce- 
cesscrunt, quorum prodigiis tarn crudele bellum significaretur. 
JSTam, assiduis terrm motibus factis, a parte Orientis Lunafus- 
cata est, a solis occasu stella cometes apparuit, atque ingenti 
magnitudine aliquandiu fulsit. Ab aquilonis plaga coslum ru- 
bens, sicut ignis aut sanguis, effcctus est, permistis perigne- 
um ruborem lineis clarioribus in speciem hastarum rutilan- 
tium deformatis. JVec mirum., ut in tam ingenti cwsorum strage, 
divinitus tam multa signorum demonstraretur ostensio.^' — 
Espana Sagrada, t. vi. 491. 



And, worst of enemies, their Sins were arm'd 
Against them. — I. p. 650, col. 1. 

The following description of the state of the Christian 
world when the Saracens began their conquests, is taken from 
a singular manuscript, " where in the history of the Cruisades 
and of all the Mahommedan emperors from A. D. 558,, to 
A. D. 1588, is gathered out of the Chronikes of William 
Archbishop of Tyreus, the protoscribe of Palestine, of Basilius 
Jhohannes Heraldus, and sundry others, and reduced into a ] 
poem epike by Robert Barret, 1610." The author was an i 
old soldier, wliose language is a compound of Josuah Sylvester 
and King Cambyses, with a strong relish of Ancient Pistol. 

Now in this sin-flood age not only in East 
Did the impious imps the faithful persecute, 
But like affliction them pursued in West, 
And in all parts the good trod under foot ; 
For faith in some was cold, from others fled, 
And fear of God dislodged out human hearts ; 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 713 



Astrea flown to skies, and in her stead 

Iniquity enthronized5 in all parts 

Violence had vogue, and on satlianized earth 

Fraud, Miscliief, Murder martialled the Camp ; 

Sweet Virtue fled the field : Hope, out of breath 3 

And Vice, all-stainer, every soul did stamp ; 

So that it seem'd World drew to's evening tide, 

Nought else expecting but Christ's second coming; 

For Charity was cold on every side. 

And Truth and Trust were gone from earth a-mumming. 

All things confused ran, so that it seemed 

The World return would to his chaos old ; 

Princes the patli of justice not esteemed. 

Headlong with prince ran people young and old. 

All sainct confederations infringed. 

And for light cause would prince with prince enquarrel ; 

Countries bestreamed with blood, with fire besinged, 

All set to each, all murders sorts unbarrelled. 

No Avight his own could own ; 'twas current coin 

Each man to strip, provided he were rich. 

The church sacrileged, choir made cot for swine, 

And zealous ministers were made to scritche. 

Robbing was made fair purchase, murder manhood. 

And none secure by land ne sea could pass ; 

The humble, heartless, ireful hearts ran wood, 

Esteemed most who mischief most could dress ; 

All lubrick lusts shameless without comptroU 

Ran full career ; each would a rider be ; 

And Heaven's friend, all sainct Continency, 

Was banished quite : Lasciviousness did roll, 

Frugality, healthful Sobriety 

No place could find ; all parts enquartered were 

With Bacchus-brutes and Satyres-luxury. 

All lawless games bore sway., with blasphemes roare, 

'Twixt Clerk and Laick difference was none. 

Disguized all, phantastic out of norme ; 

But as the Prophet says, as Priests do run, 

So run the people, peevish in disform. 

The Bishops graded once, dumb dogs become. 

Their heads sin vyncting, flocks abandon soon ; 

Princes applauders, person-acceptors, 

The good's debarrers and the bad's abetters ; 

Fleshly all, all filthy simonized, 

Preferring profit 'fore the Eternal's praise. 

The church enschismed, court all atheized, 

The commons kankred, all all in distrayes ; 

The plotting politician's pate admired. 

Their skill consisting in preventions scull, 

Pathicks preferred, Cyprin ware desired. 

Ocean of mischiefs flowing moon-tide full : 

So that it seem'd that all flesh desperately 

Like wolf-scared sheep were plunged headlong down 

In pit of hell : puddled all pestfully 

The court, church, commons, province, city, town ; 

All haggards ; none reclaimed once could be, 

Ne by the word, the word 'bused by organs bad, 

Ne yet by signs that spotted chrystal sky, 

Ne other prodigies, presages sad. 

Neither gust shakings of this settled globe ; 

Neither sharpe pencil of war, famine, pest. 

Could once one ray engrave in steeled breast. 

Or Christians cause their sin-jagged robe disrobe. 

Thus stood the sad state of that sin-stain'd time, 
And Christians of this our all-zeal cold time. 
Let us now par'llel that time with our time, 
Our parallel'd time will parallel that time, 
Then triple-sainct, thou just geometer true, 
Our time not parallel by thy justice line, 
But with thy mercy's paralleling brow. 
Reform our crimeful Angles by grace thine. 



Eight summer days, from morn till latest eve. 
The fatal fight endured. — I. p. 650, col. L 

Ocho veces la lampara febea 

Salio alumbrando el mundo, y ocho veces 
La negra somhra de la noche fca 

90 



De la hma altcro las blancas teces ; 
Y tantos dlas la mortal pelea, 

El sol y las estrellas por jueces, 
En Espana duro, sin dxu-ar ella 
Mas en su libertad, que enfenecella. 

Balbuena, El Bernardo, t. ii. 275. 



RodcricWs royal car. — I. p. 650, col. 1. 

" Roderike, the first day after the battayle, observing the 
auncient guise of his countrey, came into the fielde apparailled 
in a gowne of beaten golde, having also on his head a crown 
of gold, and golden shoes, and all his other apparaile set with 
rich pearles and precious stones, ryding in a horse-litter of 
ivorie, drawne by two goodly horses ; which order the Goths 
used alwayes in battailes for this consideration, that the soul- 
diours, well-knowing their king could not escape away by 
fliglit from them, shuld be assured that there was none other 
way but either to die togither in that place, or else to winne 
the victorie ; for it had bene a thing most shamefull and re- 
proachful to forsake their prince and anoynted soveraigne. 
Which custome and maner many free confederate cities of 
Italic folowing, trimmed and adorned for tlie warres a certain 
chayre of estate, called Carocio, wherein were set the penons 
and ensigns of all the confederates ; this chayre, in battaile, 
was drawn by many oxen, wherby the whole hoast was given 
to understand that they could not with any honesty flie, by 
reason of the slow pace and unweldinesse of those heavie 
beasts." — A JVotable Historic of the Saracens, drawen out of 
Augustine Curio, and sundry other good Authours, By Thomas 
JVewton, 1575. 

En ruedas de marfil, envuelto en sedas, 

De oro lafrente orlada, y mas dispuesto 

Al triunfo y alfestin que a la pelea, 

El sucesor indigno de Alarico 

Llevo tras si la maldicion eterna. 

Ah ! yo la vi : la lid por siete dias 

Duro, mas nofue lid, f tie una sangrienta 

Carniceria : huyeron los cobardes 

Los traidores vendieron sus banderas, 

Los fuertes, los leales perecieron. — Q.uintana. 

The author of the chivalrous Chronicle of King Don Rod- 
rigo gives a singular description of this car, upon the authority 
of his pretended original Eleastras ; for he, " seeing that 
calamities went on increasing, and that the destruction of the 
Goths was at hand, thought that if things were to end as they 
had begun, it would be a marvel if there should be in Spain 
any king or lord of the lineage of the Goths after the death of 
King Don Rodrigo ; and therefore it imported much that he 
should leave behind him a remembrance of the customs of the 
Gothic kings, and of the manner in which they were wont to 
enter into battle, and how they went to war. And he says, 
that the king used to go in a car made after a strange fashion. 
The wheels of this car were made of the bones of elephants, 
and the axletree was of fine silver, and the perch was of fine 
gold. It was drawn by two horses, who were of great size 
and gentle ; and upon the car there was pitched a tent, so 
large that it covered the whole car, and it was of fine cloth of 
gold, upon which were wrought all the great feats in arms 
which had been achieved until that time 5 and the pillar of 
the tent was of gold, and many stones of great value were set 
in it, which sent forth such splendor, that by night there was 
no need of any other light therein. And the car and the 
horses bore the same adornments as the king, and these were 
full of pearls the largest which could be found. And in the 
middle of the car there was a seat placed against the pillar of 
the tent ; and this seat was of great price, insomuch that the 
value of it cannot be summed up, so many and so great were 
the stones which were set in it ; and it was wrought so subtly, 
and of such rare workmanship, that they who saw it marvelled 
thereat. And upon this seat the king was seated, being lifted 
up so high that all in the host, little or great, might behold 
him. And in this manner it was appointed that the king 
should go to war. And round about the car there were to go 
a thousand knights, who had all been knighted by the hand of 
the king, all armed ; and in the dtiy of battle they were to be on 



714 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



foot round about the car ; and all plighted homage to the king 
not to depart from it in any manner whatsoever, and that they 
would rather receive their death there, than go fiom their 
place beside the car. And the king had his crown upon liis 
head. And in this guise all the kings of the Gotlis, who had 
been lords of Spain, were to go to battle 5 and this custom 
they had all observed till the King Don Rodrigo ; but he, 
because of the great grief which he had in his heart, would 
never ascend tlie car, neither did he go in it into the battle." — 
Part i. c. 215. 

Entrd Rodrigo en la iatallaficra^ 
Armado en bianco dc un arnes dorado. 

El yelmo coronado de una esfcra 

Que en luzes vence al circulo estrellado ; 

En Unas ricas andas, d litcra 

Que al hijo de CUmcne despenado 

Enganaran mejor que el carro de oro 

De ygualpeligro, y de mayor tcsoro. 

La purpura real las arraas cuhre, 
El grave rostra en viagestad le bona. 

El ceptro por quien era le descuhre 
Rodrigo ultimo Godo Rey de Espana -. 

Mas de la suertc que en lluvioso Otubre 
Lo verde que le veste ya compana, 

Desnuda al olmo bianco, rompe y quiia 

Vulturno ayrado que al invieinio incita. 

Caen las hojas sobre el agua clara 
Que le banava el pie, y el ornamento 

Del tronco imita nuestra edad que para 
En su primer humilde fundamento •• 

Desierta queda lafrondosa vara, 

Sigue la rama, en remolino, al viento, 

Que la aparta del arbol, que saltea 

Su blanca, verde, y palida librea. 

Jlssi Rodrigo el miserable dia 

Ultimo de esta guerra desdichada, 
Quedo en el campo, donde ya tenia 

La magestad del ombro derribada .• 
Alii la rota purpura yazia 

Tenida en sangre, y en sudor vanada. 
Alii el verde laurel, y el ceptro de oro, 
Siendo el arbol su cuerpo, el viento el Moro. 
Lope de Vega. Jerusalen Conquistada, 1. vi, f. 136. 



Tliat helm 
Whose horns, amid the thickest of the fray 
Eminent, had marked his presence. — I. p. 650, col. 1. 

Morales describes this horned helmet from a coin. " Tiene 
de la una parte su rostro, harto diferente de los que en las otras 
Monedas de estas Reyes parecen. Tiene manera de estar armado, 
y salcnle por cima de la celada unas puntas como cucrnos peque- 
nos y derechos por ambos lados, que lo hacen estrano y espanta- 
fcZe." Florez has given this coin in his Medallas de Espana, 
from the only one which was known to be in existence, and 
which was then in the collection of the Infante D. Gabriel. 
It was struck at Egitania, the present Idana, and, like all the 
coins of the Visigoth kings, is of the rudest kind. The lines 
which Morales describes are sufficiently apparent, and if they 
arc not intended for horns, it is impossible to guess what else 
they may have been meant to represent. 

" These Gothic coins," says P. D. Jeronymo Contador de 
Argote, " have a thousand barbarisms, as well in their letters 
as in other circumstances. They mingle Greek characters 
with Latin ones ; and in what regards the relief or figure, 
nothing can be more dissimilar than the representation to the 
thing which it is intended to represent. I will relate what 
happened to me with one, however much D. Egidio de Albor- 
nos de Macedo may reprehend me for it in his Parecer Ana- 
thomico. Valerio Pinto de Sa, an honorable citizen of Braga, 
of whom, in various parts of these Memoirs, I have made 
well-deserved mention, and of whose friendship I have been 
proud ever since I have been in that city, gave me, some six 
or seven years ago, a gold coin of King Leovigildo, who was 



the first of the Gothic kings of Spain that coined money, for 
till then both Goths and Sueves used the Roman. I ex- 
amined it leisurely, and what I clearly saw was a cross on the 
one side upon some steps, and some ill-shaped letters around 
it J and on the reverse something, I knew not what: It seemed 
to me like a tree, or a stake which shot out some branches : 
Round about were some letters, more distinct; I could not, 
however, ascertain what they signified. It happened about 
that time that I had the honor of a visit from the most illus- 
trious Sr. D. Francisco de Almeida, then a most worthy 
Academician of the Royal Academy, and at present a most de- 
serving and eminent Principal of the Holy Patriarchal Church. 
He saw this coin, and he also was puzzled by the side which 
represented what I called a tree. He asked me to lend it 
him, that he might examine it more at leisure. He took it 
away, and after some days returned it, saying, that he had 
examined it with a microscope, and that what I had taken 
for a stake was without question the portrait of King Leovi- 
gildo. I confess that I was not yet entirely satisfied : how- 
ever, I showed it afterwards to divers persons, all of whom 
said they knew not what the said figure could be ; but when 
I desired them to see if it could be this portrait, they all 
agreed that it was. This undeceived me, and by looking" at 
the coin in every possible light, at last I came to see it also, 
and acknowledge the truth with the rest. And afterwards 
I found in the Dialogues of Antonio Agostinho, treating of 
these Gothic coins, that there are some of such rude workman- 
ship, that where a face should be represented, some represent a 
pitcher, and others an urn." — Memorias de Braga, t. iii. p. lix. 



He bade the river bear the name of Joy. — I. p. 650, col. 1. 

Guadalete had been thus interpreted to Florez. (Espana 
Sagrada, t. 9, p. 53.) Earlier writers had asserted (but :\ 
without proof) that the Ancients called it Lethe, and the i 
Moors added to these names their word for river. Lope de \ 
Vega alludes to this opinion : 

Siempre lamentable Ouadalete 

Que llevo tanta sangre al mar de Espana, 

Si por olvido se llamava el Lete 

Trueque este nombre la vitoria estrana, 

Y llamase memoria deste dia 

En que Espana perdio la que tenia. 

Que por donde d la mar entrava apenas 

Diferenciando el agua, ya se via 
Con roxo humor de las sangrientas venas 

Por donde le cortava y dividia : 
Oran tiempo conservaron sus arenas 
( Ypienso que ha llegado a la edad mia) 
Reliquias del estrago y piedras echas 
Armas, hierros de lanza y defiechas. 

Jerusalen Conquistada, 1. vi. ff. 136. 

The date of the battle is given with grandiloquous circum-, 
stantiality by Miguel de Barrios. 

Salio la tercer alva del tonante 

JVoviembre, convestido nebuloso, 
sobre el alado bruto que al brillante 

carro, saca del pielago espumoso ; 
y en elfrio Escorpion casa rotante 

delfiero Marte, el Astro luminoso 
al son que compasso sus plantas sueltas 
dio setecientas y catorte bueltas. 

Coro de las Musas, p. 100- 

He states the chronology of Pelayo's accession in the same | 
taste. 

Era el pontificado del Segundo 

Oregorio ; Emperador Leon Tercero 
del docto Qriego ; y del Persiano inmundo, 

Zuleyman Miramamolin guerrero ; 
y de Daphne el amante rubicundo 

surcava el mar delfulgido Camera 
sietecientas y diet y echo veies, 
dexando el puerto de los aureos Pesces. 

Coro de las Musas, p. 102 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 715 



The arrows passed him by to right and left. — I. p. 650, col. 1. 

The French Jesuits relate of one of their converts in Cana- 
da i Hurun, by name Jean Armand Andeouarahen, that 
once estaiit en guerre escUauf'e an combat, il s^enfunga si avant 
dans les darts et les flechcs des ennanis, qu^il fut ahandonne dcs 
siens dans le plas fort de la rneslee. Ce fat alors quHl se rc- 
commenda plus particuliirement d Dieu : il sentit pour lors un 
secours si present, que da depuis, appuye sur cette mesme con- 
fiance, il est toiijuurs le •premier et le plus avant dans les pei-ils, 
et jamais ne paid, pour quclque danger qii^il envisage. Je voyois, 
disoit-il, comme une gresle de fleches venir fondre sur moy ; je 
n'avois point d'' autre boucUer pour les arrester, que la croyance 
seule qtie Dieu disposant de ma vie, il en feroit selon sa volovte. 
Clioso etrange ! les fleches s'ecartoient k mes deux costez, 
ainsi, disoit-il, que fait I'eau lors qu'clle rencontre la pointe 
d'un vaisseau qui va contre maree. — Relation de la J\r. France, 
1642, p. 129. 

He found himself on Ana''s banks, 

Fast by the Caulian schools. — I. p. 651, col. 1. 

The site of this monastery, which was one of the most 
flourishing seminaries of tliat age, is believed to have been two 
leagues from Merida, upon the Guadiana, where tlie Erniida, 
or Chapel of Cubillana, stands at present, or was standing a 
few years ago. The legend, from which I have taken such 
circumstances as might easily have happened, and as suited my 
plan, was invented by a race of men who, in the talent of in- 
vention, have left all poets and romancers far behind them. 
Florez refers to Brito for it, and excuses himself from relating 
it, because it is not necessary to his* subject; — in reality 
he neither believed the story, nor chose to express his objec- 
tions to it. His disbelief was probably founded upon the sus- 
picious character of Brito, who was not at that time so de- 
cidedly condemned by his countrymen as he is at present. I 
give the legend from this veracious Cistercian. Most of his 
other fabrications have been exploded, but this has given rise 
to a popular and fashionable idolatry, which still maintains its 
ground. 

" The monk did not venture to leave him alone in that dis- 
consolate state, and taking him apart, besought him by the 
passion of Jesus Christ to consent that they twain should go 
together, and save a venerable image of the Virgin Mary our 
Lady, which in that convent flourished with great miracles, 
and had been brought from the city of Nazareth by a Greek 
monk, called Cyriac, at such time as a heresy in the parts of 
the East arose against the use and veneration of images ; and 
with it a relic of the Apostle St. Bartholomew, and another of 
St. Bras, which were kept in an ivory coffer, for it would be 
a great sacrilege to leave them exposed to tlie ill treatment of 
barbarians, who, according to public fame, left neither temple 
nor sacred place which they did not profane, casting the images 
into the fire, and dragging them at their horses' tails for a 
greater opprobrium to the baptized people. The King, seeing 
himself thus conjured by the passion of our Redeemer Jesus 

I Christ, in whom alone he had consolation and hope of remedy, 
and considering the piety of the thing in which he was chosen 
for companion, let himself be overcome by his entreaties ; and 
taking in his arms the little image of our Lady, and Romano 
the coff'er with the relics, and some provision for the journey, 
they struck into the middle of Portugal, having their faces 
alway towards the west, and seeking the coast of the ocean sea, 
because in those times it was a land more solitary, and less 
frequented by people, where they thought the Moors would 

i not reach so soon, because, as there were no countries to con- 

k quer in those parts, there was no occasion which should load 
them thither. Twenty-and-six days the two companions trav- 
elled without touching at any inhabited place, and after endur- 
in::;; many difficulties in crossing mountains and fording rivers, 
they had sight of the ocean sea on the 22d of November, being 

> the day of the Virgin Martyr St. Cecilia ; and as if in that 
olace they should have an end of their labors, they took some 
:omfort, and gave thanks to God, for that he had saved them 
mm the hand of their enemies. The place which they 
eached is in the Coutos of Alcobaca, near to where we now 
;cc the town of Pederneira, on the eastern side of which there 

* Espana Sagrada, t. xiii. p. 242. 



rises, in the midst of certain sands, a hill of rock and firm land, 
somewhat prolonged from north to south, so lofty and well 
proportioned that it seemeth miraculously placed in that site, 
being surrounded on all sides with plains covered with sand, 
without height or rock to wliich it appears connected. And 
forasmuch as the manner thereof draws to it the eyes of who- 
soever beholds this work of nature, the king and the monk 
desired to ascend the height of it, to see whether it would 
affbrd a place for them in which to pass their lives. They 
found there a little hermitage with a holy crucifix, and no 
other signs of man, save only a plain tomb, without writing or 
epitaph to declare whose it might be. The situation of the 
place, which, ascending to a notable height, gives a prospect 
by spa and by land as far as the eyes can reach, and the sudden 
sight of the crucifix, caused in the mind of the king such ex- 
citement and so great consolation, that, embracing the loot of 
the cross, he lay there melting away in rivers of tears, not now 
of grief for the kingdoms and dominions which he had lost, 
but of consolation in seeing that in exchange the crucified 
Jesus himself had in this solitary mountain ottered himself to 
him, in whose company he resolved to pass the remainder of 
his life ; and this he declared to the monk, who, to content 
him, and also because he saw that the place was convenient 
for contemplation, ap[)rovcd the king's resolve, and abode there 
with him some days ; during which, perceiving some incon- 
venience in living upon the summit of the mountain, from 
whence it was necessary to descend with much labor, when- 
ever they would drink, or seek for herbs and fruits for their 
food ; and moreover, understanding that it was the king's de- 
sire to remnin there alone, that he might vent himself in tears 
and exclamations, which he made oftentimes before the image 
of Christ, he went with his consent to a place little more than 
a mile from the mountain, which being on the one side smooth 
and of easy approach, hangs on the other over the sea with so 
huge a precipice that it is two hundred fathoms in perpendicu- 
lar height, from the top of the rock to the water. There, be- 
tween two great rocks, each of which projects over the sea, 
hanging suspended from the height in such a form, that they 
seem to threaten destruction to him who sees them from the 
beach, Romano found a little cave, made naturally in the cliff, 
which he enlarged with some walls of loose stone, built up 
with his own hands, and having thus made a sort of hermitage, 
he placed therein the imuge of the Virgin Rlary of Nazareth, 
whicli he had brought from the Caulinean convent, and which 
being small, and of a dark color, with tlie infant Jesus in its 
arms, hath in the countenance a certain perfection, with a 
modesty so rem irkable, that at first sight it presents sometliing 
miraculous j and having been known and venerated so great a 
number of years, during many of wliich it was in a place which 
did not protect it from the injuries of weather, it hath never 
been painted, neither hath it been found necessary to renew it. 
The situation of this hermitage was, and is now, within sight 
of the mountain where the king dwelt ; and though the me- 
morials from whence I am deriving the circumstances of these 
events do not specify it, it is to be believed that they often saw 
each other, and held such divine communion as their mode of 
life and the holiness of the place required ; especially consid- 
ering the great temptations of the Devil which the king suffered 
at the beginning of his penitence, for which the counsels and 
instructions of the monk would be necessary, and the aid of 
his prayers, and the presence of the relics of St. Bartholomew, 
which miraculously saved him many times from various illu- 
sions of the enemy. And in these our days there are seen upon 
the top of the mountain, in the living rock, certain human foot- 
steps, and others of a different farm, which the common people, 
without knowing the person, affirm to be the footsteps of St. 
Bartholomew and the Devil, who was there defeated and his 
illusions confounded by the saint, coming in aid of a devout 
man who called upon him in the force of his tribulation. This 
must have been the king, (though the common people know it 
not,) whom the saint thus visibly aided, and he chose that for 
a memorial of this aid, and of the power which God has given 
him over the evil spirits, these marks should remain impressed 
upon the living rock. And the ancient name of the mountain 
being Seano, it was changed into that of the Apostle, and is 
called at present St. Bartholomew's ; and the hermitage which 
remains upon the top of it is under the invocation of the same 
saint and of St. Bras, which must have arisen from the relics 
of these two saints that Romano brought with him aad left 



716 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



with the king for his consolation, when he withdrew with the 
image of Our Lady to the place of which we have spoken, 
where he lived little more than a year ; and then knowing the 
time of his death, he communicated it to the king, beseeching 
him that, in requital for the love with which he had accom- 
panied him, he would remember to pray to God for his soul, 
and would give his body to the earth, from which it had 
sprung ; and that having to depart from that land, lie would 
leave there the image and the relics, in such manner as he 
should dispose them before he died. With that Romano de- 
parted to enjoy the reward deserved by his labors, leaving 
the king with fresh occasion of grief for want of so good a com- 
panion. Of what more passed in this place, and of the temp- 
tations and tribulations which he endured till the end of his 
life, there is no authentic historian, nor memorial which should 
certify them, more than some relations mingled with fabulous 
tales in the ancient Chronicle of King Don Rodrigo, where, 
among the truths which are taken from tlie Moor Rasis, there 
are many things notoriously impossible ; such as the journey 
which the king took, being guided by a white cloud till he 
came near Viseo ; and the penance in which he ended his life 
there, enclosing himself alive in a certain tomb with a serpent 
which he had bred for that purpose. But as these are things 
difficult to believe, we will pass them over in silence, leaving 
to the judgment of the curious the credit which an ancient 
picture deserves, still existing near Viseo, in the church of 
St. Michael, over the tomb of the said King Don Rodeiick, in 
which is seen a serpent painted with two heads ; and in the 
tomb itself, which is of wrought stone, a round hole, through 
which they say that the snake entered. That which is certain 
of all this is, as our historians relate, that the king came to 
this place, and in the hermitage of St. Michael, which we now 
see near Viseo, ended his days in great penance, no man 
knowing the manner thereof^ neither was there any other 
memorial clearer than that in process of time a writing was 
found upon a certain tomb in this church with these words : 

HiC REQVIESCIT RUDERICUS ULTIMUS ReX GoTHORUM, 

Here rests Roderick, the last King of the Goths. I remember 
to have seen these very words written in black upon an arch 
of the wall, which is over the tomb of the king, although the 
Archbishop Don Rodrigo, and they who follow him, give a 
longer inscription, not observing that all which he has added 
are his own curses and imprecations upon Count Don Julian, 
(as Ambrosio de Morales has properly remarked, following the 
Bishop of Salamanca and others,) and not parts of the same 
inscription, as they make them. The church in which is the 
tomb of the king is at present very small, and of great anti- 
quity, especially the first chapel, joined to which on either side 
is a cell of the same length, but narrow, and dark also, having 
no more hght than what enters through a little window open- 
ing to the east. In one of these cells (that which is on the 
south side) it is said that a certain hermit dwelt, by whose 
advice the king governed himself in the course of his penance ; 
and at this time his grave is shown close to the walls of the 
chapel, on the Epistle side. In the other cell (which is on 
the north) the king passed his life, paying now, in the strait- 
ncss of that place, for the largeness of his palaces, and the 
liberties of his former life, whereby he had otfended his 
Creator. And in the wall of the chapel which answers to the 
Gospel side, there remains a sort of arch, in which the tomb 
is seen, wherein are his bones ; and it is devoutly visited by 
the natives, who believe that through his means the Lord 
does miracles there upon persons atflicted with agues and other 
like maladies. Under the said arch, in the part answering to 
it in the inside of the cell, I saw painted on the wall the her- 
mit and the king, with the serpent with two heads, and I read 
the letters which are given above, all defaced by time, and 
bearing marks of great antiquity, yet so that they could dis- 
tinctly be seen. The tomb is flat, and made of a single stone, 
in which a man's body can scarcely find room. When I saw 
it it was open, the stone which had served to cover it not being 
there, neither the bones of the king, which they told me had 
been carried into Castillo some years before, but in what 
manner they knew not, nor by whose order ; neither could I 
discover, by all the inquiries which I made among the old 
people of that city, who had reason to be acquainted with a 
thing of so much importance, if it were as certain as some of 
them affirmed it to be." — Brito, Monarchia Lusitania, P. ii. 
1. 7, c. 3. 



" The great venerableness of the Image of our Lady of 
Nazareth which the king left hidden in the very place where 
Romano in his lifetime had placed it, and the continual miracle 
which she showed formerly, and still shows," induced F. Ber- 
nardo de Brito to continue the jiistory of this Image, which, 
no doubt, he did the more willingly because he bears a part in - 
it himself. In the days of Affonso Henriquez, the first king 
of Portugal, this part of the country was governed by D. Fuas 
Roupinho, a knight famous in the Portuguese chronicles, who 
resided in the castle at Porto de Mos. This Dom Fuas, 
" when he saw the land secure from enemies, used often to go 
out hmiting among the sands and thickets between the town 
and the sea, where, in those days, there used to be great store 
of game, and even now, though the land is so populous, there 
is still some ; and as he followed this exercise, the proper pas- 
time of noble and spirited men, and came sometimes to the 
sea-shore, he came upon that remarkable rock, which, being 
level on the aide of the north, and on a line with the flat 
country, ends towards the south in a precipice over the waves 
of the sea, of a prodigious height, causing the greater admira- 
tion to him who, going over the plain country without finding 
any irregularity, finds himself, when least expecting it, sud-i 
denly on the summit of such a height. And as he was curi-1 
ously regarding this natural wonder, he perceived between the 
two biggest cliffs which stand out from the ground and project 
over the sea, a sort of house built of loose stones, which, from 
its form and antiquity, made him go himself to examine it ; 
and descending by tlie chasm between the two rocks, he en- 
tered into a low cavern, where, upon a little altar, he saw the 
venerable Image of the Virgin Mary of Nazareth, being of 
such perfection and modesty as are found in very few images 
of that size. The Catholic knight venerated it with all sub- 
mission, and would have removed it to his castle of Porto de 
Mos, to have it held in more veneration, but that he feared tc 
offend it if he should move it from a habitation where it had 
abode for so many years. This consideration made him leave 
it for the present in the same place and manner in which he 
found it ; and although he visited it afterwards when in course 
of the chase he came to those parts, nevertheless he never tool 
in hand to improve the poor hermitage in which it was, noi 
would he have done it, if the Virgin had not saved him froir 
a notorious danger of death, which, peradventure, God per- 
mitted as a punishment for his negligence, and in this mannei 
to make the virtue of the Holy Image manifest to the world. 
It was thus, that going to his ordinary exercise of the chase 
in the month of September, in the year of Christ 1182, ant 
on the 14th of the month, being the day on wliich the churcl 
celebrates the festival of the Exaltation of the Cross upon the 
which Christ redeemed the human race, as the day rose tlncl 
with clouds, which ordinarily arise from the sea, and tht 
country round about could not be seen by reason of the clouds 
save for a little space, it befell that the dogs put up a stag, (ii 
indeed it were one,) and Dom Fuas pressing his horse in pur 
suit, without fear of any danger, because he thought it wai 
all plain ground, and the mist hindered him from seeing when 
he was, found himself upon the very edge of the rock on th( 
precipice, two hundred fathoms above the sea, at a momen 
when it was no longer in his power to turn the reins, no 
could he do any thing more than invoke the succors of th( 
Viro-in Mary, whose image was in that place ; and she sue 
cored him in such a manner, that less than two palms fron 
the edge of the rock, on a long and narrow point thereof, thi 
horse stopped as if it had been made of stone, the marks of hi: 
hoofs remaining in proof of the miracle imprinted in the livinj 
rock, such as at this day they are seen by all strangers am 
persons on pilgrimage, who go to visit the Image of Ou 
Lady ; and it is a notable thing, and deserving of serious con 
sideration, to see that in the midst of this rock, upon whicl 
the miracle happened, and on the side towards the east, andi: 
a part where, because it is suspended in the air, it is not pes 
sible that any human being could reach, Nature herself ha 
impressed a cross as if nailed to the hardness of the rock, a 
though she had sanctified that cliff therewith, and marked i 
witli^that holy sign, to be the theatre in which the miracu 
lous circumstance was to be celebrated ; which, by reason tha 
it took place on the day of the Exaltation of the Cross, seemei 
as if it showed the honor and glory which should from thenc 
redound to the Lord who redeemed us thereon. Dom Fuas 
seeing himself delivered from so great danger, and knowift 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 737 



from whence the grace had come to liim, went to the little 
hermitage, where, with that great devotion which the presence 
of the miracle occasioned, he gave infinite thanks to Our Lady, 
accusing liimself heforc hnr of having neglected to repair the 
house, and promising all the amends \vhicli his possibility per- 
mitted. His huntsmen afterwards arrived, following the track 
of tlie horse, and knowing the marvel which had occurred, 
they prostrated themselves before the Image of Our Lady, 
adding with their astonishment to the devotion of Dom Fuas, 
who, hearing that the stag liad not been seen, and that the 
dogs had found no track of him in any part, though one had 
been represented before him to draw him on, understood that 
it was an illusion of the Devil, seeking by that means to make 
him perish miserably. All these considerations enhanced the 
greatness of the miracle, and the obligations of Dom Fuas, 
who, tarrying there some days, made workmen come from 
Leyria and Porto de Mos, to make another iiermitage, in 
which the Lady should be more venerated ; ahd as they were 
demolishing the first, they found phiced between the stones of 
the altar a little box of ivory, and within it relics of St. Bras, 
St. Bartholomew, and other Sciints, with a parclmient, wherein 
a relation was given of how and at what time those relics 
and the image were brought there, according as has been 
aforesaid, A vaulted chapel was soon made, after a good 
form for times so ancient, over the very place where the Lady 
had been ; and to the end that it might be seen from all 
sides, they left it open with four arches, which in process of 
time were closed, to prevent the damage which the rains 
and storms did within the chapel, and in this manner it remains 
in our days. The Lady remained in her place, being soon 
known and visited by the faithful, who flocked there upon 
tlie fame of her appearance : the valiant and holy king D. Af- 
fonso Ilenriquez, being one of the first whom Dom Fuas ad- 
vised of what had happened, and he, accompanied with the 
great persons of his court, and with his son, D. Sancho, came 
to visit the Image of the Lady, and see with his own eyes the 
marks of so rare a miracle as that which had taken place ; and 
with his consent, D. Fuas made a donation to tlie Lady of a 
certain quantity of land round about, which was at that time 
a wild tliickot, and for the greater part is so still, being well 
nigh all wild sands incapable of giving fruit, and would pro- 
duce nothing more than heath and some wild jtine-trees. And 
because it establishes the truth of all that I have said, and 
relates in its own manner the history of the Image of the 
Lady, I will place it here in the form in which I saw it in the 
Record Room at Alcoba^a, preserving throughout the Latin 
and the barbarism of its composition ; which is as follows : — 
" Sub noviine Patrls, nee non et ejus prolis, in unius potcntia 
Deitatis, incipit carta donationis, vccnun et devutionis, quam ego 
Fuas Ropinho tenens Porto de Mos, et terram de Alhardos usque 
Leirenam, et Turres Veteres, facio Ecdesix Santce Maria de 
JVazareth, quoe de pauco tempore surgit fundnta super mare, uhi 
de scBcuUs antiquis jacebat, inter lapides et spinas miihas, de tota 
ilia tci-ra quce jacet inter fiumina quae venit per Mcouhaz, et 
I aqnam nuncupatum de furaturio, et dividitur de isto modo : de 
I illafoi deflumine Alcobaz, quomodo vad.it per aquas bellas, deinde 
1 inter mare et mata dc Patayas usque ; finir in ipso f uraturia, 
i quam ego ohtinui de rege Alfonso, et per suum consensum facio 

* prasentcm serieni ad prwdiclam Ecclesiam Beatm Marice Vlr- 

• ginis, quam feci supra mare, ut in sceculis perpetuis mcmorentur 
mirabiUa Dei, et sit notum omnibus hominibus, quomodo a morte 

\fuerim sal'jatus per pietatem Dei et Beatee Marice quam vocant de 

\ JVaiaret, tali sucesu. Cum mancrem in castro Porto de Mos, et 

<'• inde veniebam ad ocidendns venatos, per Melvam et matam de 

1 Patayas usque ad mare, supra quam inveni furnam, et parvam 

I domunculam inter arbustas et vepres, in qua erat una Imago Vir- 

ginis Mariae, et veneravimus illam, et abivimus inde ; veni deinde 

xviii kal. Oc.tnbris, circa dictum locum, cum magna obscuratione 

nebula sparza super totam terram, et invenimus venatum, ti-es 

quern, fui in meo equo, usque venirem ad esbarrondadeiro supra 

mare, quod cadit ajuso sine mensura hominis et pavet visus si 

cemit furnam cudenlem ad aquas. Pavi ego miser peccator, et 

venit ad remembrancam de imagine ibi posita, et magna voce dixi, 

Sancta. Maria val. Benedicia sit ilia in mulieribus, quia 

meum equum sicut si esset lapis fecit stare, pedibus fijcis in lapide, 

et erat jam vaiatus extra terram in punta de saxo super mare. 

1} Descendi de equo, et veni ad locum uhi erat imago, et ploravi et 

gratias fed, et veneruvt monteiros et viderunt, et laudaverunt 

Deum et Bcuiam Mariam; Misi homines per Leirenam et Porto 



de Mos, et per loca vicina, ut venirent Alvanires, et facer ent ec- 
clesiam bono opere npcratam defornice et lapide, et jam laudetur 
DeiLS finita est. JVos vero non sciebamus unde esset, et unde 
venisset ista imago ; sed ecce cum destruehatur altare per Alva- 
nires, inventa est urcula de ebore antiquo, et in ilia uno envoltorio 
in quo erant os.sa aliquoram sanctorum, et cartula cum hac in- 
scriptione .- Hie sunt reliquice Sanctorum Blasii et Bartholomei 
ApostoU, quas dctulit a Monasterio Cauliniana Romanus mona- 
chus, simul cum venerabili Imagine Virginis Marice de JVazareth, 
qu(B olim in J^aiareth Cicitute QalUlece multis miraculis clarue- 
rut, et inde asporiata per OrcEcum monachum nomine Cyriacum, 
Gothorum Regum tempore, in prwdicto monasterio per multum 
tempoJ'is manserat, quo usque Hispania a Mauns debelata, et 
Rex Rodericus superatus in prcelio, solus, lacrymabilis, abjectus, 
et pcne defficiens pervenit ad prufatum monaslcrium Cauliniana, 
ibique a pruedicto Romano pacnitentia; et Eucharistia; Sacrainentis 
susccptis, pariter cum illo, cum imagine, et reliquiis ad Seanum 
montem pervenerunt 10 kal. Decemb. in quo rex solus per annum 
integrum pcrmansit, in Ecclesia ibi inventa cum Christi crucijixi 
imagine, el igjioto sepulchro. Romanus vero cum hac Sacra Vir- 
ginis effigie inter duo ista saxa, usque ad extremum vita pcr- 
mansit ; et ne faturis temporihus aliquem ignorantia teneat, hcBC 
cum reliquiis sacris in hac extremm orbis parte recondimus. Deus 
ista omnia a Maurorum manibus servet. Amen. De his lectis 
et a Presbytcris apertis satis multum sumus gavisi, quia nomen 
de Sanctis reliquiis, et de Virgine scivimus, et ut memorentur per 
semper in ista serie testamenti scribcre fecimus. Do igitur prce- 
dictam hcereditatem pro reparation e prefataa EcclesicB cum pascuis, 
et aquis, de monte infontc,ingressibus et regrcssibus, quantum a 
prestitum hominis est, et illam in mclhiorato foro aliqvis potest 
habere per se. Jfe igitur aliquis homo de nostrisvel de estraneis 
hoc factum nostrum ad irrumpendum veniat, quod si tentaverit 
peche ad dominum teii-a trecentos marabitinos, et carta nihil- 
ominus in sua robore permaneat, et insuper sedcat excommunicatus 
et cum Juda proditore pxnas luat damnatorum. Facta series 
testamenti vi Idus Decemb. era M,CLXX, Alfonsus Portugalia: 
Rex confirm. Sancius Rex confirm. Regina Dona Tarasia 
confirm. Petrus Fernandez, regis Sancii dapifcr confirm. Me- 
ncndus Ounsalui, ejusdem signifer confirm. Donus .Toannes 
Fernandez curia regis maiordomus confirm. Donus Julianus 
Cancellarius regis confirm. Martinus Gonsalui Pretor Colim- 
hria confirm, Petrus Omariz Capellanus regis confirm. Me- 
nendus Abbas confirm. Theotonius conf. Feiiiandus J^Tunii, 
testis. Egeas J^Tuniz, testis. Dn Tela, testis. Petrus J^Tuniz, 
testis. Fernandus Vermundi, testis. Lucianus Prasbyter 
notavit.'" 

This deed, which establishes all the principal facts that 1 
have related, did not take eflTect, because the lands of which 
it disposed were already part of the Coutosoi Alcoba^a, which 
King Don AfFonso had given some years before to our father 
St. Bernard ; and Dom Fuas compensated for them with cer- 
tain properties near Pombal, as is proved by another writing 
annexed to the former, but which I forbear to insert, as apper- 
taining little to the thread of my history ; and resuming the 
course thereof, you must know, that the image of the Virgin 
Mary of Nazareth remained in the chapel which Dom Fuas 
made for it, till the year of Christ 1377, in the which. King 
Dom Fernando of Portugal founded for it the house in which 
it now is, having been enlarged and beautified by dueen Dona 
Lianor, wife of King Dom Joam IL, and surrounded with 
porticoes by King Dom Blanoel. And now in our times a 
chapel (Capela mor) of good fabric has been built, with vol- 
untary contributions, and the rents of the brotherhood ; and in 
the old hermitage founded by Dom Fuas I., with the help 
of some devout persons, had another chapel opened under 
ground, in order to discover the very rock and cavern in which 
the Holy Image had been hidden so great a number of years ; 
there is a descent to it by eight or ten steps, and a notable 
consolation it is to those who consider the great antiquity of 
that sanctuary. And for that the memory of things so re- 
markable ought not to be lost, I composed an inscription brief- 
ly recounting the whole : and Dr. Ruy Louren^o, who was 
then Provedor of the Comarca of Leyria, and visitor of the 
said church for the king, ordered it to be engraven in marble. 
It is as follows — 

" Sacra Virginis Maria veneranda Imago, a Monasterio Cau- 
liniana prope Emeritam, quo Guthorum tempore, a JK'azareth 
translata, miraculis claruerat, in gen.erali Hispania clade, Ann. 
Dni. DCCXIIII. a Romano monacho, comite, vtfertur, Rods 



718 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



rico Rege, ad hanc extremam orbis partem adducitur, in qua dum 
units moritur, alter irroficiscitar, per CCCCLXIX. annos inter 
duo hcBc prcBrupta saxa sub parvo delituit tugurio .- delude a Fua 
Ropiiiio, Partus Molarum dace, anno Domini MCLXXXII, 
{ut ipse in donatione testatur) inveiita, dwit incaute agitato equo 
fugacem,fictumque forte, insequitur cervum, ad ultimumqiie lin- 
mauis hajus prcecipitii caneum,jamjam rulturus accedlt, nomine 
Virglius iiivocato, a rulna, et mortis faucibus ereptus, hoc ei 
p7-ius dedlcat sacellum ; tandem a Ferdlnando Portugalice Rege, 
ad majus aliud templum, quod ipse afandamentis ere.cerat trans- 
fertur. ^nn. Domini MCCCLXXVII. Vlrglnl et perpctii- 
itatl. D. D. F. B. D. B. ex voto." 

From these things, taken as faithfully as I possibly could 
from the deed of gift and from history, we see clearly the great 
antiquity of the sanctuary, since it is 893 years since the 
Image of the Lady was brought to the place where it now is ; 
and although we do not know the exact year in which it was 
brought from Nazareth, it is certain at least that it was before 
King Recaredo, who began to reign in the year of Christ 586; 
so that it is 1021 years, a little more or less, since it came to 
Spain; and as it came then, as one well known, and cele- 
brated for miracles in the parts of the East, it may well be 
understood that this is one of the most famous and ancient 
Images, and nearest to the times of the apostles, that the 
world at present possesses. — Brito Monarchia Lusitana, p. 2, 
1. 7, c. 4. 

This legend cannot have been invented before Emanuel's 
reign, for Duarte Galavam says nothing of it in his Chronicle 
of Affonso HenriqueZ) though he relates the exploits and death 
of D. Fuas Roupinho. I believe there is no earlier authority 
for it than Bernardo de Brito himself. It is one of many ar- 
ticles of the same kind from the great manufactory of Alco- 
ba^a, and is at this day as firmly believed by the people of 
Portugal as any article of the Christian faith. How indeed 
should they fail to believe it ? I have a print — it is one of the 
most popular devotional prints in Portugal — which represents 
the miracle. The diabolical stag is flying down the precipice, 
and looking back with a wicked turn of the head, in hopes of 
seeing Dom Fuas follow him ; the horse is rearing up with his 
hind feet upon the brink of the precipice ; the knight has 
dropped his hunting-spear, his cocked hat is fulling behind him, 
and an exclamation to the Virgin is coming out of his mouth. 
The Virgin with a crown upon her head, and the Babe with a 
crown upon his, at her breast, appear in the sky amidst clouds 
of glory. JV. iS. de JVazare is wrilten above this precious 
print, and this more precious information below it, — 0. Emo 
Snr. Cardeal Patriarcha concede 50 dias de Indulga. a qm. rezar 
huTna have Ma. dlante desta Image. His Eminency the Cardi- 
nal Patriarch grants fifty days indulgence to whosoever shall 
say an Ave-Maria before this Image. The print is included, 
and plenty of Ave-Marias are said before it in full faith, for 
this J^Tossa Senhora de JVazare is in high vogue. Before the 
French invasion, this famous Image used annually to be es- 
corted by the Court to Cape Espichel. In 1796 I happened to 
be upon the Tagus at the time of her embarkation at Belem. 
She was carried in a sort of sedan-chair, of which the fashion 
resembled that of the Lord Mayor's coach ; a processional 
gun-boat preceded the Image and the Court, and I was liter- 
ally caught in a shower of rockets, if any of which had fallen 
upon the heretical heads of me and my companion, it would 
not improbably have been considered as a new miracle 
wrought by the wonder-working Senhora. 

In July, 1808, the French, under General Thomieres, robbed 
this church of Our Lady of Nazareth ; their booty, in jewels 
and plate, was estimated at more than 200,000 cruzados. Jose 
Accursio das Neves, the Portuguese historian of those disas- 
trous times, expresses his surprise that no means should have 
been taken by those who had the care of these treasures, for 
securing them in time. Care, however, seems to have been 
taken of the Great Diana of the Temple, for though it is 
stated that they destroyed or injured several images, no men- 
tion is made of any insult or damage having been offered to 
this. They sacked the town and set fire to it, but it escaped 
with the loss of only thirteen or fourteen houses ; the suburb 
or village, on the beach, was less fortunate ; there only four 
houses of more than 300 remained unconsumed, and all the 
boats and fishing-nets were destroyed. — Jlistorla da Invasam, 
&c. t. 4, p. 85. 



Spreading his hands, and lifting up his face, &c. 

I. p. 651, col. 2. 

My friend Walter Scott's Vision of Don Roderick supplies a 
singular contrast to the picture which is represented in this 
passage. I have great pleasure in quoting the stanzas ; if the 
contrast had been intentional, it could not have been more 
complete. 

But, far within, Toledo's Prelate lent 

An ear of fearful wonder to the King ; 
The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 

So long that sad confession witnessing; 
For Roderick told of many a hidden thing, 

Such as are loathly utter'd to the air, 
When Fear, Remorse, and Shame, the bosom wring, 

And Guilt his secret burden cannot bear, 
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite from Despair 

Full on the Prelate's face, and silver hair, 

The stream of failing light was feebly roll'd; 
But Roderick's visage, though his head was bare, 

Was shadow'd by his hand and mantle's fold, 
While of his hidden soul the sins he told. 

Proud Alaric's descendant could not brook, 
That mortal man his bearing should behold, 

Or boast that he had seen, when conscience shook. 
Fear tame a monarch's brow, remorse a warrior's look. 

This part of the story is thus nakedly stated by Dr. Andre 
da Sylva Mascarenhas, in a long narrative poem with this title 
— Ji destrulgam de Espanha, Restauragam Summaria de mesma. 

^chouse pobre Rey em Cauliniana 
Mosteiro janto ao rio Ouadiana. 

Eram os fradcs fugidos do Mosteiro 

Com rcceos dos Barbaros malvados, 
De briigos esteve el rey hum dla inteiro 

JVa Igreja, chorando seas peccados -■ 
Ham Monge veo alii por derradeiro 

Ji conhccer quern era, ouvlndo os brados 
Que dlsfargado Rey aos ares dava, 
Este Monge Romano se chamava. 

Pcrguntoulhe quern era, e donde vinlia, 
Por ver no pobre traje gram portento ; 

El Rey Ihe respondeo como conoinJia 
Sem declarar sen posto, ou seu intento ; 

Pediulhe confissam, e o Monge asinha 
Llia concedeo e o Santo Sacramento 

Era forga que el Rey na confissam 

Lhe declarasse o posto e a tencam. 

Como entendeo o bom Rellgioso 

Que aquelle era seu Rey que por estranhas 

Terras andava roto e lacrimoso. 
Mil ays tlrou das intlmas entranhas : 

Langouselhe aos pes, e com pledoso 
Affecto induziu e varias manhas, 

O quizesse tambcm levar conslgo 

Por socio no desterro e no perigo. — P. 278. 



The fourth week of their painful pilgrimage. — I. p. 651. col. 2. 

Dias vinte e sete na passagem 

Oastaram, desviandosse do humano 
Trato, e maos encontros que este mundo 
Tras sempre a quern busca o bem profunda. 

Destrui^am de Espanha, p. 279. 



Some new austerity, unheard of yet 
In Syrian fields of glory, or the . 
Of holiest Egypt. — II. p. 653, col. 1, 

Egypt has been, from the earliest ages, the theatre of the 
most abject and absurd superstitions, and very little benefit 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



719 



was produced by a conversion which exchanged crocodiles and 
monkeys for monks and mountebanks. The first monastery is 
said to have been established in tliat country by St. Anthony 
the Great, towards the close of the tJiird century. He who 
rests in solitude, said the saint, is saved from three conflicts, — 
from the war of hearing, and of speech, and of sight ; and he 
has only to maintain the struggle against his own heart. (Jlcta 
Sanctorum, t. ii. p. 143.) Indolence was not the only virtue 
which he and his disciples introduced into the catalogue of 
Christian perfections S. Eufraxia entered a convent con- 
sisting of a hundred and thirty nuns, not one of whom had 
ever washed her feet ; the very mention of the bath was an 
abomination to them. (Acta Sajietorum, March 13.) St. 
Macarius had renounced most of the decencies of life ; but 
he returned one day to his convent, humbled and mortified, 
exclaiming, — I am not yet a monk, but I have seen monks ! 
for he had met two of these wretches stark naked. — Acta 
Sanctorum, i. p. 107. 

The principles which these madmen established were, that 
every indulgence is sinful ; that whatever is gratifying to the 
body, must be injurious to the soul ; that in proportion as man 
inflicts torments upon himself, he pleases his Creator ; that the 
ties of natural aflTection wean the heart from God ; and that 
every social duty must be al)andoned by him who would be 
perfect. The doctrine of two principles has never produced 
such practical evils in any other system as in the Romish. 
Manes, indeed, attributes all evil to the equal power of the 
Evil Principle, (that power being only for a time,) but some 
of the corrupted forms of Christianity actually exclude a 
good one ! 

There is a curious passage in the Bibliotheca Orientalis of 
Assemanus, in which the deserts are supposed to have been 
originally intended for the use of these saints, compensating 
for their sterility by the abundant crop of virtues which they 
were to produce . In ilia vero soli vastitate, qucR procul a Milt 
ripis quaquavcrsus latissime proteiiditur, nan urhcs, nan domici- 
lia, nan agri, non arbores, sed desertum, arena, feroi ; non tamen 
hanc terra partem (tit Eucherii verbis utar) inutilem, et inho- 
noratam dimisit Deus, quum in primordiis rerum omnia in sapi- 
enti& facer et, et singula qua>quc futuris usihns apta distingjieret ; 
sedcuncta non magis prcBsentis magnificcntia, quam faturiprm- 
scientia creans, ventwris, ut arbitror, Sanctis Eremum paravit. 
Credo, his illam locuplctem fructibus voluit, et pro iadulgentioris 
naturtB vice, hanc Sanctorum darefcBctmdiam, ut sicpingiiescerent 
fines deserti : Et quum irrigaret de superioribus suis montes, 
abundaret quoque multiplicatafruge cojivalles locurumque damna 
supplicet, quum habitationem sterilem habitatore ditaret. 

" If the ways of religion," says South, " are ways of pleas- 
antness, such as are not ways of pleasantness are not truly 
and properly ways of religion. Upon which ground it is easy 
to see what judgment is to be passed upon all those affected, 
uncommanded, absurd austerities, so much prized and exer- 
cised by some of the Romish profession. Pilgrimages, going 
barefoot, hair-shirts and whips, with other such gospel-artil- 
lery, are their only helps to devotion ; things never enjoined, 
either by the prophets under the Jewish, or by the apostles 
under the Christian economy, who yet surely understood the 
proper and the most efficacious instruments of piety, as well 
as any confessor or friar of all the order of St. Francis, or any 
casuist whatsoever. 

" It seems that with them a man sometimes cannot be a 
penitent unless he also turns vagabond, and foots it to Jeru- 
salem, or wanders over this or that part of the world to visit 
the shrines of such or such a pretended saint, though perhaps 
in his life ten times more ridiculous than themselves. Thus, 
that which was Cain's error, is become their religion. He 
that thinks to expiate a sin by going barefoot, only makes one 
folly the atonement for another. Paul, indeed, was scourged 
and beaten by the Jews, but we never read that he beat or 
scourged himself; and if they think that his keeping under of 
his body imports so much, they must first prove that the body 
cannot be kept under by a virtuous mind, and that the mind 
caimot be made virtuous but by a scourge, and consequently 
that thongs and whip-cord are means of grace, and things 
necessary to salvation. The truth is, if men's religion lies no 
deeper than their skin, it is possible that they may scourge 
themselves into very great improvements. 

" But they will find that bodily exercise touches not the 
soul, and that neither pride, nor lust, nor covetousness, was 



ever mortified by corporal discipline ; 'tis not the back, but 
the heart that must bleed for sin ; and, consequently, that in 
their whole course they are like men out of their way ; let 
them lash on never so fast, they are not at all the nearer to 
their journey's end ; and howsoever they deceive themselves 
and others, they may as well expect to bring a cart as a soul to 
Heaven by such means." — Sermons, vol. i. p. 34. 



In those weeds 
Which never, from the hour when to the grave 
Shefolhw''d her dear lord Theodofred, 
Rusilla laid aside. — II. p. 653, col. 2. 

Vide mtper ipse in Hispaniis constitutis et admiratus sum anti- 
quum hunc morem, ab Hispanis adhuc omnibus observari ; mortud. 
quippe uxoremaritus, mortuo marito conjux, mortuis filiis patres, 
mortuis patrihus filii, defunctis quibuslibct cognatis cognati, ex- 
tinctis, quodlibet casu amicis amid, statim arma deponunt, sericas 
vestes, peregrinarum pellium tegmina Objiciunt, totumque penitus 
multi color em, ac pretiosum habitum abdicantes, nigris tantum 
viUbusque indumentis se contcgunt. Sic crinibus propriis sic ju- 
mentorum suorum caudis decurtatis, seque et ipsa atroprorsus 
colore denigrant. Talibus luctui dolorisve i7isig7iibus, subtractos 
cha7-issimos deflent, et integriad minus spntium anni, in tali ma- 
rore publica lege consumant. — Petri Venerabilis Epist. quoted 
in Yepes, t. vii. ff. 21. 



Her eyeless husband. — II. p. 653, col. 2. 

Witiza put out the eyes of Theodofred, inhabilitan dole para 
lamonarchia, says Ferraras. This was the common mode of 
iucapacitating a rival for the throne. 

Un Conde de Oallicia que f vera vnliado, 
Pelayo avie nombre, omefo desforzado, 
Perdio la vision, andaba embargado, 
Ca ome que non vede, non debie seer vado. 

Gonzalo de Berceo. S. Dom. 388. 

The history of Europe during the dark ages abounds with 
examples of exoculation, as it was called by those writers who 
endeavored, towards the middle of the 17th century, to intro- 
duce the style-ornate into our prose after it had been banished 
from poetry. In the East, the practice is still continued. 
When Alboquerque took possession of Ormuz, he sent to 
Portugal fifteen of its former kings, whom he found there, 
each of whom, in his turn, had been deposed and blinded ! 

In the semi-barbarous stage of society, any kind of personal 
blemish seems to have been considered as disqualifying a prince 
from the succession, like the law of the Nazarenes. Yorwerth, 
the son of Owen Gwynedh, was set aside in Wales because of 
his broken nose ; Count Oliba, in Barcelona, because he could 
never speak till he had stamped with his foot three times like 
a goat. Aquest Oliba f rare del Conte en Or if a no era a dret de 
SOS mcmbras. Car lo dit Oliba james no podia parlar, si primer 
no donas colps aUlo peu en terra quart o sine vegades, axi comsi 
fos cabra ; e per aquesta raho lifou imposat lo nom, dient li Oli~ 
bra Cabreta, e per aquest accident lo dit Oliba perde lasuccessio 
delfrare en lo Comtat de Barcelona, e fou donat lo dit Comtat o 
en Borrell, Comte de Urgcll, qui era son cosin germa. — P^re 
Tomich, c. xxviii. ff. 20. 

In the treaty between our Henry V. and Charles VI. of 
France, by which Henry was appointed King of France after 
Charles's decease, it was decreed that the French should 
" swear to become liege men and vassals to our said son King 
Henry, and obey him as the true King of France, and without 
any opposition or dispute shall receive him as such, and never 
pay obedience to any other as king or regent of France, but 
to our said son King Henry, unless our said son should lose 
life or limb, or be attacked by a mortal disease, or suffer dim- 
inution in person, state, honor,* or goods." 

Lope de Vega alludes to the bhndness of Theodofred in hig 
Jerusalem Conquistada : — 



Criavase con otras bellas 
Florinda bella, 



Johnes's Monstrellet, vol. v. 



720 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Esta viiro Rodrigo desdichado, 
J3y si como su padre fuera ciego ! 

Saco siis ojos Witisa ayrado, 
Fuera mejor los de Rodrigo luego : 

Ouzara Espana cl timbre coronado 
De sus castiUos en mayor sossiego 

Que le dio Leovigildo, y no se viera 

Estampa de Africano en su ribera. 



ff. 131. 



A remarkable instance of the inconvenient manner in which 
the 6 and the v are indiscriminately used by the Spaniards, 
occurs here in the original edition. The w not being used in 
that language, it would naturally be represented by vv ; and 
here, the printer, using most unluckily his typographical 
license, has made the word Vbitisa. 

" The Spaniards," says that late worthy Jo. Sandford, some 
time fellow of Magdalane college, in Oxford, (in his Spanish 
Grammar, 1632,) " do with a kind of wantonness so confound 
the sound of t> with v, that it is hard to determine when and in 
what words it should retain its own power of a labial letter, 
which gave just cause of laughter at that Spaniard who, being 
in conversation with a French lady, and minding to commend 
her children for fair, said unto her, using the Spanish liberty 
in pronouncing the French, Madame, vous avez des veaux en- 
fans, telling her that she had calves to her children, instead 
of saying, beaux enfans, fair children. Neither can I well 
justify him who wrote veneficio for beneficio." 



Conimbrica, whose ruined towers 
Bore record of the fierce Alani's wrath. — III. p. 655, col. 1. 

The Roman Conimbrica stood about two leagues from the 
present Coimbra, on the site of Condeyxa Velha. Ataces, 
king of the Alanes, won it from the Sueves, and, in revenge 
for its obstinate resistance, dispeopled it, making all its inhab- 
itants, without distinction of persons, work at the foundation 
of Coimbra where it now stands. Hermenerico, the king of 
the Sueves, attacked him while thus employed, but was de- 
feated and pursued to the Douro ; peace was tlien made, and 
Sindasunda, daughter of the conquered, given in marriage to 
the conqueror. In memory of the pacification thus effected, 
Ataces bore upon his banners a damsel in a tower, with a 
dragon vert on one side, and a lion rouge on the other, the 
bearings of himself and his marriage-father ; and this device 
being sculptured upon the towers of Coimbra, still remains as 
the city arms. Two letters of Arisbert, bishop of Porto, to 
Samerius, archdeacon of Braga, which are preserved at AIco- 
ba^a, relate these events as the news of the day, — that is, if 
the authority of Alcoba^an records, and of Bernardo de Brito, 
can be admitted. Man. Lus. 26, 3. 

Ataces was an Arian, and therefore made the Catholic 
bishops and priests work at his new city ; but his queen con- 
verted hira. 



Mumadona. — III. p. 655, col. 1. 
Gasper Esta^o has shown that this is the name of the foun- 
dress of Guimaraens, and that it is not, as some writers had 
supposed, erroneously thus written, because the words Muma 
and Dona followed each other in the deeds of gift wherein it is 
preserved ; the name being frequently found with its title 
affixed thus, Dma Mumadna. 



the banks 

Of Lima, through whose groves, in after-years, 
Mournful yet sweet, Diogo^s amorous lute 
Prolong' d its tuneful echoes. — III p. 655, col. 9. 

Diogo Bernardes, one of the best of the Portuguese poets, 
was born on the banks of the Lima, and passionately fond of 
its scenery. Some of his sonnets will bear comparison with 
the best poems of their kind. Tiiere is a charge of plagiarism 
against him for having printed several of Camoens's sonnets 
as his own; to obtain any proofs upon this subject would be 
very difficult; this, however, is certain, that his own undis- 
puted productions resemble them so closely in unaffected ten- 



derness and in sweetness of diction, that the whole appear 
like the works of one author. 



Aaria itself is now but one wide tomb 
For all its habitants. — III. p. 656, col. 1. 

The present Orense. The Moors entirely destroyed it; 
depopulavit usque ad solum, are the words of one of the old 
brief chronicles. In 832, Alonzo el Casto found it too com- 
pletely ruined to be restored Espana Sagrada, xvii. p. 48. 



That consecrated pile amid the wild. 
Which sainted Pructuoso, in his zeal, 
Rear''d to St. Felix, on Visonia's banks. 

IV. p. 658, col. 2 

Of this saint, and the curious institutions which he formed, 
and the beautiful tract of country in which they were placed, 
I have given an account in the third edition of Letters from 
Spain and Portugal, vol. i. p. 103. 



Sacaru ........ indignantly 

Did he toward the ocean bend his way, 
And, shaking from his feet the dust of Spain, 
Took ship, and hoisted sail through seas unknown 
To seek for freedom. — IV. p. 659, col. 2. 

This tale, which is repeated by Blcda, rests on no better 
authority than that of Abulcacim,* which may, however, ba 
admitted, so far as to show that it was a prevalent opinion "s 
his time. 

Antonio Galvam, in his Tratado dos Descobrimentos Antigol 
e Modernos, relates a current, and manifestly fabulous story, 
which has been supposed to refer to Sacaru, and the com- 
panions of his emigration. " They say," he says, " that at 
this time, A. D. 1447, a Portuguese ship sailing out of the 
Straits of Gibraltar, was carried by a storm much farther to 
the west than she had intended, and came to an island where 
there were seven cities, and where our language was spoken ; 
and the people asked whether the Moors still occupied Spainj 
from whence they had fled after the loss of King Don Rodrigo 
The con^knaster of the ship said, that he brought away a 
little sand from the island, and sold it to a goldsmith in 
Lisbon, who extracted from it a good quantity of gold. It is 
said that the Infante D. Pedro, who governed at that time, 
ordered these things to be written in the Casa do Tombo. 
And some will have it that these lands and islands at which 
the Portuguese touched, were those which are now called the 
Antilhas and New Spain." (P. 24.) 

This Antilia, or Island of the Seven Cities, is laid down in 
Martin Behaim's map ; the story was soon improved by giving 
seven bishops to the seven cities : and Galvam has been ac- 
cused by Hornius of having invented it to give his countrymen 
the honor of having discovered the West Indies ! Now, it is 
evident that Antonio Galvam relates the story as if he did not 
believe it, — contam — they relate, — and, dix, it is said, — 
never affirming the fact, nor making any inference from it, but 
merely stating it as a report ; and it is certain, which perhaps 
Hornius did not know, that there never lived a man of purer 
integrity than Antonio Galvam ; a man whose history is dis- 
graceful, not to his country, but to the government under 
which he lived, and whose uniform and unsullied virtue en- 
titles him to rank among the best men that have ever done 
honor to human nature. 

The writers who repeat this story of the Seven Islands and 
their bishops, have also been pleased to find traces of Sacaru 
in the new world, for which the imaginary resemblances to 
Christianity which were found in Yucatan and other places, 
serve them as proofs. — Oregorio Oarcia, Origen de los Indios, 
1. iv. c. 20. 

The work of Abulcacim, in which the story first appears, 
has been roundly asserted to be the forgery of the translator, 
Miguel de Luna. The Portuguese academician, Contador de 
Argote, speaking of this romantic history, acquits him of the 



C. 13. 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 721 



fraud, which has with little reflection been laid to his charge. 
Pedra^a, he says, in the Grandezas de Granada, and Rodrigo 
Caro, in the Grandezas de Sevilla, both affirm that the original 
Arabic exists in the Escurial, and Escolano asserts the same, 
although Nicholas Antonio says that the catalogues of that 
library do not make mention of any such book. If Luna had 
forged it, it would not have had many of those blunders which 

I are observed in it ; nor is there any reason for imputing such 
a fraud to Luna, a man well skilled in Arabic, and of good 
reputation. What I suspect is, that the book was composed 
by a Granadan Moor, and the reason which induces me to form 
this opinion is, the minuteness with which he describes the 
conquest which Tarif made of those parts of the kingdom of 
Granada, of the Alpuxarras and the Serra Neveda, pointing 
out the etymologies of the names of places, and other circum- 
stances, which any one who reads with attention will observe. 
As to the time in which the composer of this amusing romance 
flourished, it was certainly after the reign of Bedeci Aben 
Habuz, who governed, and was Lord of, Granada about the 
year 1013, as Marmol relates, after the Arabian writers ; and 
the reason which I have for this assertion is, that in the ro- 
mance of Abulcacim the story is told which gave occasion to 
the said Bedeci Aben Habuz to set up in Granada that famous 
vane, which represents a knight upon horseback in bronze, 
with a spear in the right hand, and a club in the left, and these 
words in Arabic, — Bedeci Aben Habuz says, that in this 

i manner Andalusia must be kept ! the figure moves with every 
wind, and veers about from one end to another. — Memorias 
db Braga, t. iii. p. 120. 

In the fabulous Chronicle of D. Rodrigo, Sacarus, as he is 
there called, is a conspicuous personage ; but the tale of his 
emigration was not then current, and the author kills him be- 
fore the Moors appear upon the stage. He seems to have 
designed him as a representation of perfect generosity. 



All too long. 
Here in their own inheritance, the sons 
Of Spain have groan'd beneath a foreign yoke. 

IV. p. 659, col. 2. 

There had been a law to prohibit intermarriages between 
the Goths and Romans ; this law Recesuintho annulled,* 
observing, in his edict, that the people ought in no slight de- 
gree to rejoice at the repeal. It is curious that the distinction 
should have existed so long ; but it is found also in a law of 
Wamba's, and doubtless must have continued till both names 
were lost together in the general wreck. The vile principle 
was laid down in the laws of the Wisigoths, that such as the 
root is, such ought the branch to be, — gran confusion es de 
linage, quando el fiyo non semeya al padre, que aquelo ques de la 
raiz, deba ccr en a cima, and upon this principle a law was 
made to keep the children of slaves, slaves also. 

" Many men well versed in history," says Contador de Ar- 
gote, (Memorias de Braga, 3, 273,) " think, and think rightly, 
that this was a civil war, and that the monarchy was divided 
into two factions, of which the least powerful availed itself 
of the Arabs as auxiliaries; and that these auxiliaries made 
themselves masters, and easily effected their intent by means 
of the divisions in the country." 

" The natives of Spain," says Joam de Barros, " never bore 
much love to the Goths, who were strangers and comelings, 
and when they came had no right there, for the whole be- 
longed to the Roman empire. It is believed that the greater 
part of those whom the Moors slew were Goths, and it is said 
that, on one side and on the other, in the course of two years 
there were slain by the sword seven hundred thousand men. 
The Christians who escaped chose tliat the name of Goths 
should be lost ; and though some Castillians complain that 
the race should be extinguished, saying with Don Jorge Man- 
rique, 

Pues la sangre de los Oodos 
y el linage y la nobleza 
tan crecida, 
par quantas vias y modos 
se sume su grande alteta 



en esta vida. 



Fuero Juzgo, L. 3. tit. 1. leg. 1. 

91 



I must say that I see no good foundation for this ; for they 
were a proud nation and barbarous, and were a long time 
heretics of the sects of Arius and Eutychius and Pelagius, 
and can be praised as nothing except as warriors, who were 
so greedy for dominion, that wherever they reached they laid 
every thing bare like locusts, and therefore the emperor 
ceded to them this country. The people who dwelt in it 
before were a better race, always praised and feared, and re- 
spected by the Romans, loyal and faithful and true and rea- 
sonable : and if the Goths afterwards were worthy of any 
estimation they became so here : for as plants lose their 
bitterness and improve by being planted and translated into a 
good soil, (as is said of peaches,) so does a good land change 
its inhabitants, and of rustic and barbarous make thern polished 
and virtuous. 

" The Moors did not say that they came against the Chris- 
tians, but against the Goths, who had usurped Spain ; and it 
appears that to the people of the land it mattered little whether 
they were under Goths or Moors ; or indeed it might not be 
too much to say that they preferred the Moors, not only be- 
cause all new things and changes would be pleasing, but be- 
cause they were exasperated against the Goths for what they 
had done against the Christians, (i. e. the Catholics,) and for 
the bad government of King Witiza." 

" You are not to think," says the Chronicler, " that Count 
Don Julian and the Bishop Don Orpas came of the lineage of 
the Goths, but of the lineage of the Caesars, and therefore they 
were not grieved that the good lineage should be destroyed." 
— Chr. del K. D. Rodrigo, p. i. c. 248. 



Favila. — V. p. 661, col. 1. 

Barrios, taking a punster's license in orthography, plays 
upon the name of Pelayo's father: — 

del gran Favila {que centella 

significa) Pelayo, marcial llama, 
restauro el Leones reyno con aquella 
luz que alcanzo la victoriosa rama. 

Coro de las Musas, p. 102. 



The Queen too, Egilona, — 

Was she not married to the enemy, 

The Moor, the Misbeliever ? — V. p. 661, col. 1. 

For this fact there is the unquestionable testimony of Isi- 
dorus Pacensis. Per idem tempus in .Mra 735, anno imperii 
ejus 9. Arabum 97. Abdalaziz omnem Hispaniam per tres an- 
nos sub censuario jugo pacificans, cum Hispali divitiis et hono- 
rumfascibus cum Regina Hispanice in conjugio copulata, filias 
Regum ac Principum pcllicatas, et imprudeater distractas astu- 
aret, seditione suoruTJi facta, orationi instans, consilio Ajub, oc~ 
ciditur ; atque co Hispaniam retinente, mense impleto, Alahor in 
regno Hesperiai per principalia jussa succedit, cui de morte Ab- 
dalaziz ita edicitur, ut quasi consilio Egilonis Regioe conjugis 
quondam Ru-derici regis, quam sibi sociaberat, jugum Arabicum 
a sua ccrvice conaretur avertere, et regnum in vasum HibericE 
sibimet retemptare. — Espana Sagrada, t. viii. 302. 

Florez relates the story in the words of the old translation 
of an Arabic original imputed to Rasis. " When Belazin, the 
son of Muza, remained for Lord of Spain, and had ordered his 
affairs right well, they told him tidings of Ulaca, who had 
been the wife of King D. Rodrigo, that she was a right 
worthy dame, and right beautiful, and of a great lineage, and 
that she was a native of Africa ; whereupon he sent for her, 
and ordered that beasts should be given her, and much prop- 
erty, and men-servants and maid-servants, and all things that 
she could require, till she could come to him. And they 
brought her unto him, and when he saw her, he was well 
pleased with her, and said, Ulaca, tell me of thy affairs, and 
conceal nothing from me ; for thou knowest I may do with 
thee according to my will, being my captive. And when she 
heard this, it increased the grief which she had in her heart, 
and her sorrow was such, that she had well nigh fallen dead 
to the ground, and she replied weeping and said, Baron, what 
wouldst thou know more of my affairs ? For doth not all the 
world know, that I, a young damsel, being married with King 



722 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



D. Rodrigo, was with him Lady of Spain, and dwelt in 
honor and in all pleasure, more than I deserved ; and there- 
fore it was God's will that they should endure no longer ? And 
now I am in dishonor greater than ever was dame of such 
high state : For I am plundered, and have not a single palm 
of inheritance j and I am a captive, and brought into bondage. 
I also have been mistress of all the land that I behold. There- 
fore, Sir, have pity upon my misfortunes ; and in respect of 
the great lineage which you know to be mine, suffer not that 
wrong or violence be offered me by any one ; and, Sir, if it 
be your grace you will ransom me. There are men I know 
who would take compassion on me, and give you for me a 
great sum. And Belazin said to her. Be certain that so long 
as 1 live, you shall never go from my house. And Ulaca said. 
What then. Sir, would you do with me .'' and Belazin said, I 
will that you should remain in my house, and tliere you shall 
be free from all wretchedness, with my other wives. And she 
said. In an evil day was I born, if it is to be true that I have 
been wife of the honored king of Spain, and now have to live 
in a stranger's house as the concubine and captive of another ! 
And I swear unto God whose pleasure it is to dismay me thus, 
that I will rather seek my own death as soon as I can ; for I will 
endure no more misery, seeing that by death I can escape it. 
And when Belazin saw that she thus lamented, he said to her, 
Oood dame, think not that we have concubines, but by our law 
we may have seven wives, if we can maintain them, and there- 
fore you shall be my wife, like each of the others ; and all 
things which your law requires that a man should do for his wife, 
will I do for you ; and therefore you have no cause to lament ; 
and be sure that I will do you much honor, and will make all 
who love me serve and honor you, and you shall be mistress 
of all my wives. To this she made answer and said. Sir, offer 
me no violence concerning my law, but let me live as a 
Christian: And to this Belazin was nothing loth, and he 
granted it, and his marriage was performed with her accord- 
ing to the law of the Moors ; and every day he liked her 
more, and did her such honor that greater could not be. 
And it befell that Belazin being one day with Ulaca, she said 
to him. Sir, do not think it ill if I tell you of a thing in 
which you do not act as if you knew the custom. And he 
said. Wherein is it that I err ? Sir, said she, because you have 
no crown, for no one was ever confirmed in Spain, except 
he had a crown upon his head. He said, This which you say 
is nothing, for we have it not of our lineage, neither is it our 
custom to wear a crown. She said. Many good reasons are 
there why a crown is of use, and it would injure you nothing, 
but be well for you, and when you should wear your crown 
upon your head, God would know you and others also by it : 
And she said. You would look full comely with it, and it 
would be great nobleness to you, and be right fitting, and you 
should wear in it certain stones, which will be good for you, 
and avail you. And in a short time afterwards, Belazin went 
to dwell at Seville, and he carried Ulaca with him, and she 
took of her gold, and of her pearls, and of her precious stones, 
which she had many and good, and made him the noblest 
crown that ever was seen by man, and gave it him, and bade 
him take it, and place it where it should be well kept ; and 
Ulaca, as she was a woman of understanding and prudence, 
ordered her affairs as well as Belazin, so that he loved her 
much and did great honor to her, and did many of those things 
which she desired ; so that he was well pleased with the 
Christians, and did them much good, and showed favor unto 
them." — Memorias de las Reijnas Catholicas, 1, p. 28. 

The issue of this was fatal to Abdalaziz. In Albucacim's 
history, it is said that he was converted by this Christian wife, 
and for that reason put to death by his father. Others have 
supposed that by means of her influence he was endeavoring 
to make himself King of Spain, independent of the Caliph. 
A characteristic circumstance is added. Egilona was very 
desirous to convert her husband, and that she might at least 
obtain from him some mark of outward respect for her images, 
made the door of the apartment in which she kept them, 
so low, that he could not enter without hov^ing. — Bleda, 
p. 214. 

Deixam a Mdalaziz, que de Bellona 
Mamara o leite, por Rector da Hesperia ; 

Este caza co a inchjta Egilona, 
Mulher de Dom Rodrigo, (o gram miseria .') 



Tomou Coroa de ouro, e a Matrona 

Lhe den para a tomar larga materia, 
Foi notado d misera raynha 
Cazarse com hum Monro tarn asinha. 

Destruicam de Espanha, p. 237. 

The character of this Q,ueen is beautifully conceived by 
the author of Count Julian : — 

Beaming with virtue inaccessible 

Stood Egilona ; for her lord she lived, 

And for the heavens that raised her sphere so high : 

All thoughts were on her — all beside her own. 

Negligent as the blossoms of the field. 

Arrayed in candor and simplicity. 

Before her path she heard the streams of joy 

Murmur her name in all their cadences. 

Saw them in every scene, in light, in shade, 

Reflect her image ; but acknowledged them 

Hers most complete when flowing from her most. 

All tilings in want of her, herself of none. 

Pomp and dominion lay beneath her feet 

Unfelt and unregarded : now behold 

The earthly passions war against the heavenly ! 

Pride against love ; ambition and revenge 

Against devotion and compliancy — 

Her glorious beams adversity hath blunted. 

And coming nearer to our quiet view, 

The original clay of coarse mortality 

Hardens and flaws around her. 



One day of hitler and severe delight. — VJ. p. 



col. 2. 



I have ventured to borrow this expression from the tragedy 
of Count Julian. Nothing can be finer than the passage in 
which it occurs. 

Mdalazis. Thou lovest still thy country ? 

Julian. Abdalazis, 

All men with b-iman feelings love their country. 

Not the high-born or wealthy man alone, 

Who looks upon his children, each one led 

By its gay handmaid, from the high alcove, 

And hears them once a-day ; not only he 

Who hath forgotten, when his guest inquires 

The name of some far village all his own j 

Whose rivers bound the province, and whose hills 

Touch the last cloud upon the level sky : 

No ; better men still better love their country. 

'Tis the old mansion of their earliest friends, 

The chapel of their first and best devotions 5 

When violence, or perfidy, invades. 

Or when unworthy lords hold wassail there, 

And wiser heads are drooping round its moats, 

At last they fix their steady and stiff eye 

There, there alone — stand while the trumpet blows, 

And view the hostile flames above its towers 

Spire, with a bitter and severe delight. 



Restoring in thy native line, Prince, 

The sceptre to the Spaniard. — VII. p. 666, col. 1. 

This was a favorite opinion of Garibays, himself a Bis- 
cayan, but he has little better proof for it than the fact, that 
Gothic names disappeared with Roderick, and that Pelayo 
and his successors drew their nomenclature from a different 
stock. He says, indeed, that ancient writings are not wanting 
to support his opinion. Some rude commentator has written 
against this assertion in the margin of my copy, miente Oari- 
bay ; and I am afraid the commentator is the truer man of 
the two. 

There is a fabulous tale of Pelayo's birth, which, like many 
other tales of no better authority, has legends and relics to 
support it. The story, according to Dr. D. Christoval Lozano, 
in his history of Los Reyes Nuevos de Toledo, is this. Luz,' 
niece to Egilona, and sister of Roderick, dwelt at Toledo, ini 
the palace of King Egica. Duke Favila, her father's brother, 



JNOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 723 



fell in love with her, and came from his residence in Can- 
tabria to ask her in marriage, expecting to find no other 
obstacle than the dispensable one of consanguinity. But it so 
happened, that the King was wooing Luz to become his con- 
cubine ; her refusal made him jealous, as he could not con- 
ceive that it proceeded from any cause except love for another, 
and as his temper and power were not to be provoked without 
danger, Favila dared not openly make his suit. He and his 
mistress therefore met in private, and plighted their vows 
before an image of the Virgin. The consequences soon 
became apparent, — the more so, because, as Dr. Lozano as- 
sures us, there were at that time no fashions to conceal such 
things, Y mas que en aqtiella era no se avian invcntado los 
guarda-infantes. The king observed tlie alteration in her 
shape, and placed spies upon her, meaning to destroy the 
child and punish the mother with the rigor of the law, death 
by fire being the punishment for such an offence. Luz was 
well aware of the danger. She trusted her Ca?/iarcra and one 
servant : They made an ark : She herself, as soon as the 
infant was born, threw water in his face, and baptized him by 
the name of Pelayo : a writing was placed with him in the 
ark, requesting that whoever should find it would breed up 
the boy with care, for he was of good lineage. Money enough 
was added to support him for eight years, and the ark was 
then launched upon the Tagus, where it floated down the 
stream all night, all day, and all the following night. On the 
second morning it grounded near Alcantara, and was found 
by Grafeses, who happened to be Luz's uncle. The king's 
suspicion being confirmed by the sudden alteration in the 
lady's appearance, he used every means to detect her, but 
without avail ; he even ordered all children to be examined 
who had been born in or around Toledo within three months, 
and full inquiry to be made into the circumstances of their 
births : To the astonishment of later historians, 35^,000 of 
that age were found, and not one among them of suspicious 
extraction. The tale proceeds in the ordinary form of romance. 
The lady is accused of incontinence, and to be burnt, unless 
a champion defeats her accuser. Favila of course undertakes 
her defence, and of course is victorious. A second battle 
follows with the same success, and fresh combats would have 
followed, if a hermit had not brought the king to repentance. 
Grafeses in due time discovers the secret, and restores the 
child to his parents. 

This fabulous chronicle seems to be the oldest written 
source of this story, but some such tradition had probably 
long been current. The ark was shown at Alcantara, in the 
convent of St. Benito j and a description of it, with reasons 
why its authenticity should be admitted, may be found in 
Francisco de Pisa^s Description de Toledo, 1. iii. c. i. 



Jlnd in thy name, 
Accept the Crown of Thorns she proffers me. — VII. 666, col. 2. 

Godfrey was actually crowned with thorns in Jerusalem, — 
a circumstance which has given rise to a curious question in 
heraldry, — thus curiously stated and commented by Robert 
Barret, in that part of his long poem which relates to this 
Prince : — 

A Prince religious, if ever any. 
Considering the age wherein he lived. 
Vice-hater great, endued with virtues many, 
True humilized, void of mundane pride ; 
For though he now created were great king, 
Yet would he not, as royal pomp requires, 
Encrowned be with crownet glistering 
Of gold and gems to mundains vain desires ; 
But with a pricking, pricking crown of tliorn. 
Bearing thereto a Christian reverence, 
Sith Heaven's King, man's Redeemer, did not scorn 
To wear such crown within that city's fence. 
When as, cross-loden, hnmblely he went, 
All cowring under burden of that wood, 
To^ee man To pay the pain of man's due punishment. 

And free from Pluto's bands Prometheus brood. 



from hell. 



By reas'n of Godfrey's great humility 
Refusing golden-crownets dignity, 



Some blundering in world-witted heraldry. 
The foolish- Not knoM'ing how t' distinguish vertues trye, 
afds.° ^'^' J^'* question make this Christian king to set 
In catalogue of gold-diademed kings ; 
Regarding glitter of the external jet. 
And not true garnish of th' internal things ; 
Th' internal virtues, soul's sweet ornaments, 
So pleasing to th' Eternal's sacred eyes, 
In angels chore consorting sweet concents 
Of heavenly harmony 'bove christal skies. 
But we, i contra, him not only deem 
A Christian king, but perfect Christian king, 
A christal fanal, lamping light divine 
To after-comer kings, world emp'rizing. 
For he, religious prince, did not despise 
The Heaven-sent gift to be anointed king. 
But disesteem'd the mundane pompous guise 
Tickling the hearts of princes monarching. 

Annotacion. Potentates regard this heaven-aspiring Prince, 
Not priding, as up proves his dignity ; 
High throned kings aspect the starred fence 
Of this true map of true kings royalty ; 
Not Nembrothizing in cloud-kissing towers, 
Not Semiramizing in prides palaces. 
Not Neronizing in all sanguine hours, 
Not Heliogabalizing in lusts lees ; 
But Joshuadizing in his Christian camp, 
And Judithizing in his Salem's seat. 
And Davidizing in his Sion's stamp, 
And Solomonizing in all sacred heat. 



Outwatching for her sake 
The starry host, and ready for the work 
Of day before the sun begins his course. — VIII. p. 667, col. 2. 

Garci Fernandez Manrique surprised the Moors so often 
during the night, that he was called Garci Madrugi, — an 
appellation of the same import as Peep-of-day-boy. He 
founded the convent of St. Salvador de Palacios de Benagel 
for Benedictine nuns, and when he called up his merry men, 
used to say. Up, sirs, and fight, for my nuns are up and 
praying ; Levantaos Seiiores d pelcar, que mis monjas son levan- 
tadas a rczar. — Pruchas de la Hist, de la Casa de Lara, p. 42. 



Hermesind. — X. p. 670, col. 1. 

Mariana derives the name of Hermesinda from the reverence 
in which Hermenegild was held in Spain, — a prince who has 
been sainted for having renounced the Homooisian creed, and 
raised a civil war against his father in favor of the Ho- 
moousian one. It is not a little curious, when the fate of 
D. Carlos is remembered, that his name should have been 
inserted in the calendar, at the solicitation of Philip II. ! 
From the same source Mariana derives the names Herme- 
nisinda, Armengol, Ermengaud, Hermegildez, and Hermildez. 
But here, as Brito has done with Pelayo, he seems to forget 
that the name was current before it was borne by the Saint, 
and the derivations from it as numerous. Its root may be 
found in Herman, whose German name will prevail over the 
Latinized Arminius 



Tlie glen ichere Tagus rolls between his rocks. 

X. p. 671, col. 2. 

The story of the Enchanted Tower at ToledjO is well known 
to every English reader. It neither accorded with the char- 
acter of my poem to introduce the fiction, ncf would it have 
been prudent to have touched upon it after Walter Scott. 
The account of the Archbishop Rodrego, and of Abulcacim, 
may be found in his notes. What follows here is translated 
from the fabulous chronicle of King Don Rodrigo. 

" And there came to him the keepers of the house which 
was in Toledo, which they called Pleasure with Pain, the 
Perfect Guard, the secret of that which is to come ; and it 
was called also by another name, the Honor of God. And 
these keepers came before the king, and said unto him. Sire, 



724 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



since God hath done thee such good, and such favor as that 
thou shouldst be king of all Spain, we come to require of 
thee that thou wouldst go to Toledo, and put thy lock upon 
the house which we are appointed to keep. And the king 
demanded of them what house was that, and wherefore he 
should put upon it his lock. And they said unto him, Sire, 
we will willingly tell thee, that thou mayst know. Sire, true 
it is, that when Hercules the Strong came into Spain, he made 
in it many marvellous things in those places where he under- 
stood that they might best remain ; and thus when he was in 
Toledo he understood well that that city would be one of the 
best in Spain ; and saw that the kings who should be Lords 
of Spain would have more pleasure to continue dwelling 
therein than in any other part ; and seeing that things would 
come after many ways, some contrariwise to others, it pleased 
him to leave many enchantments made, to the end that after 
his death his power and wisdom might by them be known. 
And he made in Toledo a house, after the manner which we 
shall now describe, with great mastership, so that we have not 
heard tell of any other such : The which is made after this 
guise. There are four lions of metal under the foundation 
of this house : and so large are they, that a man sitting upon 
a great horse on the one side, and another in like manner 
upon the other, cannot see each other, so large are the lions. 
And the house is upon them, and it is entirely round, and so 
lofty that there is not a man in the world who can throw a 
stone to the top : and many have attempted this, but they 
never could. And there is not a man of this age who can 
tell you by what manner this house was made, neither whose 
understanding can reach to say in what manner it is worked 
within. But of that which we have seen without, we have 
to tell thee. Certes in the whole house there is no stone 
bigger than the hand of a man, and the most of them are of 
jasper and marble, so clear and shining, that they seem to be 
crystal. They are of so many colors that we do not think 
there are two stones in it of the same color ; and so cun- 
ningly are they joined one with another, that if it were not 
for the many colors, you would not believe but that the 
whole house was made of one entire stone. And the stones 
are placed in such manner one by another, that seeing them 
you may know all the things of the battles aforepast, and of 
great feats. And this is not by pictures, but the color of the 
stones, and the great art of joining one with the other, make 
it appear thus. And sans doubt he who should wish to know 
the truth of the great deeds of arms which have been wrought 
in the world, might by means of that house know it. See 
now in what manner Hercules was wise and fortunate, and 
right valiant, and acquainted with the things which were to 
come. And when he was Lord of Spain, he made it after 
this guise, which we have related unto you. And he com- 
manded that neither King nor Lord of Spain who might come 
after him, should seek to know that which was within ; but 
that every one instead should put a lock upon the doors 
thereof, even as he himself did, for he first put on a lock, and 
fastened it with his key. And after him there has been no 
King nor Lord in Spain, who has thought it good to go from 
his bidding ; but every one as he came put on each his lock, 
according to that which Hercules appointed. And now that 
we have told thee the manner of the house, and that which 
we know concerning it, we require of thee that thou shouldst 
go thither, and put on thy lock on the gates thereof, even as 
all the kings have done who have reigned in Spain until this 
time. And the King Don Rodrigo hearing the marvellous 
things of this house, and desiring to know what there was 
within, and moreover being a man of great heart, wished to 
know of all things how they were and for what guise. He 
made answer, that no such lock would he put upon that house, 
and that by all means he would know what there was within. 
And they said unto him, Sire, you will not do that which has 
never been don:) in Spain ; be pleased therefore to observe 
that which the other kings have observed. And the king said 
unto them. Leave oflf now, and I will appoint the soonest that 
may be how T may go to see this house, and then I will do 
that which shall seem good. And he would give them no 
other reply. And when they saw that he would give them 
no other reply, they dared not persist farther, and they dis- 
peeded themselves of him, and went their way, 

" Now it came to pass that the King Don Rodrigo called to 
mind how he had been required to put a lock upon the doors 



of the house which was in Toledo, and he resolved to carry 
into effect that unto which his heart inclined him. And one 
day he gathered together all the greatest knights of Spain, 
who were there with him, and went to see this house, and he 
saw that it was more marvellous than tliose who were its 
keepers had told him, and as he was thus b. '.holding it, he said, 
Friends, I will by all means see what there is in this house 
which Hercules made. And when the great Lords who were 
with him heard this, they began to say unto him that he ought 
not to do this ; for there was no reason why he should do that 
which never king nor Csesar, that had been Lord of Spain 
since Hercules, had done until that time. And the king said 
unto them. Friends, in this house there is nothing but what 
may be seen, I am well sure that the enchantments cannot 
hinder me, and this being so, I have nothing to fear. And the 
knights said. Do that, sir, which you think good, but this is 
not done by our counsel. And when ho saw that they were all 
of a different accord from that which he wished to do, he said. 
Now gainsay me as you will, for let what will happen I shall 
not forbear to do my pleasure. And forthwith he went to the 
doors, and ordered all the locks to be opened ; and this was a 
great labor, for so many were the keys and the locks, that if 
they had not seen it, it would have been a great thing to be- 
lieve. And after they were unlocked, the king pushed the 
door with his hand, and he went in, and the chief persons who 
were there with him, as many as he pleased, and they found a 
hall made in a square, being as wide on one part as on the 
other, and in it there was a bed richly furnished, and there 
was laid in that bed the statue of a man, exceeding great, and 
armed at all points, and ho had the one arm stretched out, and 
a writing in his hand. And when the king and those who 
were with him saw this bed, and the man who was laid in it, 
they marvelled what it might be, and they said, Certes, that 
bod was one of the wonders of Hercules and of his enchant- 
ments. And when they sav/ the writing which he held in his 
hand, they showed it to the king, and the king went to him, 
and took it from his hand, and opened it and read it, and it 
said thus. Audacious one, thou who shalt read this writing, 
mark well what thou art, and how great evil through thee shall 
come to pass, for even as Spain was peopled and conquered by 
me, so by thee shall it be depopulated and lost. And I say 
unto thee, that I was Hercules the strong, he who conquered 
the greater part of the world, and all Spain ; and I slew Ge- 
ryon the Great, who was Lord thereof; and I alone subdued 
all those lands of Spain, and conquered many nations, and 
brave knights, and never any one could conquer me, save only 
Death. Look well to what thou doest, for from this world 
thou wilt carry with thee nothing but the good which thou 
hast done. 

" And when the king had read the writing he was troubled, 
and he wished then that he had not begun this thing. How- 
beit he made semblance as if it touched him not, and said that 
no man was powerful enough to know that which is to come, 
except the true God. And all the knights who were present 
were much troubled because of what the writing said ; and 
having seen this they went to behold another apartment, 
which was so marvellous, that no man can relate how mar- 
vellous it was. The colors which were therein were four- 
The one part of the apartment was white as snow ; and the 
other, which was over against it, was more black than pitch ; 
and another part was green as a fine emerald, and that which 
was over against it was redder than fresh blood : and the whole 
apartment was bright and more lucid than crystal, and it was 
so beautiful, and the color thereof so fine, that it seemed as if 
each of the sides were made of a single stone, and all who were 
there present said that there was not more than a single stone 
in each, and that there was no joining of one stone with 
another, for every side of the whole four appeared to be one 
solid slab ; and they all said, that never in the world had such 
a work as this elsewhere been made, and that it must be held 
for a remarkable thing, and for one of the wonders of the 
world. And in all the apartments there was no beam, nor 
any work of wood, neither within nor without; and as the 
floor thereof was flat, so also was the ceiling. Above these 
were windows, and so many, that they gave a great light, so 
that all which was within might be seen as clearly as that 
which was without. And when they had seen the apartment 
how it was made, they found in it nothing but one pillar, and 
that not very large, and round, and of the height of a man of 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 725 



mean stature : and there was a door in it right cunningly 
made, and upon it was a little writing in Greek letters, which 
said, Hercules made this house in the year of Adam three 
hundred and six. And when tlie king had read these letters, 
and understood that which tliey said, ho opened tlic door, and 
when it was opened they found Elebrcw letters which said, 
j This house is one of the wonders of Hercules 3 and when they 
had read these letters they saw a niche made in that pillar, 
in whicli was a coffer of silver, right suhtly wrought, and after 
a strange manner, and it was gilded, and covered with many 
precious stones, and of great price, and it was fastened with a 
lock of mother-of-pearl. And tliis was made in such a man- 
ner that it was a strange thing, and there were cut upon it 
Greek letters which said. It cannot be but that the king, in 
whose time this coffer sliall be opened, shall see wonders be- 
fore his death : thus said Hercules the Lord of Greece and of 
Spain, who knew some of those things which are to come. 
And when the king understood this, he said, Within this coffer 
lies that which I seek to know, and which Hercules has so 
strongly forbidden to be known. And he took the lock and 
broke it with his hands, for there was no other who durst 
break it : and wlien the lock was broken, and the coffer open, 
they found nothing within, except a white cloth folded be- 
tween two pieces of copper ; and he took it and opened it, 
and found Moors portrayed therein with turbans, and banners 
in their hands, and with their swords round their necks, and 
their bows behind them at the saddle-bow, and over these 
figures were letters which said. When this cloth shall be 
opened, and these figures seen, men appareled like them shall 
conquer Spain and sliall be Lords thereof. 

" When the King Don Ilodrigo saw tliis, he was troubled at 
heart, and all the knights who were with him. And they said 
unto him, Now, sir, you may see what has befallen you, be- 
cause you would not list<m to those who counselled you not 
to pry into so great a thing, and because you despised the 
kings who were before you, who all observed the commands 
of Hercules, and ordered them to be observed, but you would 
not do this. And he iiad greater trouble in his heart than he 
had ever before felt 5 howbeit he began to comfort them all, 
and said to them, God forbid that all tliis whicli we have seen 
should come to pass. Nevertheless, I say, that if things must 
be according as they are here declared, I could not set aside 
that which hath been ordained, and, therefore, it appears that 
I am he by whom this house was to be opened, and that for 
me it was reserved. And seeing it is done, there is no reason 
that we should grieve for that which cannot be prevented, if 
it must needs come. And let come what may, with all my 
power I will strive against that which Hercules has foretold, 
even till I take my death in resisting it : and if you will all do 
in like manner, I doubt whether the whole world can take 
from us our power. But if by God it hath been appointed, 
no strength and no art can avail against his Almighty power, 
but that all things must be fulfilled even as to him scemeth 
good. In this guise they went out of the house, and he 
charged them all that they should tell no man of what they 
had seen there, and ordered the doors to be fastened in the 
same manner as before. And they had hardly finished fasten- 
ing them, when they beheld an eagle fall right down from the 
sky, as if it had descended from Heaven, carrying a burning 
firebrand, which it laid upon the top of the house, and began 
to fan it with its wings ; and the firebrand with the motion of 
the air began to blaze, and the house was kindled and burnt 
as if it had been made of rosin ; so strong and mighty were the 
flames and so high did they blaze up, that it was a great 
marvel, and it burnt so long that there did not remain the sign 
of a single stone, and all was burnt into ashes. And after a 
while there came a great flight of birds small and black, who 
hovered over the ashes, and they were so many, that with 
the fanning of their wings, all the ashes were stirred up, and 
rose into the air, and were scattered over the whole of Spain ; 
and many of those persons upon whom the ashes fell, ap- 
peared as if they had been besmeared with blood. All this 
happened in a day, and many said afterwards, that all those 
persons upon whom those ashes fell, died in battle when Spain 
was conquered and lost ; and this was the first sign of the 
destruction of Spain." — Chronica del Rey D. Rodrigo, 
Part I, c. 28—30. 

^'Ysiendo verdad lo que escriven nuestros Chronistas, y el 
Alcayde Tariff las leiras que en este Palacio fueron halladas, no 



se ha de entender que fueron puestas por Hercules en sufunda- 
cion, ni por algun nigromantico, como algunos piensan, pues solo 
Dios sahe las cosas por venir, y aqiiellos aquien el es servido re- 
vehrrlas : bien piiede ser que fuessen puestas por alguna santa 
persona aquien nuestro Scnor lo ovicsse revrlado y m and ado ; 
como revclo el castigo que avia de sucedcr del diluvio general en. 
tiempo de JVoe, quefue pregonero de la jasticia de Dios ; y el 
de las ciudades de Sodoma y Gomorra a Abraham." — Fran, de 
Pisa, Descr. de Toledo, h 2, c. 31. 

Tlie Spanish ballad upon the subject, fine as the subject is, 
is flat as a flounder : — 

De las nobilissimos Godos 
que en Costilla avian reynado 
Rodrigo reyno elpostrero 
de los rcyes que han passado ; 
en cuijo tiempo los Moras 
todo Espana avian ganado^ 
sinofuera las Asturias 
que defendio Don Pelayo. 
En Toledo esta Rodrigo 
al comiengo del reyiiado ; 
vinole gran voluntad 
dc ver lo que esta cerrado 
en la torre que esta alii, 
antigua de muchos anos. 
En esta torre los r eyes 
cada uno hecho un canado, 
porque lo ordenara ansi 
Hercules el afamado, 
que gano primero a Espana 
de Gerion gran tirano. 
Creyo el rcy que avia en la torre 
gran thesoro alii guardado j 
la torre fue luego abierta 
y quitados los canados j 
no ay en ella cosa alguna, 
sola una caxa han hallado. 
El rey la mandara abrir ; 
un pano dentro se ha hallado, 
con Unas letras latinas 
que dizen en Castellano, 
Quando aqueslas cerraduras 
que cierran estos canados, 
fueren abiertas y visto 
lo en el pano debuxado, 
Espana sera perdida, 
y toda ella asolada ; 
ganaran la gente estrana 
como aqui est an Jigurados, 
los rostros muy denegridos, 
los bragos arremangados, 
muchas colores vestidas, 
en las cabegas tocados, 
al^adas traeran sus senas 
en cavallos cavalgando, 
largas langas en sus manos, 
con espadas en su lado. 
Alarabes se diran, 
y de aquesta tierra estranosj 
perderase toda Espana, 
que nada no aurafincado. 
El rey con sus ricos hombres 
todos se avian espantado, 
quando vieron lasfiguras 
y letras que hemos contado j 
buelven a cerrar la torre, 
quedo el rey muy angustiado. 

Romances nuevamente sacados per Lo- 
renzo de Sepulveda, ff. 160, 1564. 

Juan Yague de Salas relates a singular part of this miracle, 
which I have not seen recorded any where but in his very rare 
and curious poem : — 

Canto como rompidos los candados 
De la lobrega cueva, y despedidas 
De sus se7ios obscuros votes tristes 
JSTo bien articuladas, si a remiendos, 



726 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Repetidas adentro par el ayre, 
Y una mas bronca se escucho que dize, 
Desdichado Rey Ro [y acaba dlgo, 
Qiiedando la R submersa entre pigarras) 
La Coro perderas, y el Man, y el Ce, 
JVb dlxo el na, ni el do, ni el tro, no dixo ; 
Jihnenos no se oyo, si bien oyose 
For lascivo tirano, y por sobervio, 
Qite ya permite el Cielo que el de Meca 
Castigue por tu causa el Reyno Godo, 
Por solo que lo riges con mal modo. 

Los Amantes de Temel, 



p. 29. 



The Chronica General del Rey Don Alfonso gives a sin- 
gular account of the first inhabitant of this fatal spot : — 

" There was a king who had to name Rocas ; he was of 
<^he east country from Edom, wherein was paradise, and for 
the love of wisdom he forsook his kingdom, and went about 
the world seeking knowledge. And in a country between the 
east and the north, he found seventy pillars ; thirty were of 
brass, thirty of marble, and they lay upon the ground, and 
upon them was written all knowledge and the nature of things. 
These Rocas translated, and carried with him the book in 
which he had translated them, by which he did marvels. He 
came to Troy when the people under Laomedon were build- 
ing the city, and seeing them he laughed. They asked him 
why, and he replied, that if they knew what was to happen, 
they would cease from their work. Then they took him and 
led him before Laomedon, and Laomedon asked him for why 
lie had spoken these words, and Rocas answered, that he had 
spoken truth, for the people should be put to the sword, 
and the city be destroyed by fire. Wherefore the Trojans 
would have slain him, but Laomedon, judging tliat he spoke 
from folly, put him in prison to see if he would repent. He, 
fearful of death, by his art sent a sleep upon the guards, and 
filed off his irons, and went his way. And he came to the 
seven hills by the Tiber, and there, upon a stone, he wrote the 
letters Roma, and Romulus found them, and gave them as a 
name to his city, because they bore a resemblance to his own. 

" Then went King Rocas westward, and he entered Spain, 
and went round it and through it, till coming to the spot 
where Toledo stands, he discovered that it was the central 
place of the country, and that one day a city should there be 
built, and there he found a cave, into which he entered. There 
lay in it a huge dragon, and Rocas in fear besought the dragon 
not to hurt him, for they were both creatures of God. And 
the dragon took such love towards him, that he always brought 
him part of his food from the chase, and they dwelt together 
in the cave. One day, an honorable man of that land, by 
name Tartus, was hunting in that mountain, and he found a 
bear, and the bear fled into the cave, and Rocas, in fear, ad- 
dressed him as he had done the dragon, and the bear quietly 
lay down, and Rocas fondled his head ; and Tartus following, 
saw Rocas, how his beard was long, and his body covered with 
hair, and he thought it was a wild man, and fitted an arrow 
to his bow, and drew the string. Then Rocas besought him 
in the name of God not to slay him, and obtained security for 
himself and the bear under his protection. And when Tartus 
heard how he was a king, he invited him to leave that den and 
return with him, and he would give him his only daughter in 
marriage, and leave him all that he had. By this the dragon 
returned. Tartus was alarmed, and would have fled, but 
Rocas interfered, and the dragon threw down half an ox, for 
he had devoured the rest, and asked the stranger to stop and 
eat. Tartus declined the invitation, for he must be gone. 
Then said Rocas to the dragon. My friend, I must now leave 
you, for we have sojourned together long enough. So he de- 
parted, and married, and had two sons ; and, for love of the 
dragon, he built a tower over the cave, and dwelt there. After 
his death, one of his sons built another, and King Pirros added 
more building, and this was the beginning of Toledo." 



Redeemed Magdalen. — X. p. 672, col. 1. 

Lardner published a letter to Jonas Hanway, showing why 
houses for the reception of penitent harlots ought not to be 
called Magdalen Houses 5 Mary Magdalen not being the sin- 
ner recorded in the 7th chapter of Luke, but a woman of dis- 



tinction and excellent character, who labored under some 
bodily infirmity, which our Lord miraculously healed. 

In the Shibboleth of Jean Despagne is an article thus en- 
titled : De Marie Magdelaine laquelle faussement on dit avoir 
estefemme de niauvaise vie : Le tort que Imj font les Theologiens 
pour la plus part en leurs sermons, en leurs livres ; et specialement 
la Bible Angloise en V Argument du 7« chap, de S. Luc. 

" The injury," says this Hugonot divine, " which the 
Romish church does to another Mary, the sister of Lazarus, 
has been sufficiently confuted by the orthodox. It has been 
ignorantly believed that this Mary, and another who was of 
Magdala, and the sinner who is spoken of in the 7th of Luke, 
are the same person, confounding the three in one. We have 
justified one of the three, to wit, her of Bethany, the sister 
of Lazarus ; but her of Magdala we still defame, as if that 
Magdalen were the sinner of whom St. Luke speaks. 

" Nothing is more common in the mouth of the vulgar than 
the wicked life of the Magdalen. The preachers who wish 
to confess souls that are afflicted with horror at their sins, rep- 
resent to them this woman as one of the most immodest and 
dissolute that ever existed, to whom, however, God has shown 
mercy. And upon this same prejudice, which is altogether 
imaginary, has been founded a reason why the Son of God, 
having been raised from the dead, appeared to Mary Mag- 
dalen before any other person ; for, say they, it is because 
she had greater need of consolation, having been a greater 
sinner than the others. — He who wrote the Practice of Piety 
places her with the greatest offenders, even with Manasses, 
one of the wickedest of men : and to authorize this error the 
more, it has been inserted in the Bible itself. For the argu- 
ment to the 7th of Luke in the English version says, that the 
woman whose sins were in greater number than those of 
others — the woman, who till then had lived a wicked and 
infamous life — was Mary Magdalen. But, 1st, The text gives 
no name to this sinner: Where then has it been found? 
Which of the Evangelists, or what other authentic writing, 
has taught us the proper name or surname of the woman ? 
For she who poured an ointment upon Christ (Matth. xxvi. 
John xii.) was not this sinner, nor Mary Magdalen, but a 
sister of Lazarus. All these circumstances show that they are 
two different stories, two divers actions, performed at divers 
times, in divers places, and by divers persons. 2dly, Where do 
we find that Mary Magdalen ever anointed the feet of our Sa- 
vior ? 3dly, Where do we find that Mary Magdalen had been 
a woman of evil life ? The gospel tells us that she had been 
tormented with seven devils or evil spirits, an affliction which 
might happen to the holiest person in the world : But we do 
not see even the shadow of a word there which marks her 
with infamy. Why then do we still adhere to an invention 
not only fabulous, but injurious to the memory of a woman 
illustrious in piety ? We ought as well to beware of bearing 
false witness against the dead as against the living. 

" It is remarkable that neither the sinner (Luke vii.) nor 
the adulteress who is spoken of in the 8th of Jchn, are named 
in the sacred history, any more than the thief who was con- 
verted on the cross. There are particular reasons, beyond a 
doubt, and we may in part conjecture them, why the Holy 
Spirit has abstained from relating the names of these great 
sinners, although converted. It is not then for us to impose 
them; still less to appropriate them to persons whom the 
Scripture does not accuse of any enormous sins." 



That Egyptian penitent. — X. p. 672, col. I. 

St. Mary the Egyptian. This is one of those religious ro- 
mances which may probably have been written to edify the 
people, witliout any intention of deceiving them. Some parts 
of the legend are beautifully conceived. An English Roman- 
ist has versified it in eight books, under the title of the Tri- 
umph of the Cross, or Penitent of Egypt. Birmingham, 1776. 
He had tlie advantage of believing his story, — which ought to 
have acted like inspiration. 



The dreadful Tale! — X. p. 672, col. 2. 

Amava el Rey la desigual Florinda 
En ser gentil, y desdenosa dama, 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



727 



Que qidere amor, que quando un Rcy sc rinda 
Desdenes puedan rcsistir su llama. 

JVofuc de Orecia mas hermosay linda 
La que le dio por su desdicka fama, 

J\ri desde el Sagltario a Cyiiosura 

Se vio en tanto rigor tanta hermosura. 

Credo el amor como el desdcn crecia ; 

Enojose el poder ; la resistencia 
Sefue aumentando, pero no podia 

Sufrir un Rey sujcta competencia .■ 
Estendiose d furor la cortesia, 

Los tcrminos passo de la pacicncia, 
Haziendo los mayores desenganos 
Las haras vieses, y los meses anos. 

Cansado ya Rodrigo de qxcefuesse 
Teorica el amor, y intentos vanos. 

Sin que demostracion alguna liuvies^e, 
Puso su gusto en pratica de manos -. 

Pues quien de tanto amor no le tuvicsse 
Con los medios masfaciles y humanos, 

Como tendria entonces sufrimiento 

De injustafuerga en el rigor violento ? 



s, congojas, lagrimas y vozcs, 
Amenaias, amores,fuerga, injuria, 

Pruevan, pelean, llegan, danferozes 
Al que ama, rabia, al que aborrcce, furia ; 

Discurren los pronosticos velozes, 

Qmc ofrece el pensamiento aquien injuria ; 

Rodrigo teme, y ama, y fuerga, y ella 

Quanto mas se resiste, estd mas bella. 

¥a viste de jazmines el dcsmayo 
Las eladas mexiUas siempre hermosas, 

Ya la verguenga del clavel de Mayo, 
Alexandrinas, y purpureas rosas : 

Rodrigo ya como encendido rayo, 
Q,ue no respeta las sagradas cosas, 

JVt se ahoga en sus lagrimas, ni mueve 

Porque se abrasse, o se convierta en nieve. 

Rindiose alfin la femenil flaqueza 

Al varonil valor y atrevimicnto ; 
Qucdo sin lustre la mayor helleza 

Que es de una casta Virgen ornamento ; 
Siguio d la injusta furia la tihieza. 

Apareciose el arrepentimiento, 
Que viene como sombrce del pecado, 
Principios del castigo del culpado. 

Fue con Rodrigo este mortal disgusto, 
Y quedo con Florinda la venganga, 

Que le propuso el echo mas injusto 

Que de mugcr nuestra memoria alcanga .- 

Dizese que no ver en el Rey gusto, 
Sino de tanto amor tanta mudanga 

Fue la ocasion, que la muger gozada 

Massiente aborrecida queforgada. 

Jerusalen Conquistada, 1, 6, fF. 132. 

Lope de Vega quotes scripture in proof of the opinion ex- 
pressed in this last couplet. 2 Kings, ch. xiii. 

Old Barret tells the story as Ancient Pistol would have 
done : — 

" In Ulit's time there regaiized in Spain 
One Roderick, king from the Gothians race't ; 
Into whose secret heart with silent strain 
Instretcht the 'sturber of hart pudike chast, 
Him enamoravizing of a piece, 
A piece by Nature quaintly symmetrized, 
Enfayred with beauty as Helen fair of Greece : 
Count Julian's daughter of bed-wedlockized, 
Ycleaped Caba ; who in court surshined 
The rest, as Hesperus the dimmed stars. 
This piece the king in his Love's-closet shrined, 
Survicting her by wile, gold, gems, or forced jars." 



It is thus rchited in the flibulous Chronicle: — ^^ Despues 
que el Rey ovo descubicrto su coragon a la Cava, no era dia que 
la no requiriesse una vez a dos, y ella se defendia con buena 
razon : cmpero al cabo como el Rey no pensava cosa como en esto, 
un dia en la siesta cinbio con un donzel suyo por la Cava ,• y ella 
vino a su mandado ; y como en essa hora no avia en toda su 
camara otro ninguno sino ellos todos tres, el cumplio con ella todo 
to que puso. Empero tanto sabed que si ella quisiera dar bozes 
que bien fuera oyda de la reyna, mas callosse con to que el Rey 
quisofazcr." — P. 1, c. 172. 

In this fabulous Chronicle Roderick's fall is represented as 
the work of his stars : — " F aunque a las vezes pensava el gran 
yerro en que tocava, y en la maldad que su coragon avia cometido, 
tanto era el ardor que tenia que lo olvidava todo, y esto acarreava 
la malandanga que le avia de venir, y la destruycion de Espana 
que avia de aver comiengo para se hazer ; y quiero vos dezir que 
so coTistclacion no podia escusar que esto no passasse assi ; y ya 
Dlos lo avia dexado en su discrecion ; y el por cosa quefuesse no 
se podia arredrar que no topasse en ello.''^ — P. 1, c. 164. 

" Certes," says Ihe fabulous Chronicler, " he was a Lord of 
greater bounty than ever had been seen before his time. — He 
used to say, that if all the world were his, he avouM rather lose 
it than one friend ; for the world was a thing which, if it were 
lost, might bo recovered ; but a friend once lost could never 
be recovered for all the treasure in the world. And because 
he was thus bountiful, all those of Spain were likewise ; and 
they had the fame of being the most liberal men in the world, 
especially those of the lineage of the Goths. Never a thing 
was asked at his hands, whether great or small, to which he 
could say no ; and never king nor other great lord asked aid 
of him that he denied, but gave them of his treasures and of 
his people as much as they needed. And doubt not, but that 
if fortune had not ordered that in his time the lineage of tiie 
Goths should be cut otF, and Spain destroyed, there was no 
king or emperor whom he would not have brought into sub- 
jection ; and if the whole world ought to be placed in the 
power of one man, (speaking of worldly things,) there never 
was, nor will be, a man deserving to possess it, save he alone. 
But as envy is the beginning of all evil, and saw how great 
was the goodness of this king, she never rested till she had 
brought about that tilings should be utterly reversed, even till 
she had destroyed him. Oh what great damage to the world 
will it be when God shall consent that so much bounty, and 
courage, and frankness, and loyalty should be destroyed for- 
ever ! All nations ought to clad tliemselves in wretched weeds 
one day in the week to mourn for the flower of the world, and 
especially ought the people of Spain to make such mourning." 
— Chronica del Rey Don Rodrigo, p. 1, c. 55. 

And again, when the last battle is approaching, he praises 
the king : — '' F eZ Rey era el mas esforgadu hombre de coragon 
que nunca se oyo dczir .- y el mas franco de todo lo que podia 
aver ; y preciava mas cobrar amigos que no quanto tesoro pudiesse 
estar en su reyno, hasta el dia que creyo el consejo del traydor del 
conde Don Julian ; y a maravilla era buen cavallcro que al tiempo 
que el no era rey, no se hallava cavallero que a la su bondad se 
ygualasse, y tanto sabed que sino por estas malandangas que le 
vinieron, nunca cavallero al mundo de tales condiciones fue ; que 
nunca a el vino chico ni grande que del se partiesse despagado a 
culpa suya.''^ — P. 1, c. 213. 

The manner in which Florinda calls upon her father to re- 
venge her is curiously expressed by Lope de Vega: — 

Al escrivirle tiemblan pluma y mano, 
Llega el agravio, la piedad retira, 
Pues quanto escrive la venganga, tanto 
Quiere borrar de la verguenga el llanto. 

JVo son menos las letras que soldados, 
Los ringlones yleras y esquadrones. 

Que al son de los suspiros vanformados 
Haciendo las distancias las diciones : 

Los mayores caracteres, armados 

JVavios, tiendas, maquinas, pendones ; 

Los puntos, los incisos, los acentos 

Capitanes, Alferez y Sargentos. 

Breve processo escrive, aunque el sucesso 
Significar quexosa determina. 



728 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Pero en tan breve causa, en tal processo 
La perdicion de Espana se fulmina. 

Jerusalen Conquistada, 1. 6, ff. 138. 

I remember but one of the old poets who has spoken with 
compassion of Florinda. It is the Portuguese Bras Garcia 
MascarenhaSj a writer who, with many odd things in his poem, 
has some fine ones. 

Refresca em Covilham agente ajiita, 

JVam se sabe que nome entam a honrava; 

Muijto deposisfoy Cava Julia dita, 

Por nascer nella a desditada Cava, 

JVam a deslustra, antes a acredita 

F'dha que a honramais que hum Rey presava; 

Hespanha culpe aforga sem descuJpa, 

Jfavi culpe a bella, que nam teve culpa. 

Viriato Tragico, Canto ii. St. 118. 



Wamba's wars. — XII. p. 675, coh 1. 

In the valuable history of this king by a contemporary 
•writer, the following character of the French is given: — 

" Hujus igitur gloriosis temporibus, Oalliarum terra altrix 
perfidice infami denotatar elogio, qua utique inmstimabili ivfi- 
delitatis fehre vexata, genita a seivfideUum depasceret membra. 
Quid ejiim non in ilia crudele vel lubricuml ubi conjuratorum 
conciliabvlum, perfidice sigmim, obscanitas operum,fraus nego- 
tiorum, vcenale judicium, et quod pejus his omnibus est, contra 
ipsum Salvatorem nostrum et Dominum, Judceorum blaspheman- 
tiumprostibulum habebatur. Hcec enim terra sua, ut ita dixerim, 
partu, perditionis sua sibimet prceparavit excidium, et ex ventris 
sui generatione viperea eversionis sua nutrivit decipulam. Etenim 
dum multojam tempore hisfebrium diversitatibus ageretur, subito 
in ea uniusnefandi capitis prolapsione turbo infidelitatis adsurgit, 
et concensio perfidies per unum ad plurimos transit.'^ — S. Julian, 
Hist. Wambae, $ 5. — Espana Sagrada, 6, 544. 



The bath, the bed, 
Tlie vigil.— XII. p. 675, col. 2. 

The Partidas have some curious matter upon this subject. 

" Cleanliness makes things appear well to those who behold 
them, even as propriety makes them seemly, each in its way. 
And therefore the ancients held it good that knights should be 
made cleanly. For even as they ought to have cleanliness 
within them in their manners and customs, so ought they to 
have it without in their garments, and in the arms which they 
wear. For albeit their business is hard and cruel, being to 
strike and to slay ; yet notwithstanding they may not so far 
forego their natural inclinations, as not to be pleased with fair 
and goodly things, especially when they wear them. For on 
one part they give joy and delight, and on the other make them 
fearlessly perform feats of arms, because they are aware that by 
them they are known, and that because of them men take 
more heed to what they do. Therefore, for this reason, clean- 
liness and propriety do not diminish the hardihood and cruelty 
which they ought to have. Moreover, as is aforesaid, that 
which appears without is the signification of what they have in 
their inclinations within. And therefore the ancients ordained 
that the squire, who is of noble lineage, should keep vigil the 
day before he receives knighthood. And after mid-day the 
squires shall bathe him, and wash his head with their hands, 
and lay him in the goodliest bed that may be. And there the 
knights shall draw on his hose, and clothe him with the best 
garments that can be had. And when the cleansing of the 
body has been performed, they shall do as much to the soul, 
taking him to the church, where he is to labor in watching 
and beseeching mercy of God, that he will forgive him his sins, 
and guide him so that he may demean himself well in that 
order which he is about to receive ; to the end that he may 
defend his law, and do all other things according as it behoveth 
him, and that he would be his defender and keeper in all 
dangers and in all diflSculties. And he ought to bear in mind 
how God is powerful above all things, and can show his power 
in them when he listeth, and especially in aflfairs of arms. 
I^r in his hand are life and death, to give and to take away, 
and to make the weak strong, and the strong weak. And 



when he is making this prayer, he must be with his knee' 
bent, and all the rest of the time on foot, as long as he can 
bear it. For the vigil of knights was not ordained to be a 
sport, nor for any thing else, except that they, and those who 
go there, should pray to God to protect them, and direct them 
in the right way, and support them, as men who are entering 
upon the way of death." — Paj-t. ii. Tit. 21, Ley 13. 

" When the vigil is over, as soon as it is day, he ought first 
to hear mass, and pray God to direct all his feats to his service. 
And afterwards he who is to knight him shall come and ask 
him if he would receive the order of knighthood ; and if ho 
answereth yea, then shall it be asked him, if he will maintain 
it as it ought to be maintained ; and when he shall have 
promised to do this, that knight shall fasten on his spurs, or 
order some other knight to fasten them on, according to what 
manner of man he may be, and the rank which he hokleth. 
And this they do to signify, that as a knight puttctb spurs on 
the right and on the left, to make his horse gallop straight for- 
ward, even so he ought to let his actions be straight forward, 
swerving on neither side. And then shall his sword be girt on 
over his brial. — Formerly it was ordained that when noble men 
were made knights, they should be armed at all points, as if 
they were about to do battle. But it was not held good that 
their heads sliould be covered, for they who cover their heads 
do so for two reasons : the one to hide something there which 
hath an ill look, and for that reason they may well cover them 
with any fair and becoming covering. The other reason is, 
when a man hath done some unseemly thing of which he is 
ashamed. And tliis in no wise becometb noble knights. For 
when tlioy are about to receive so noble and so honorable a 
thing as knighthood, it is not fitting that they should enter 
intj it witli any evil shame, neither with fear. And when 
they shall have girded on his sword, they shall draw it from 
out the scabbard, and place it in his right hand, and make him 
swear these three things : first, that he shall not fear to die 
for his faith, if need be 5 secondly, for his natural Lordj 
thirdly, for his country ; and when he hath sworn this, thea 
shall the blow on the neck be given him, in order that these 
things aforesaid may come into his mind, saying, God guard 
him to his service, and let him perform all that he hath prom- 
ised ; and after this, he who hath conferred the order upon 
him, shall kiss him, in token of the faith and peace and broth- 
erhood which ought to be observed among knights. And the 
same ought all the knights to do who arc in that place, not 
only at that time, but whenever they shall meet with him 
during that whole year." — Part. ii. Tit. 21, Ley 14. 

" The gilt spurs which the knights put on have many sig- 
nifications ; for the gold, which is so greatly esteemed, he 
puts upon his feet, denoting thereby, that the knight shall not 
for gold commit any malignity or treason, or like deed, that 
would detract from the honor of knighthood. The spurs 
are sharp, that they may quicken the speed of the horse ; and' 
this signifies that the knight ouglit to spur and prick on the 
people, and make them virtuous ; for one knight with hia 
virtues is sufficient to make many people virtuous, and on the 
other hand, he ought to prick a perverse people to make them 
fearful."— Tirante il Blanco, p. 1, C. 19, ff. 44. 

The Hermit reads to Tirante a chapter from the Arbor de 
battaglie, explaining the origin of knighthood. The world, it 
is there said, was corrupted, when God, to the intent that 
he might be loved, honored, served, and feared once more, 
chose out from every thousand men one who was more ami- 
able, more aff'able, more wise, more loyal, more strong, more 
noble-minded, more virtuous, and of better customs than all 
the others : And then he sought among all beasts for that 
which was the goodliest, and the swiftest, and which could 
bear the greatest fatigue, and might be convenient for the 
service of man ; and he chose the horse, and gave him to this 
man who was chosen from the thousand j and for this reason 
he was called cavallero, because the best animal was thus 
joined to the most noble man. And when Romulus founded! 
Rome, he chose out a thousand young men to be knights, and 
furno nominati militi porche mille furono fatti in an tempo caval 
leri. — F. 1, C. 14, ff". 40. 

The custom which some kings had of knighting tnemselvesi 
is censured by the Partidas. — P. ii. T. 21, L. 11, It is 
there said, that there must be one to give, and another tc, 
receive the order. And a knight can no more knight, than t 
priest can ordain himself. 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 729 



" When the Infante Hernando of Castile was chosen king 
of Aragon, he knighted himself on his coronation day : — 
De que tuts lus Barons nuMcs ho tengercn una gran maraveUa 
com cl inatez se feu cavalier, qui segons los desstis dits deyen 
neiigimo pot esser cavalier, sino dones nos fa cavalier de ma de 
cavalier qui hage lorde de cavalleria." — Tomich. C. 47, fF. 68. 

" The qualifications for a knight, cavallero, or horse-soldier, 
in the barbarous stage of society, were three : Ist, That he 
should be able to endure fatigue, hardship, and privations. 
^dhj. That he should have been used to strike, that his blows 
might be the more deadly. 3dlij, That he should be bloody- 
minded, and rob, hack, and destroy the enemy without com- 
punction. The persons, therefore, who were preferred, were 
mountaineers, accustomed to hunting, — carpenters, black- 
smiths, stone-cutters, and butchers. But it being found that 
such persons would sometimes run away, it was then dis- 
covered that they who were chosen for cavaliers ought to have 
a natural sense of shame. And for this reason it was ap- 
pointed that they should be men of family." — Partida, ii. 
T. 21, L. 2. Vegetius, I. 1, c. 7. 

The privileges of knighthood were at one time so great, 
that if the goods of a kniglit were liable to seizure, they could 
not be seized where he or his wife were present, nor even 

where his cloak or shield was to be found Part. ii. Tit. 21, 

Ley 23. 



The coated scales of steel 
Which o'er the tunic to his knees depend. 

Xri. p. 675, col. 2. 

Canciani (T. 3, p. 34) gives a representation of Roland 
from the porch of tlie Cathedral at Verona, which is supposed 
to have been built about the beginning of the ninth century. 
The figure is identified by the inscription on the sword, — 
Dn-rin-dar-da. The loriea, which Canciani explains, Vestica 
hellica maculis ferreis covtexta, is illustrated by this figure. It 
is a coat or frock of 5ca?c-mail reaching to the knees, and with 
half sleeves. The only hand which appears is unarmed, as 
far as the elbow. The right leg also is unarmed ; the other 
leg and foot are in the same sort of armor as the coat. The 
end of a loose garment appears under the mail. The sliicld 
reaches from tiie cliin to the middle of the log ; it is broad 
enough at the top to cover the breast and shoulder, and slopes 
gradually off to the form of a long oval. 



At every saddle-bow 
Ji gory head was hung. — XIV. p, 



679, col. 1. 



This picture frequently occurs in the Spanish Chronicles. 
Sigurd the elder. Earl of Orkney, owed his death to a like 
custom. " Suddenly clapping spurs to his horse, as he was 
returning liome in triumph, bearing, like each of his followers, 
one of these l)loody spoils, a large front tooth in the mouth of 
the head which hung dangling by his side, cut the calf of his 
leg, — the wound mortified, and he died. The Earl must 
have been bare-legged." — Torfasus, quoted in Edmonston^s 
View of the Zetland Islands, vol. i. p. 33. 



In reverence to the priestly character. — XV. p. 681, col. 1. 

" At the synod of Mascou, laymen were enjoined to do 
honor to the honorable clergy by humbly bowing the head, 
and uncovering it, if they were both on horseback, and by 
alighting also if the clergymen were a-foot." — Pierre de 
Marca. Hist, de Beam, 1. i. ch. 18, § 2. 



Whom not the spoils of Jlta,haUpa 

Could satisfy insatiate. — XVI. p. 683, col. 1 

i! Hernando de Soto, — the history of whose expedition to 
Florida by the Inca Garcilaso, is one of the most delightful 
books in the Spanish language. 
92 



JSTor wicker storehouse for the autumnal grain. 

XVI. p. 683, col. 1. 

" Morales, (8, 23, 3,) speaking of the Asturians, mentions, 
with wonder, their chairs, furniture, and granaries of basket- 
work, — las sillas y otras cosas de servicio recias y firmas que 
hacen entretexidas de mimbres y varas de avellano. Y aun a me 
no me espantaba en aquella tierra tanto esto coma ver los gra- 
neros, que ellos Human lus horreos, fabricados desta misma obra 
de varas entretexidas, y tan tapidas y de tantajirmeza, que sxifren 
gran carga como buenas paredes." 



Covadonga. — XVI. p. 684, col. 1. 

The valley of Covadonga is thus described by the Conde de 
SaldueSa ; — and the description is a fair specimen of his 
poem 5 - 

Yace de Asturias, donde el Sol infante 
S\us montcs con primeras luces hana, 

De Covadonga el sitio, que triunfante 
Cunafue en que racio la insigne Espana 

Vierte en el Sela liquidos cristales 
Con Buena y Deba, que de la montana 

Dcben la vida d lafragosa copa, 

A quien la antiguedad llamo de Europa. 

Aqui lajuventud de un bello llano 
Compite a Jlores, luces de la esphera ; 

Yburlando el Invierno y el Ver ana 
Eterna vive en el la Primavera : 

Sohre sus glebas se dcrrama vfano 
El prodigioso cuerno de la Fiera 

De Amaltea, y aromas, y colores 

Confundcn los matices con olores. 

Robustos troncos, con pobladas ramas 

Vuelven el sitio rustica Alameda, 
Y del Sol no permilen a las llamas 

Lo espeso penetrar de la Arboleda : 
Pierden sus rayos las ardientes fanias , 

Pues la frondosidad opuestaveda 
La luz al dia, y denso verde muro 
Crepusculo le viste al ayrepuro. 

SIgriendo la rihera de Peonia 

Al Oriente Estival, y algo inclinado 

A la parte que mira al medio dia, 
Otro valle se ve mas dilatado : 

A la derecha de esta sclva umbria 
Reijnaio corre, que precipitado 

Va d dar d Buena en liquidos ahrazos 

Supodre vena en cristalinos lazos. 

Sin passar de Reynazo el successivo 
Curso, dexando presto su torrente, 

Cun el cristal se encuentra fugitivo 
De Deba, a quien la Cucba dio lafuente : 

La admiracion aqui raro motivo 

Ve,furmando la senda su corriente, 

Pues lo estrccho del sitio penascoso 

Hace camino del licor undoso. 

Hecho serpiente Deva del camino 

En circulo se enrosca tortuoso, 
Vomitando veneno cristalino 

En el liquido aljofar proceloso : 
En las orillas con vivaz destino, 

En tosigo se vuelve, que espumoso 
Iiificiuna lethal alpie ligero, 
Q,uando lepisa incanto elpassagero. 

Ya de este valle cierran las campanas, 
Creciendo de sus riscos la estatura, 

Desmesuradas tanto las montanas 

Que ofuscan ya del Sol la lumbre pura 

Son rusticos los lados, las entranas 
Del valle visten siempre la hermosura 



730 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Fronsidad el ayre, y de colores 
El suelo texe alfombra de primores. 



Aunque los monies con espesas brenas 
El lado al sitioformam horroroso, 

Y contra su verdor desnudas penas 
Compiten de lo llano lo frondoso ; 

Pintados pajarillos dulces senas 
Al son del agua en trino sonoroso 

De ignovados idiomas en su canto 

Dan con arpados picos didce encanto. 

Lo ultimo de este valle la alta sierra 

De Covadonga ocupa, dondefaerte 
Se expone el Heroe aljuego de la guerra. 

Sin temor negro ocaso de la suerte : 
Los que animosos este sitio encierra 
El ceno despreciando de la muerte, 
Su pecho encienden en la altiva llama 
Que no cabra en las trompas de la Fama. 

De Diba en ella lapreciosafuente 
Al llano brota arroyos de cristales, 

Donde en pequena balsa su corriente 
Se detiene en suspenses manantiales .• 

Despues se precipita su torrente 

Quanto sus ondas enfreno neutrales, 

Con sonoroso ruido de la pena 

El curso de sus aguas se despena. 

Cierra todo este valle esta robusta 
Pena, donde la Cueva estd divina. 

Que amenaza tajada a ser injusta 
Del breve llano formidable ruina : 

Parece qidere ser con sana adusta 
Seco padron, yfiera se destina 

A erigirse epitafio penascoso, 

Sepultando su horror el sitio hermoso. 

De piedra viva tan tremenda altura 

Que la vista al mirarla se estremece ; 
Vasta grena se viste, y la hermosura 

De la fertilidad seca aborrece : 
Es tan desmesurada su estatura 

Que estrecha el ayre, y barbara parece 
Que quiere que la sirvan de Cimera 
Las fulminantes luces de la Esphera. 

Oomo a dos picas en la pena dura 

Construye en circo una abertura rara, 

De una pica de alto, y dos de anchura, 
Rica de sombras su mansion avara : 

Ventana, d boca de la cueva cbscura 
Donde el Sol no dispensa S2i luz clara, 

Tan corta, que su centro tenebroso 

Aun no admite crepusculo dudoso. 

En este sitio puez, donde compile 
La rustiquez con las pintadas flores, 

Puez la pelada sierra no permite 
A la vista, sino es yertos horrores ; 

Por el contrario el llano que en si admite 
De los bellos malices los primores, 

Efecto siendo de naturaleza 

La union en lofealdad, y la belleza. 

A tiorba de cristal las dulces aves 
Corresponden en trinos amorosos, 

Virtiendo en blando son tonos suaves 
Ecos los ayres beben harmoniosos : 

Enmudecen su canto quando graves 
Bemoles gorgeando mas preciosos, 

Es maestro d la barbara Capilla 

El Ruysenor, plumada maravilla. 

Elige este distrito la Divina 

Providencia d lo grave de la hazana, 
Pues aqui su justicia determina 

La monarquia fabricar de Espana ; 



A las cartas reliquias, que d la ruina 

Reservo su piedad, enciende en sana 
Religiosa, que d Imperio sin regunda 
Abrafutura Have JVuevo Mundo. 

El Pelayo, Cant, ix 

Christoval de Mesa also describes the scene. 

Acercandose mas, oye el sonido 

Del agua, con un manso y sordo ruydo. 

El qual era de quatro claras fuentes 

Que estavan de la ermita en las esquinas, 

Quyas piLras deplata aguas corrientes 
Mostro la blanca Luna cristalinas ; 

Y corriendo por partes diferentes 
Evan de grande maravilla dignas, 

Y en qualquiera de todas por su parte 
JSTaturaleza se esmero con arte. 

La una mana de una viva pena, 

Y qual si tambien fuera el agua viva. 

Parte la bana, y parte se despena 
Con rapida corriente fa gitiv a : 

Despues distinto un largo arroyo ensena 
Que por diversas partes se derriba, 

Con diferejite curso en vario modo, 

Hasta que a donde nace buelve todo. 

Otra, que alta descubre ancho Orizonte, 
Como agraviada del lugar segundo 

Sustenta un monstruo que parece un monte, 
Qual Atlanle que tiene en peso el mundo : 

Y como suele el caudaloso Oronle 

Dar el ancho tributo al mar profunda, 
Assi se arroja confuriosas ondas, 
Por las partes mas bazas y mas hondas. 

Sale bramando la tercerafaente, 

Como un mar, y despues por el arena 

Va con tan mansa y placida corriente 
Tan grata y sossegada, y tan serena, 

Que a lasfieras, ganados, peces, gente, 
Puedc aplacar la sed, menguar la pena, 

Y da despues la buelta, y forma el cuemo 
De la Luna, imitando el curso etemo. 

JVace la quarta de una gran cavema, 

Ysiguiendo su prospera derrota 
Parece que por arte se govierna, 

Segun va destilando gota a gota : 
JVo vido antigua edad, edad modema 

En region muy propinqua, o muy remota, 
Fuente tan peregrina, obra tan mieva, 
En gruta artificiosa, o tosca cueva. 

Restauracion de Espana, Lib. 2, fF. 27. 

Morales has given a minute description both of the scenery 
and antiquities of this memorable place. The Conde de 
SaldueSa evidently had it before him. I also am greatly in- 
debted to this faithful and excellent author. 



TTie timid hare soon learns that she may trust 

TTie solitary penitent, and birds 

Will light upon the heimifs harmless hand, 

XVII. p. 686, col. 1. 

Con mil mortificaciones 

Sus passiones crucifican, 

Porque ellas de todo mueran 

Porque el alma solo viva. 
Haien por huyr al ocio 

Cestos, y espuertas texidas 

De las hojas de las palmas 

Que alii crecen sin medida. 
Los arboles, y las plantas 

Porque a su gusto los sirvan 

Para esto vergas offrecen, 

De las mas tiernas que crian 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



731 



Tambieii de corchu hazen vasos 
Cuentas, Crazes, y baxillas, 
Cuyo modo artijlciuso. 
El oro, y laplata einbidian. 
Este los cilicios tcxe, 
Jlquel haze discijdinas, 
El otro las calaveras 
Ell tusco pulo escidpidas. 

Uiio a sornbra del aliso. 
Con la escrUara divina 
Misticos sentidos saca 
De sus literales minas. 

Otro junto de lafuente 

Que niurmura eii dulce risa 
Mira en los libros las ohras 
De los santos Ereinitas. 

Qual ccrca del arroyudo 
Que sultando curve aprissa, 
Discurre cunio a la muerte 
Corre sin parar la vUla. 

Qual con mm Clirlstc abragado 
Besandole las luridas, 
Herido de sus dulores 
Ji sus pies llora, y suspira. 

Qual en lasfiorcs que al campo 
E/it.re esmerahlas matiza^i, 
Las grandczas soheranas 
Del immenso autor medita. 

Qual subida en las pigarras 
Queplata, y perlas distilan, 
Con lairrimas acrecienta 
Su corriente cristalina. 

Qual a lasjieras convoca, 
Las aves llama, y cojubida 
A que al criador de todo 
Jilaben ag-radecidas. 

Qual immoble tudo el cuerpo. 
Con las acciones perdidas, 
Tiene arrcbafada el alma 
Mia donde amando aiuma. 

Y de aquel extasi quando 
Parcce que resuscita, 
Dize con razon que muere 
Porque no perdio lo vida. 

Lafucrga de amor a vezes 
Saeno, y reposo los quita, 

Y saliendo de su estancia 
Buscan del Cielo la vista. 

Quando screna la noche 
Clara se dcscubre Cynthia, 
Bordando de azvl, y plata 
El postrcr mobil que pisa ; 

Quando al oro de su hermano 
JVb pucde tencr embidia. 
Que llena del que le presta 
Haze de la noche dia ; 

Del baculo acovipanado 
El amante Anachorlta 
Solo por las soledades 
SoUtarios pasos guia. 

Yparando entre el silencio 
Las claras estrellas mira 
Que le deleitan por obra 
De lapotencia divina. 

En altas bozes alaba 

Sin tencr quien se lo impida 
M amadur soberano 
Cuya gracia solicita. 

Contempla sus perfeciones, 
Sus grandezas soleniza, 
Sus misericordias canta, 
Sus excelcncias publica. 

La noche atenta entre tanto 
Callando porqae el prosiga. 
Cruxen los vezinos ramos, 

Y blando el viento respira. 
Giiiien las aves noctwnas 

Por hazcrle compania. 



Suenan las fuentes, y array os, 
Retumban las penas frias. 
Todo ayuda al solitario, 
Mieutras con el alma fixa 
En sus queridos ainures 
Conicmplandolos se alioia. 

Suler'ades de Busaco. 

Fuller, the Worthy, has a beautiful passage in his Church 
History concuniing " Primitive Plonks with their Piety and 
Painfulness." — " When tlie furnace of persecution in the in- 
fancy of Christi'inity was grown so hot, that most cities, towns, 
and populous places were visited with that epidemical disease, 
many pious men fled into deserts, there to live with more 
safety, and serve God with less disturbance. No wild humor 
to make themselves miserable, and to choose and court their 
own calamity, put them on this project, much less any super 
stitious oj)ini()n of transcendent sanctity in a solitary life, 
made thein willingly to leave their former habitations. For 
whereas all men by their birth are indebted to their country, 
there to stay and discharge all civil relations, it had been dis 
honesty in them like bankrupts to run away into the wilder 
ness to defraud their country, their creditor, except some 
violent occasion (such as persecution was) forced them there- 
unto ; and this was the first original of monks in the world, so 
called from jiovog, because living alone by themselves. 

"Here they in the deserts liojjed to lind rocks and stocks, 
yea beasts themselves, more kind than men had been to them 
What would hide and heat, cover and keep warm, served 
them for clothes, not placing (as their successors in after ages) 
any holiness in their habil, folded up in the aftected fashion 
thereof. As for their food, the grass was their cloth, the 
ground their table, herbs and roots their diet, wild fruits and 
berries their dainties, hunger their sauce, their nails their 
knives, their hands their cups, the next well their wine-cel- 
lar ; but what their bill of fare wanted in ciieerit had in grace, 
their life being constantly spent in prayer, reading, musing, 
and such like pious emi)ioyments. They turned solitariness 
itself into society ; and cleaving themselves asunder by the 
divine art of meditation, did make of one, two or more, op- 
posing, answering, moderating in tlieir own bosoms, and busy 
in themselves with variety of heavenly recreations. It would 
do one good even but to think of tlieir goodness, and at the 
rebound and second hand to meditate upon their meditations. 
For if ever poverty was to be envied it was here. And I 
appeal to the moderate men of these times, whether in the 
hti^ht of these wofnl wars, they have not sometimes wisht 
(not out of passionate distemper, but serious recollection of 
themselves) some such private place to retire unto, where, 
out of the noise of this clamorous world, they might have 
reposed themselves, and served God with more quiet." 



J\/'one but that heavenly Father, who alone 
Beholds the struggles of Hie hrart, alone 
Sees and rewards the secret sacrifice. 

XVJII. p. 688, col. 1. 

Men amor faga em Deos sen fundamento 
Em Deos, que so conhece e so estima 
A nobreza e o valor de hum pensamento. 

Fernam Alvares do Oriente. 



Sindered. — 'KNIU. 



col. 1. 



" Per idem tempus divince memorice Sinderedus urbis Regice 
MetropoUtanus Episcopus sanctimonia; studio claret ; atque longce- 
vos et meritc honorabiles viros quos in suprafata sibl commissa 
Ecclesia repctit, non secundum scicntiam zelo sanctitatis stimulat, 
atque instinctu jam dicti WitiicB Principis eos sub ejus tempore 
convexare non cessat ; qui et post modicum incursus Arahum ex- 
pavescens, non ut pastor, sed ut mercenarius, Christi oves contra 
decreta majorum deserens, Rovsanm patrice sese adventat." — 
Isid. Pacensis, Espana Sagrada, T. 8, p. 298. 

" E assi camo el Argcbispofue cierto de la mala andanga partio 
de Cordova; y nnnca cesso dc andar dia ni noche fiista quellego 
a Toledo ; y no etnbargante que cl era hombre de buena vida, no 



732 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



se quiso mostrar por tal como deviera ser, y sufrir antes martyrio 
por amor de Jesu Christo y esfo)-gar los suyos, porque se defcn- 
diessen, y que las gentes no desainparassen la tierra ; ca su inten- 
cioii fue de ser confessor antes que martyr.^' — Cor. del K. D. 
Rodrigo, p. 2, C. 48. 

While the Church 
Keeps in her annals the deserter''s name, 
But from the service lohich, with daily zeal 
Devout, her ancient prelacy recalls, 
Blots it, unworthy to partake her prayers. 

XVIII. p. 688, col. 1. 

" Je ne serois pas en grande peine,''' says Pierre de Marca, 
" de rechercher les noms des Eoesques des Beam, si la saincte et 
louable pratique des anciens Peres dHnserer dans les Diptyches, et 
cayers sacres de chascune Eglise, les noms des Evesques orUio- 
doxes, et qui estoient decedes dans la commiivion de V Eglise 
Catholique, eust este continuee jusqu' aux derniers siccles. Et 
je pourrois me seroir en cette rencontre da moyen que P Empereur 
Justinian et le cinquiesme Concile General employerent, pour 
sgavoir si Theodore Evesque de Mopsuestie estoit reconnu aprcs 
sa mort pour Evesque de V Eglise qu'il avoit possedee durant sa 
vie. Car ils ordonnerent a V Evesque et au Clerge de cette ville, 
de revnir les Diptyches de leur Eglise, et de rapporter fidellement 
ce qu'ils y trouveroient. Ce qu' ayant execute diligemment, ils 
firent rapport qu' apres avoir faeillete quatre divers cayers en 
parchemin, qui estoient leurs Diptyches, ils y avoient trouve le 
nom de tons les Evesques de ce siege ; horsmis qu' en la place de 
Theodore, avoit este substitue le nom de Cyrille, qui estoit le 
Patriarche d' Alexandrie ; lequel presidant au Concile d' Ephese 
avoit condamne I' heresie de JVestorius et de Theodore de Mopsu- 
estie. D'ou il apert que les noms de tons les Evesques depuis P 
origine et P establissement de chascune des Eglises estoient enre- 
gislres dans les cayers que Pon appelloit Diptyches, et que Pon 
les recitoit nom par nom en leur lieu, pendant la celebration de la 
Liturgie, tant pour tesmoigner la continuation de la communion 
avec les Evesques decedes, que Pon avoit eu^ avec euxmesmes 
VLVans, qu' afin de procurer par les pricres publiques, et par 
Pcfficace du Sacrifice non sanglant, en la celebration du quel ils 
estoient recommendes a Dieu, suivant Pordonnance desjlpostres, 
un grand profit, soulagement, etrefraichissementpour leurs ames, 
commc enseignent Cyrille de Hierusalem, Chrysostome, et Epi- 
phane.'" — Histoire de Beam. 1. 4, c. 9, § 1. 

" Some time before they made oblation for the dead, it was 
usual in some ages to recite the names of such eminent bish- 
ops, or saints, or martyrs, as were particularly to be mentioned 
in this part of the service. To this purpose they had certain 
books, which they called their Holy Books, and commonly 
their Diptychs, from their being folded together, wherein the 
names of such persons were written, that the deacon might 
rehearse them as occasion required in the time of divine ser- 
vice. Cardinal Bona and Schelstrate make three sorts of 
these Diptychs; one wherein the names of bishops only were 
written, and more particularly such bisbops as had been gov- 
ernors of that particular church : a second, wherein the names 
of the living were written, who were eminent and conspicuous 
either for any office and dignity, or some benefaction and good 
work, whereby they had deserved well of the church ; in this 
rank were the patriarchs and bishops of great sees, and the 
bishop and clergy of that particular church ; together with the 
emperors and magistrates, and others most cons])icuou3 among 
the people : the third was the book containing the names of 
such as were deceased in Catholic communion. — These there- 
fore were of use, partly to preserve the memory of such emi- 
nent men as were dead in the communion of tlie church, and 
partly to make honorable mention of such general councils as 
had established the chief articles of the faith: and to erase 
the names either of men or councils out of these Diptychs, 
was the same thing as to declare that they were heterodox, 
and such as they thought unworthy to hold communion with, 
as criminals, or some way deviating from the faith. Upon 
tliis account St. Cyprian ordered the name of Geminius Victor 
to be left out among those that were commemorated at the 
holy table, because he had broken the rules of the church. 
And Evagrius observes of Theodorus, Bishop of Mopsuestia, 
that his name was struck out of the Holy Books, that is, the 
Diptychs, upon the account of his heretical opinions, after 
death. And St. Austin, speaking of Cascilian, Bishop of 



Carthage, whom the Donatists falsely accused of being or- 
dained by Traditores, or men who had delivered up the Bible 
to be burned in the times of persecution, tells them that if 
they could make good any real charge against him, they would 
no longer name him among the rest of the bishops, whom 
they believed to be faithful and innocent, at the altar." — 
Bingham, b. 15, ch. 3, sect. 17. 



Orary. — XVIII. p. 688, col. 2. 

" The Council of Laodicea has two canons concerning the 
little habit called the Orarium, which was a scarf or tippet to 
be worn upon the shoulders ; and might be used by bishops, 
presbyters, and deacons, but not by subdeacons, singers, or 
readers, who are expressly debarred the use of it in that coun- 
cil. — The first council of Braga speaks of the tunica and the 
orarium as both belonging to deacons. And the third council 
of Braga orders priests to wear the orarium on both shoulders 
when they ministered at the altar. By which we learn that 
the tunica or surplice was common to all the clergy, the orarium 
on the left shoulder proper to deacons, and on both shoulders 
the distinguishing badge of priests. — The fourth council of 
Toledo is most particular in these distinctions. For in one 
canon it says, that if a bishop, presbyter, or deacon, be un- 
justly degraded, and be found innocent by a synod, yet they 
shall not be what they were before, unless they receive the 
degrees they had lost from the hands of the bishops before the 
altar. If he be a bishop, he must receive his orarium, his 
J'ing, and his staff: if a presbyter, his orarium KwAplaneta: if 
a deacon, his orarium and alba. And in another canon, that 
the deacon shall wear but one oraj-ium, and that upon his left 
shoulder, wherewith he is to give the signal of prayers to the 
people. Where we may observe also the reason of the name 
orari^im in the ecclesiastical sense ab orando, from praying, 
though in common acceptation it signifies no more than an 
handkerchief to wipe the face, and so comes ab ore, in which 
signification it is sometimes used by St. Ambrose and St. 
Austin, as well as by the old Roman authors. But here we 
take it in the ecclesiastical sense for a sacred habit appropri- 
ated to bishops, priests, and deacons, in the solemnities of 
divine service, in which sense it appears to have been a habit 
distinct from that of civil and common use, by all the author- 
ities that have been mentioned." — Bingham, b. 13, c. 8, 
sect. 2. 



JVor wore he mitre here. 
Precious or auriphrygiate. — XVIII. p. 688, col. 2. 

Mitrm usus antiquissimus est, et ejus triplex est species .• una 
qum pretiosa dicitur, quia gemmis et lapidibus pretiosis, vel lami- 
nis aureis, vel argenteis contexta esse solet ; altera auriphrygiata 
sine gemmis, et sine laminis aureis vel argenteis ; sed vel aliquibus 
parvis margaritis composita, vel ex serico albo auro intermisto, 
vel ex tela aurea simplici sine laminis et margaritis ; tertia, qum 
simplex vocatur,sine auro, ex simplici sirico Damascene, vel alio, 
aut etiam linea, ex tela alba confecta, rubeis laciniis seu frangiis 
et vittis pendentibus. Pretiosa utitur Episcopus in solemnioribus 
festis, et generaliter quandocumqiLe in officio dicitur hymnus Te 
Deum laudamus, &c. et in missa Gloxid. in excelsis Deo. JVi- 
hiloininus in eisdem festis etiam auriphrygiata uti poterit, sed 
potius ad commoditatemquamex necessitate ; ne scilicet Episcopus 
nimis gravetur, si in toto officio pretiosa iitatur .- propterea usu 
receptum est, tarn in Vesperis, quam in Missis, ut pretiosa utatur 
Episcopus inprincipio et in fine Vesper arum et Missarum solem- 
nium, ac eundo ad Ecclesiam et redeundo ab en ; et quando lavat 
vianus et dat benedictionem solemnem. Intermedio autem spatio 

loco pretiosce accipit auriphry giatam. itiriphrygiata mitra 

utitur Episcopus ab Adventu Domini usque ad festum JVativita- 
tis, exccpta Dominica tertia Adventus, in qua dicitur Introitus 
Gaudete, &c. ideoque in signum latitim utitur tunc pretiosa. 
Item a Septuagesiwa usque ad feriam quartam majoris hebdo7nadtB 
inclusive, excepta Dominica quarta Quadragesima, in qua dicitur 
Introitus Lsetare, &c. Item in omnibus vigiliis, qucejejunantur, 
et in omnibus quatuor temporibus ; in Rogationibus, Litaniis et 
processionibus, qua: ex causa penitentim fiunt ; in festo Innocen- 
tium, nisi veniat in Dominica ; et benedictionibus, et consecra- 
tionibus, quce private aguntur. Quibus quidem temporibus 
abstinet, Episcopus a mitra pretiosa. Poterit tamen Episcopus 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 733 



dam utitar auriphrygiat.a,uti fitiaia si.mplici eodemmndo et forma, 
prout de ■pret'wsa et auriphrygiata dictum est. Simplici vera 
mitra utitur Episcopus feria scxla in Parasceve, et in officiis et 
Missis defunctorum." — Cseremoniale Episcoporum, 1. 1, c. 17. 



The pall 
Of wool undyed, which on the jlpostle^s tomb 
Gregory had laid. — XVIII. p. 688, col. 2. 

" By the way, the pall is a pontifical vestment, considerable 
for the matter, making, and mysteries thereof. For the mat- 
ter, it is made of lamb's wooll and superstition. I say of 
lamb's wooll, as it comes from the sheep's back, without any 
other artificiall colour, spun, say some, by a peculiar order of 
nunnes, first cast into the tombc of St. Peter, taken from his 
body, say others, surely most sacred if from both ; and supcr- 
stitiously adorned with little black crosses. For the form 
tiiereof; the breadth exceeded not three fingers, one of 
our bachelours' lambskin hoods in Cambridge would make 
three of them, having two labells hanging down before and 
behind, which the archbishops oneiy, when going to the altar, 
put about their necks, above their other pontiflcall ornaments. 
Three mysteries were couched therein. First, Humility, 
which beautifies the clergy above all their costly copes. 
Secondly, Innocency, to imitate lamb-like simplicitie. And, 
Thirdly, Industry, to follow him who fetched his wandering 
sheep home on his shoulders. But to speak plainly, the mys- 
tery of mysteries in the pall was, that the archbishops receiv- 
ing it shewed therein their dependence on Rome ; and a mote 
in this manner ceremoniously taken was a sufficient acknowl- 
edgement of their subjection. And as it owned Rome's 
power, so in after ages it increased their profit. For, though 
now such palls were freely given to archbishops, whose places 
in Britain for the present were rather cumbersome than com- 
modious, having little more than their paines for their labour; 
yet in after ages the archbishop of Canterburie's pall was sold 
for five thousand florenes, so that the pope might well have 
the golden fleece if he could sell all his lamb's wooll at that 
rate. Onely let me add, that the author of Canterbury-book 
stiles this pall Tanquam grande Christi Sacramcittum. It is 
well tanquam came in to help it, or else we should have had 
eight sacraments." — Fuller's Church History, page 71. 



T7ie relics and the written tcorJcs of Saints, 
Toledo's choicest treasure, prized beyond 
Ml tceallh, their living and their dead remains ; 
These to the mountain fastnesses he bore 
Of unsubdued Cantabria, there deposed, 
One day to be the boast of yet unbuilt 
Oviedo, and the dear idolatry 
Of multitudes unborn. — XVITI, p. 688, col. 1. 

" Among those," says Morales, " who then passed from 
Toledo to Asturias, was the archbishop of Toledo, named 
Urban. — He, with a holy foresight, collected the sacred relics 
which he could, and the most precious books of his own 
church and of others, determining to carry them all to the 
Asturias, in order that the holy relics might not be profaned 
or treated with little reverence by the infidels ; and that the 
books of the Holy Scriptures, and of the ecclesiastical oflSces, 
and the works of our holy doctors, might not be lost. — And 
although many relics are mentioned which the archbishop 
then carried from Toledo, especial mention is made of a holy 
ark full of many and most remarkable relics, which through 
divers chances and dangers, had been brought from Jerusalem 
to Toledo, and of which all that is fitting shall be related in 
its place, if it please God that this history should proceed. 
It is also expressly said, that the cope which Our Lady gave 
to St. Ildefonso, was then carried to the Asturias with the 
other relics ; and being so capital a relic, it was a worthy 
thing to write of it thus particularly. Of the sacred books 
which were saved at that time, there are specified the Holy 
Scriptures, the Councils, the works of St. Isidore, and St. 
Ildefonso, and of St. Julian the archbishop of Toledo. And 
as there is at this day in the church of Oviedo that holy ark, 
together with many others of the relics which were then re- 
moved, so do I verily believe that there are in the library of 



that church three or four books of those which were then 
brought from Toledo. I am led to this belief by seeing that 
they are written in a form of Gothic letters, which being com 
pared with writings six hundred years old, are without doubt 
much older, and of characters so different, that they may well 
be attributed to the times of the Goths. One is the volume 
of the Councils, another is a Santoral, another contains the 
books of St. Isidore de J^aturis Rerum, with other works of 
other authors. And there are also some leaves of a Bible. — 
To put these sacred relics in greater security, and avoid the 
danger of the Moors, they hid them in a cave, and in a sort 
of deep pit therein, two leagues from the city of Oviedo, 
(which was not at that time built,) in a mountain, which was 
for this reason called Montesacro. It is now by a slight cor- 
ruption called Monsagro ; and the people of that country hold 
the cave in great veneration, and a great romery, or pilgrim- 
age, is made on St. Magdiilen's day. — Morales, I. 12, c. 71- 

The place where the relics were deposited is curiously 
described in the Romantic Chronicle. He found that in 
this land of Asturias there was a sierra, full great, and high, 
the which had only two entrances, after this manner. On the 
one entrance, there was a great river, which was to be passed 
seven times, and in none of tliose seven places was it fordable 
at any time, except in the month of July. And after the river 
had been crost seven times, there was an ascent of a long 
league up a high mountain, which is full of many great trees 
and great thickets, wherein are many wild beasts, such as bears 
and boars and wolves, and there is a pass there between two 
rocks, which ten men might defend against the whole world, 
and this is the one entrance. The other is, that you must 
ascend this great mountain, by a path of two full leagues in 
length, on the one side having always the river, and the way 
so narrow, that one man must go before nnotlicr, and one man 
can defend the path in such manner, that no arbalist, nor engine 
of other kind, nor any other tiling, can hurt him, not if the 
whole world were to come against him. And if any one were 
to stumble upon this path, he would full more than two 
thousand fathoms, down over rocks into the river, which lies at 
such a depth that the water appears blacker than pitch. And 
upon that mountain there is a good spring, and a plain where 
there are good meadows, and room enough to raise grain for 
eight or ten persons for a year ; and the snow is always there 
for company, enduring from one year to another. And upon 
that mountain the archbishop made two churches, one to the 
honour of St. Mary Blagdalen, and the other to the honour 
of Ft. Michael, and there he placed all these relicjues, where 
he had no fear that any should take them ; and for the honour 
of these relics, the archbishop consecrated the whole mountain, 
and appointed good guard over the sacred relics, and left there 
three men of good life, who were willing to remain there, 
serving God, and doing penance for their sins." — P. 2, c. 48. 

Of the Camara Suiitii, Morales has given a curious account 
in his Journal : the substance, with other remarkable circum- 
stances, he afterwards thus inserted, in his great history : — 

'• The other church (or chapel) which King Alonso el Casto 
ordered to be built on the south side of the Iglesia Mayor, (or 
cathedral,) was with the advocation of the Glorious Arch- 
angel St. Michael. And in order that he might elevate it, 
he placed under it another church of the Virgin and Martyr 
St. Leocadia, somewhat low, and vaulted with a strong arch, 
to support the great weight which was to be laid upon it. 
The king's motive for thus elevating this church of St. Mi- 
chael, I believe certainly to have been because of the great 
humidity of that land. He had determined to place in this 
church the famous relics of which we shall presently speak, 
and the humidity of the region is so great, that even in 
summer the furniture of the houses on high ground is covered 
with mold. This religious prince therefore elevated the 
church with becoming foresight for reverence and better 
preservation of the precious treasure which was therein to 
be deposited. For this reason they call it Camara, (the 
chamber,) and for the many and great relics which it con- 
tains, it has most deservedly the appellation of Holy. You 
ascend to it by a flight of twenty-two steps, which begin in 
the cross of the Iglesia Mayor, (or cathedral,) and lead to a 
vaulted apartment twenty feet square, where there is an altar 
upon which mass is said ; for within there is no altar, neither 
is mass said there by reason of the reverence shewn to so great 
a sanctuary ; and it may be seen that K. D. Alonso intended 



734 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



in his plan that there should be no altar within. In this 
apartment or outer chapel is a great arched door, with a very 
strong fastening ; it leads to another smaller square chamber, 
vaulted also, with a square door, which also is fastened with 
another strong fastening, and these are the fastenings and 
keys which the Bishop Sampyro admires for their strength 
and security. 

"The square door is the door of the Holy Chamber, which 
is in the form of a complete church, and you descend to it by 
twelve steps. The body of this church is twenty-four feet in 
length, and sixteen in width. Its arched roof is of the same 
dimensions. The roof is most richly wrought, and supported 
upon six columns of divers kinds of marble, all precious and 
right beautiful, upon which the twelve apostles are sculptured, 
two and two. The ground is laid with Mosaic work, with 
variety of columns, representing jasper ware. The Bishop 
Sampyro had good reason to complain of the darkness of this 
church, which has only one smtill window in the upper part 
of the chapel ; and, therefore, in this which we call the body 
of the church, there are commonly three silver lamps burning, 
the one in the middle larger than the other two, and many 
other lights are kindled when the relics are shewn. These 
are kept within a grating, which divides the chapel from the 
church. The chapel has two rich marbles at the entrance ; it 
is eighteen feet in length, and its width somewhat less ; the 
floor and the roof are after the same fashion as those of the 
church, but it is one estado lower, whicih in those times seems 
to have been customary in Asturi;is and in Gallicia, the 
Capillas Mayores, or principal chapels, being much lower 
than the body of the church. The roof of the chapel is plain, 
and has painted in the middle our Saviour in the midst of the 
four evangelists ; and this performance is so ancient, that it 
is manifestly of the age of the founder. At this iron grating 
strangers are usually detained; there is a lower one within 
of wood, to which persons are admitted who deserve this 
privilege for their dignity ; and few there be who enter 
farther. This church the king built to remove to it, as 
accordingly he forthwith removed, the Holy Ark, the holy 
bodies, and the other great relics, which, at the destruction 
of Spain, were hidden in the cave and well of Monsagro, and 
for this cause he had it built with so much care, and so richly, 
and with such security, 

" I have described the Camara Santa thus particularly, that 
what I may say of the most precious relics which it contains 
may be the better enjoyed. I will particularize the most 
principal of them, beginning with the Holy Ark, which with 
great reason has deserved this name. It is in tlie midst of 
the chapel, close to the wooden grate, so that you can only 
go round it on three sides, and it is placed u[)on a stone 
pedestal, wrought with mouldings of a palm in height. It is 
a vara and a half (about five feet) in length; little less than 
a vara wide, and about as deep, that part which is of silver, 
not including the height which the pedestal gives it. The 
cover is flat, and it is covered in all parts with silver plates 
of some thickness, and gilt on some places. In the front, 
or that side which fronts the body of the church, it has the 
twelve apostles in more than half relief, and on the sides 
there are histories of Our Lady in the same silver-work. On 
the flat part of the cover there is a large crucifix engraved 
with many other images round about it. The sides are 
elaborately wrought with foliage, and the whole displays great 
antiquity. The cover has round about it four lines in the 
silver, which, however, are imperfect, the silver being want- 
ing in some places. What they contain is this, as I have 
copied it faithfully, with its bad Lathi and other faults : — 

" Omnis conventus populi Deo digitus cathoUci cognoscat, 
quorum inchjtas veneratttr reliquias, intra pretiosissiitia prcB- 
sentis archcBlatera. Hue est de ligno plicrimum, sloe de cruce 
Domini. De vestimentis ilUus, quod per sortern dtvisum est. 
De pane delectdbiU uiide in cena u.yus est, De sindonc Do- 
minico ejus adque sudai-io et cruore sanctissimo, De terra 
sancta qaam piis calcacit tunc vestiglis. De vestimentis matris 
ejus Virginis Marice. De lacte quoque ejus, quod multum est 
mirabile, His pariter conjunctm sunt qumdam sanctorum maxbne 
prestantes reliquice, quorum prout potuimus, hmc nomina suh- 
scripsimus. Hoc est de Sancto Petro, de Sancto Thoma, Sancti 
Bartolomei. De ossibus Prophetarum, de omnibus Apostolis, et 
de aliis quam plurimis Sanctis, quorum nomina sola Dei scientia 
colligit. His omnibus egregius Rex Adefutisus hiimili devotionc 



perditus fecit hoc receptaculum, sanctorum pignoribus insignitum 
argento deauratum, exterius adornatum non vilibus operibus : 
per quod post ejus vitam mereatur consortium illorum in ccelestibus 

sanctorum jubari precibus. Hcec quidem saluti et re Here 

a large piece of the silver is gone. — JVovit omnis provintia in 

terra sine dubio. Here there is another great chasm, — 

Manus et industria clericorum et prcesulum, qui propter hoc con- 
venimus cum dicto Adefonso Principe, et cum germana IcBctissiina 
Urraca nomina dicta : quibus Redemptor omnium concedit 
indulgentiam et suorum peccatorum veniam, per hoc sanctorum 
pignora Apostolorum et Sancti Justi et Pastoris, Cosmce et Da- 
miani, Eulalics Virginis, et Maximi, Oermani, Baudili, Pantale- 
onis, Cypriani et Justince, Sebastiani, Facundi et Primitivi^ 
Christophori, Cucufati, Felicis, Sulpicii. 

" This inscription, with its bad Latin and other defects, 
and by reason of the parts that are lost, can ill be translated. 
Nevertheless I shall render it, in order that it may be enjoyed 
by all. It says thus : Know all the congregation of Catholic 
people, wortliy of God, whose the famous relics are, which 
they venerate within the most precious sides of this ark. Know 
then that herein is great part of the wood or cross of onr Lord. 
Of his garment for which they cast lots. Of the blessed bread 
whereof he ate at the supper. Of his linen, of the holy hand- 
kerchief, (the Sudario,) and of his most holy blood. Of the 
holy ground which he then trod with his holy feet. Of the 
garments of his mother the Virgin Mary, and also of her milk, 
which is a great wonder. With these also there are many 
capital relics of saints, whose names we shall write here as we 
can. Saint Peter, St. Thomas, St. Bartholomew. Bones of 
the prophets, and of all the Apostles, and of many other saints 
whose names are known only to the wisdom of God. The 
noble King Don Alonso, being full of humble devotion for all 
these holy relics, made this repository, adorned and ennobled 
with pledges of the saints, and on the outside covered with 
silver, and gilded with no little cunning. For the which may 
he deserve after this life the company of these Saints in 'I 
heaven, being aided by their intercession. — These holy relics | 
were placed here by the care and by the hands of many clergy 
and prelates, who were here assembled with the said King D. 
Alonso, and with his chosen sister called Donna Urraca. To 
whom may the Redeemer of all grant remission and pardon 
of their sins, for the reverence and rich reliquary which they 
made for the said relics of the Apostles, and for those of the 
Saints, St. Justus and Pastor, St. Cosme and St. Damian, 
St. Eulalia the Virgin, and of the Saints Maximus, Germanus, 
Baudilus, Pantaleon, Cyprianus and Justina, Sebastian, Fa- 
cundus and Primitivus, Christopher, Cucufatus, Felix and 
Sulpicius. 

" The sum of the manner in which this Holy Ark came 
into Spain is this, conformably to what is written by all our 
grave authors. When Cosroes the King of Persia, in the time 
of the Emperor Heraclius, came upon the Holy Land, and took 
the city of Jerusalem, the bishop of that city, who was called 
Philip, and his clergy, with pious forethought, secreted the 
Holy Ark, which from the time of the Apostles had been kept 
there, and its stores augmented with new relics, which were 
deposited therein. After the victory of Cosroes, the Bishop 
Philip, with many of his clergy, passed into Africa, carrying 
with them the Holy Ark : and there it remained some years, 
till the Saracens entered into that province also, and then 
Fulgeniius the Bishop of Ruspina, with providence like that <■ 
which had made Philip bring it to Africa, removed it into M 
Spain. Thus it came to the Holy Church of Toledo, and 
was from thence removed to Asturias, and hidden in the cave 
of Monsagro : finally. King D. Alonso el Casto removed it to 
the Camara Santa ; and afterwards K. D. Alonso the Great 
enriched it. Thus our histories write, and the same is read 
in the lessons on the festival which the church of Oviedo 
celebrates of the coming there of this Holy Ark, with a 
sermon proper for the day, and much solemnity, the service 
being said on the 13th of March, after vespers, above in the J 
church of the Camara Santa, This is a most weighty tes- 1 
timony which the Holy Ark possesses of its own authenticity, 1 
and of the genuineness of the most great treasure which it M 
contains, — These also are strong testimonies, that K, D. ] 
Alonso the Great should not only have made the Ark so rich, 
but that this king should also have fortified the city of Oviedo, 
surrounding it with walls, and making for it a castle, and 
building also the castle of Gauzon upon the sKore, for the 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



735 



defence and security of tliis lioly treasure, and for another end, 
as he left written upon the stone of which we have elsewhere 
spoken. Another testimony of great autliority, is the great 
reverence which has been sliewn to this Holy Ark, from the 
time which is spoken of by Alonso the Great in the inscription, 
to these our days. This is so great that no one has dared to 
open it, melancholy examples being related of some daring 
attempts which have been made. That which occurred in our 
days is not mournful, but rather of much devotion and holy 
joy. The most illustrious Senor D. Christoval de Rojas y 
Sandoval, who is now the most worthy Archbishop of Seville, 
when he was Bishop of Oviedo, determined to open the holy 
Ark. For this, as the singular devotion and most holy zeal 
for the glory of God which he has in all things, admonished 
him, he made such pious preparations as the fame of so celes- 
tial a treasure shewed to be necessary. He proclaimed sol- 
emnly a fast of forty days in his cliurch and through all his 
diocese, commanding that prayers should be made to our Lord, 
beseeching him that he would be pleased with what was in- 
tended, his Most-Illustriousness giving the example, which is 
very common and very edifying in hi.? church, in himself, and 
in the ministers thereof. Three days before the Sunday on 
which the Ark was to be opened, he ordered all persons to fast, 
and to make greater prayers with procbssions. When the 
day arrived, he said pontifical mass, and preached, infusing 
with his holy exhortations much of his own devout desires 
into the hearts of the hearers. The mass being finished, clad 
as he was, he ascended to the Camara Santa, with much out- 
ward solemnity, and with much fervor of devotion internally 
in his heart ; and having there again renewed his hunjble 
prayers to our Lord, and quickened the ardor of that sacred 
desire which had influenced him ; on his knees as he was be- 
fore the Holy Ark, ho took the key to open it. At the mo- 
ment when he stretched out his hand to put the key in tlie 
lock, suddenly h-e felt such horror and di.'Jni-iy, and found Jiini- 
self so bereft of all power {tan ivipossibUitado) to move it in 
any way, that it was impossible for him to proceed, or do any 
thing but remain in that holy consternation, without having 
strength or ability for more. And as if he had come there to 
oppose and prevent that which purposely, and with so much 
desire and preparation, ho had intended to do, he desisted from 
his intent, and gave it up, his whole holy desire being turned 
into a chill of humble shrinking and fear. Among other things 
which his most Hlustrious Lordship relates of what he then 
felt, he says, that his hair stood up in such a manner and with 
such force, that it seemed to him, as if it lifted the mitre a 
considerable way from his head. Now, we all know that this 
famous prelate has vigor and persevering courage for all the 
great things which he undertakes in the service of our Lord j 
but in this manner the Holy Ark remained unopened then, 
and thus I believe it will always remain, fastened more surely 
with veneration and reverence, and with respect of these ex- 
amples, than with the strong bolt of its lock. 

" In the inscription of this Holy Ark, mention is made of 
the relics of St. Baudilus, and by reason that he is a Saint 
very little known, it will be proper to say something of him. 
This Saint is much reverenced in Salamanca and in Zamora, 
and in both cities he has a parochial church, and in Zamora 
they have a good part of his relics. They have so much 
corrupted the name, calling him St. Boal, that the Saint is 
now scarcely known by his own. 

" They of the church say, that the cope of St. Ildefonso, 
which Our Lady gave him, is in the Ark. This may well be 
believed, since our good authors particularly relate that it was 
carried to Oviedo with the Holy Ark, and with the other 
relics, and it does not now appear among them, and there is 
much more reason to think that it has been very carefully put 
away, than that it has been lost. Also they say, that when 
the celestial cope was put into the Holy Ark, they took out 
of it the piece of the holy Sudario, in which the head of our 
Redeemer was wrapped up for his interment, as is said in the 
inscription of the Ark. This is one of the most famous relics 
in all Christendom, and therefore it is most riciily adorned, 
and reverently preserved, being shown only three times in the 
year with the greatest solemnity. The box in which it is 
kept is wrought without of gold and azure, with beautiful 
mouldings and pictures, and other ornaments of much au- 
thority. Within this there is a square piece of wood, covered 
entirely with black velvet, with silver handles, and other 



decorations of silver round about ; in the hollow of this square, 
the holy Sudario is stretched and fastened upon the velvet ; 
it is a thin linen cloth, three quarters long and half a vara 
wide, and in many places full of the divine blood from the 
head of our Redeemer, in divers forms and stains of various 
sizes ; wherein some persons observe marks of the divine 
countenance and other particularities. I did not perceive 
this J but the feeling which came upon me when I looked at 
it is sufficient to make me believe any thing of it 5 and if a 
wretch like me was thus aflFected, what must it be with those 
who deserve of our Lord greater regalements on such an occa- 
sion ! It is exhibited to the people three times in the year ; 
on Good Friday, and on the two festivals of the Cross in May 
and in September, and there is then a great concourse from 
all the country, and from distant parts. This part of the cross 
of the church where the Camara Santa is, is richly hung, and 
in the first apartment of the Camara, a corridor is erected for 
this exhibition, which is closed that day with curtains of 
black velvet, and a canopy that extends over the varandas. 
The Bishop in his pontificals, with his assistants and other 
grave persons, places himself behind the curtains with the 
Holy Sudario, holding it by the silver handles, covered with 
a veil. The curtains are undrawn, and the quiristers below 
immediately begin the Miserere. The Bishop lifts the veil, 
and at the sight of the Holy Sudario, another music begins of 
the voices of the people, deeply aflTected with devotion, which 
verily penetrates all hearts. The Bishop stands some time, 
turning the Sacred Relic to all sides, and afterwards the veil 
Ijeing replaced, and the curtains redrawn, he replaces the 
Holy Sudario in its box. With all these solemnities, the very 
Illustrious and most Reverend Senor, M. D. Gonzalo de 
Solorzano, Bishop of Oviedo, exhibited this Holy Relic on 
the day of Santiago, in the year of our Redeemer 1572, in 
order that I might bear a more complete relation of the whole 
to the King our Ijord, I having at that time undertaken this 
sacred journey by his command. 

"Another chest, with a covering of crimson and brocade, 
contains a good quantity of bones, and some pieces of a head ; 
which, although tliey are very damp, have a most sweet odor, 
and this all we who were present perceived, when they were 
shown me, and we spoke of it as of a notable and marvellous 
thing. The account which they of the church give of this 
holy body is, that it is that of St. Serrano, without knowing 
any thing more of it. I, considering the great dampness of 
the sacred bones, believe certainly that it was brought up to 
the Camara Santa from the church of Leocadia, which, as it 
has been seen, is underneath it. And there, in the altar, the 
great stone-chest is empty, in which King Alonso el Casto 
enclosed many relics, as the Bishop Sampyro writes. For 
myself I have always held for certain, that the body of St. 
Leocadia is that which is in this rich chest. And in this 
opinion I am the more confirmed since the year 1580, when 
such exquisite diligence has been used by our Spaniards in 
the monastery of St. Gisleno, near Mons de Henao in Flan- 
ders, to verify whether the body of St. Leocadia, which they 
have there, is that of our Saint. The result has been, that it 
was ascertained beyond all doubt to be the same ; since an 
authentic writing was found of the person who carried it 
thither by favor of one of our earliest kings, and he carried it 
from Oviedo without dispute ; because, according to my 
researches, it is certain that it was there. Now I affirm, that 
the king who gave part left part also ; and neither is that 
which is there so much, that what we saw at Oviedo might 
not well have been left, neither is this so much but that which 
is at Mons might well have been given. 

" In the church below, in a hollow made for this purpose, 
with grates, and a gate well ornamented, is one of the vessels 
which our Redeemer Jesus Christ filled with miraculous wine 
at the marriage in Galilee. It is of white marble, of an an- 
cient fashion, more than three feet high, and two wide at 
the mouth, and contains more than six arrohas. And foras- 
much as it is in the wall of the church of K. Alonso el Casto, 
and all the work about it is very ancient, it may be believed 
that the said king ordered it to be placed there." — Carcnica 
General de Espana, 1. 13, b. 40. 

Morales gives an outline of this vessel in his Journal, and 
observes, that if the Cliristi;ins tr^m^ported it by land, partic- 
ular strength and the aid of God would have been necessary 
to carry it so many leagues, and move it over the rugged 



736 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



mountains of Europa ; — but, he adds, it might have come by 
■water from Andalusia or Portugal, and in that case this would 
have been a land journey of only four or five leagues. In his 
Journal, Morales mentions certain other relics of which the 
church of Oviedo boasted, but for which he required better 
evidence than could be adduced for them. Such vi'ere a por- 
tion of Tobit's fish, and of Samson's honey-comb, with other 
such things, which, he says, would lessen the credit of the 
Ark, where, according to the Bishop of Oviedo, D. Pelayo, 
and Sebastian, Bishop of Salamanca, they were deposited. 
Of these precious relics he says nothing in his history, neither 
does he mention a piece of Moses's rod, a large piece of St. 
Bartholomew's skin, and the sole of St. Peter's shoe, all which 
he enumerates in his Journal, implying rather tJian expressing 
his doubts of their authenticity. As a scrupulous and faithful 
antiquary. Morales was accustomed to require evidence, and 
to investigate it ; and for these he could find no other testi- 
mony than tradition and antiquity, M'hich, as ])resumptive 
proofs, were strong corroborants of faith, but did not suffice of 
themselves. The Holy Ark has all the evidence which he 
required, and the reverence with which he regarded it, is 
curiously expressed in his Journal. " I have now," he says, 
" described the material part of the Camara Santa. The 
spiritual and devout character which it derives from the sa- 
cred treasures which it contains, and the feeling which is expe- 
rienced upon entering it, cannot be described without giving 
infinite thanks to our Lord, that he has been pleased to suffer 
a wretch like me to enjoy it. I write this in the church 
before the grating, and God knoAvs I am as it were beside 
myself with fear and reverence, and I can only beseech God 
to give me strength to proceed with that for which I have no 
power myself." — T. 10, Viage, p. 91. 

Morales, like Origen, had given in his youth a decisive 
proof of the sincerity of his religious feelings, and it some- 
times seems as if he had emasculated his mind as well as 
liis body. But with all this abject superstition, he was a 
thoroughly pious and good man. His life is deeply interest- 
ing, and his writings, besides their great historical and anti- 
quarian value, derive additional interest from the picture of 
the author's mind which they so frequently display. The 
portrait prefixed to the last edition of his work is singularly 
characteristic. 

The proiid array 
Of ermines, aureate vests, and jewelry, 
With all which Leuvigild for after kings 
Left, ostentatious of his power 7 — XVIII. p. C88, col. 2. 

" Postremum helium Suevis intulit, regnumque eorum in jura 
gentis sum mirct celeritate traiismisit. Hispania magna ex parte 
potitus, nam antea gens Gothorum angustis finibus arctabatur. 

— Fiscum quoque primus iste locupletavit, primusque airariuvi de 
rapinis civium, hosiiumque manubiis anxit. Primusque etiam 
inter suos regali veste opertus in solio rescdit. JSTam ante eum 
et habitus et consessus communis, utpopulo, ita ct regibascrat." 

— S. Isidor. Hist. Goth. — Espana Sagrada, 6, 498-9. 



The Sueve. —XYIIl. p. 689, col. 1. 

As late as the age of the Philips, the Portuguese were 
called Sevosos by the Castilians, as an opprobrious name. 
Brito says. It was the old word Suevos continued and cor- 
rupted, and used contemptuously, because its origin was for- 
gotten. — Monarchia Lusitana, 2, 6, 4. 

When the Sueves and Alans overran Spain, they laid siege 
to Lisbon, and the Saints Blaxima, Julia, and Verissimus, (a 
most undoubted personage,) being Lisbonians, were applied to 
by their town's people to deliver them. Accordingly a sick- 
ness broke out in the besiegers' camp, and they agreed to de- 
part upon payment of a sum of money. Bernardo de Brito 
complains that Blondus and Sabellicus, in their account of this 
transaction, have been so careless as to mention the money, 
and omit the invocation of the Saints '¥. Lus. 2, 5, 23. 



Lord Qod of Hosts, &c. — XVIII. p. 689, col. 2. 

The substance of these prayers will be found in the forms 
of coronation observed by the Anglo-Saxons, and in the early 



ages of the French monarchy. I am indebted for them to 
Turner's most valuable History of the Anglo-Saxons, and to 
Mr. Lingard's Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church, a work 
not more full of erudition than it is of Romish sophistry and 
misrepresentation. 

Roderick brought 
The Uiclder. — 'SNlll. p. 689, col. 2. 

Toman, diziendo aquesto, un ancho escudo 

El Duque y Conde y homhres principales, 
De pies encima el Principe membrudo 

Lo levantan assi del suelo iguales .- 
Y algarlo en peso, quanto algar sepudo 

De algarlo por sti Rey fueron senales, 
Real, Real, Real, diziendo todos, 
Segun costumbre antigua de los Oodos. 

Ch. de Messa. Bastauracion de Espana, 1. 4, ff. 34. 



Rejoice, 
Leon, for thy banner is displayed. 



■XVIII. p. 



coh 1. 



" Laprimera ciudad que gano dizen fue Leon, y desde alii se 
llamo Rey de Leon, y tomo por armas un Leon roxo en campo 
bianco, dexando las antiguas armas de los Oodos, que eran un 
Leon bermejo rampante, en campo azul, buelta la cara atras, sobre 
tres ondas hlancas y azules.''^ — Fran, de Pisa. Desc. de To- 
ledo, 1. 3, c. 2. 

Fue la del quinto globo roxa estrella 
rayo de su valor, voz de sufama, 
y Leon de su escudo y luzimiento, 
heredado Mason, Signo Sangnento. 

Coro de las Musas, p. 102. 

" Les anciennes armes estoient parlantes, comme Von void en 
celles des Comtes de Castille, et des Rois de Leon, qui prindrent 
des Chateaux et des Lions, pour signjfier les nonis vulgaircs des 
Provinces, par le blason de leurs armes ; qui ne se reportent pas 
a Vancienne denomination de Castulo et de Legio, ches Pline." 
— Pierre de Marca, Hist, de Beam, 1. 1, c. 12, § 11. 

" The lion's grinders are, relevees de trois pointes un peu 
creusdes dans leur centre, dans lesque.lles les speculatifs croyent 
voir la figure d^unefleur de hjs. Jen^ ay garde de dire le con- 
traire,^' says P. Labat, " il est pcrmis a bien des gens de voir 
dans les nu'es et dans les charbons ardenstout ce qu'il plait d leur 
imagination de s'y representer ; pourquoy ne sera-t-il pas libre de 
voir sur les dents du Lion la figure desfieurs de lys ? Je doute 
que les Espagnols en conviennent, eux qui prennent le Lion pour 
les armes et le synibole de leur monarchic ; car on pourroit leur 
dire que c''est une marque que sans le sccours de la France, leur 
Lion ne seroit pas fort a craindre.'" — Afiique Occidentale, T. 
ii. p. 14. 

Jlnd Tagus bends his sickle round the scene 
Of Roderick's fall. — XYin. p. 690, col. 1. 

There is a place at Toledo called la Alcurnia. " El nombre 
de Alcurnia es Arabigo, que es dezir cosa de cuerno, o en forma 
de cuerno, lo que Christianas llamavan foz, o hoz de Tajo. 
Llamase assi porque desde que este rio passu por debaxo de la 
puente de Alcantara, va haiiendo una buelta y torcedura, que en 
una escritura antigua se llamahoz de Tajo. Lo mesmo acontecio 
a Arlanga ccrca de Lara, de donde se Uarno la hoz de Lara, 
conio la nota Ambrosia de Morales ; y en el Reyno de Toledo ay 
la hoz de Jucar.''' — Francisco de Pisa. Desc. de Toledo, 
1. i. c. 14. 

Amid our deserts we hunt down the birds 

Of heaven, — wings do not save them ! — XX. p. 694, col. 1. 

The Moors have a peculiar manner of hunting the par- 
tridge. In the plains of Akkermute and Jibl)cl Hidded in 
Shedma, they take various kinds of dogs with them, from the 
greyhound to ihe shepherd's dog, and following the birds on 
horseback, and allowing them no time to rest, they soon fatigue 
them, when they are taken by the dogs. But as the Moosel- 
min cats nothing but what has had its throat cut, he takes out 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 737 



his knife, and exclaiming Bismillah, in the name of God, cuts 
the throat of the game. — Jackson's Morocco, p. 121. 



^ hasty grave, scarce hidden there from dogs 
And ravens, nor from wintry rains secure. 

XXII. p. 698, col. 1. 

In composing these lines I remembered a far more beauti- 
ful passage in one of the Eclogues of the Jesuit Bussieres: — 

Artesius ruit ecce furens, finesque propmquos 
Insvltans, stragem agricoKs fagientibus infert. 
Quid facerem 1 matrem, utpotui, teiieruruque pucllum 
Raptabam, et medlis ahdcham corpora silois. 
Aspera jam frigcbat hyems, frondosaquc querczis 
Pro tecto et latebris ramos prabebat opacos ; 
Algentem fovi matrem ; fovet ilia rigentem 
Infantem gremio. Sub prima crepuscula lucis 
Progredior, tectum misei-is si forte pateret j 
Silvamfusus eques tells hifensus habebat; 
BonafugiOy et capio compendia tuta viarum. 
Conditur atra dies ; ca;lo nox horrida surgit, 
Quam longis mihi nox misero producitur ko7-is 1 
Quos gmiitus fletusque dedi .- quam proxima votum 
Lux fait! heu tristi lux ivfensissima clade! 
Currebam ad notam quercum per devia tesqua. 
Dux amor est. Annum video, pucrumque jacentcm 
Affixum uberibus, durce succumbere morti. 
Ipsa parens, postquam ad voccm convcrsa vocantis 
In me amplexantem morientia luminajixit, 
Huctantem animam glaciato e corpore mittit. 
Obrigui, frigasque novum penetravit in ossa: 
Felix, si simili potuissem occumbere letho ; 
Sors infesta vetat. Restabat cura sepulchri. 
Quo foderem ferrum deerat; miserabile corpus 
Frondibus obtexi, puerum nee ab ubere vulsi 
Sicut eratfoliis tegiiur ; funusque paratur, 
Heu nimis incertum, etprimis violabile ventis. 



their white signal-flag. — XXIII. p. 700, col. 1. 



A white flag, called El Alem, the signal, is hoisted every 
day at twelve o'clock, to warn the people out of hearing, or at 
a great distance, to prepare, by the necessary preliminary ab- 
lutions, to prostrate themselves before God at tlie service of 
prayer. — Jackson's Morocco, p. 149. 



The Humma's happy wings have shadowed him. 

XXIII. p. 700, col. 2. 

The humma is a fabulous bird. The head over which its 
shadow once passes will assuredly be encircled with a crown. 
— TVilkes, S. of India, v. i. p. 423. 



Life hath not left his body. — XXIII. p. 701, col. 1. 

Among the Prerogatives et Proprietes singulieres du Pro- 
phete, Gagnier states that, "iZ est vivant dans son Tombeau. 11 
fait la priere dans ce Tombeau d chaquefois que le Crieur mi 
fait la proclamation, et au 7nime tenis qu'on la recite. II y a tin 
Aiige poste sur son Tombeau qui a le soin de lui donner avis des 
Prieres que les Fideles font pour lui.'" — Vie de Mahomet, 1. 
vii. c. 18. 

The common notion, that the impostor's tomb is suspended 
by means of a loadstone, is well known. Labat, in his Afrique 
Occidentale, (T. ii. p. 143,) mentions the lie of a Rlarabout, 
w]io, on his return from a pilgrimage to Mecca and Medina, 
affirmed, "que le tombeau de Mahomet etoit parte en Pair par le 
moyen de certains Anges qui se relayent d'heure en heures pour 
soutenir ce fardeau.'' Those fables, however, are modest in 
comparison with those which the Franciscans and Dominicans 
have invented to magnify their founders. 

93 



Hast thou not heard 
How, when our clay is leaven'd first with life. 
The ministering Angel brings it from that spot 
Whereon His loritten in the eternal book 
That soul and body must their parting take, 
And earth to earth return 1 — XXIII. p. 701, col. 2. 

The Persians, in their creed, have a pleasant imagination 
concerning tlie death of men. They say that every one must 
come and die in the place where the Angel took the earth of 
which he hath been made, thinking that one of these spirits 
has the care of forming the human creature, which he doth 
by mingling a little earth with the seed. — Thevenot. 



Tlicy perish, all their thousands perish there. 

XXIII. p. 702, col. 1. 

The battle of Covadonga is one of the great miracles of 
Spanish history. It was asserted for many centuries, without 
contradiction, and is still believed by the people, that when 
the Moors attacked Pelayo in the cave, their weapons were 
turned back upon themselves ; that the Virgin Mary appeared 
in the clouds, and that part of a mountain fell upon the Infi- 
dels, and crushed those who were flying from the destruction. 
In what manner that destruction might have been effected, 
was exemplified upon a smaller scale in the Tyrol, in the 
memorable war of 1809. 

Barret sums up the story briefly, and in the true strain of 
Mine Ancient. 

The Sarr'cen, hearing that th' Asturianites 

Had King created, and stood on their guard, 

Sends multitudes of Mohametized knights 

To rouse them out their rocks, and force their ward. 

Pelagius, hearing of this enterprise. 

Prepares his petty power on Auseve mount ; 

Alchameb comes with Zarzen multiplies. 

Meaning Pelagius' forces to dismount. 

To blows they come ; but lo ! a stroke divine. 

The Iber, kw, beats numbrous Sarracene, 

Two myriads with Mahomet went to dine 

In Parca's park. 



The Bread of Life. — XXIV. p. 704, col. 1. 

It IS now admitted by the best informed of the Romish 
writers themselves, that, for a thousand years, no other but 
common or leavened bread was used in the Eucharist. The 
wafer was introduced about the eleventh century. And as far 
down as the twelfth century, the people were admitted to 
communicate in both kinds. 



And let no shame be offered his remains. — XXV. p. 705, col. 2. 

According to the Comendador Fernan Nunez, in his Com- 
mentary upon the Trezientas, the tomb of Count Julian was 
shown in his days about four leagues from Iluesca, at a castle 
called Loarri, on the outside of a church, which was in the 
castle. 



His wonted leathern gipion — XXV. p. 706, col. 1. 

The Musical Pilgrim in Purchas thus describes the Leo- 
nese : — 

Wymmen in that land use no vullen. 
But alle in lether be the wounden : 
And her hevedez wonderly ben trust, 
Standing in her forheved as a crest, 
In rould clouthez lappet alle be forn 
Like to the prikke of a N'unicorn. 
And men have doubelettez full schert. 
Bare legget and light to stert. — P. 1231. 

Purchas supposes this very curious poem to have been 
written about 200 years before he published it, i. e. about 1425. 



738 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



It is probably much older. 
the author says, 



Tn entering Castille from Elvas, 



Now into Castell schall we fare 
Over the river, the land is bare 
Full of heath and hunger also, 
And Sarasynez Governouriz thereto. 

Now Badajoz, and that part of the country, was finally 
recovered from the Moors in the early part of the thirteenth 
century. Purchas perhaps judged from tlie age of the manu- 
Bcript, which may have been written about the time on which 
he fixes, and the language modernized by the transcriber. 



Tlie light which o^er the fields of Bethlehem shone. 
Irradiated whole Spain. — XXV. p. 706, col. 2. 

" Fallamos en las estorias que aquella or a que nuestro Senor 
Jesu Cltristo nascio, seyendo media noche, aparesgio una nuve 
sobre Espana que dio tan gran claridad, e tan gran resplandor, 
e tan gran calor, como el sol en medio del dia quando va mas 
apoderado sobre la tierra. E departen los sabios e dizen que se 
entiende por aquella que despues de Jesu Christo vernie su man- 
dadero a Espana a predicar a los gentiles la ceguedad en que 
estavan, e que los alumbrarie con la fee de Jesu Chrijsto, e aquesto 
fue San Pablo. Otros departen que en Espana avie de nasger 
un pringipe chrystiano que serie senor de todo el mundo, e valdrie 
mas por el todo el linaje de los omes, bien como esclarescio toda 
la tierra por la claridad de aquella nuve en quanta ella duro.^' — 
Coronica General, ff. 71. 

A more extraordinary example of the divine favor towards 
Spain is triumphantly brought forward by Francisco de Pisa. 
" Our Lord God," says he, " has been pleased to preserve these 
kingdoms in the purity of the Faith, like a terrestrial Para- 
dise, by means of the Cherubim of the Holy Office, which, 
•witli its sword of fire, has defended the entrance, through the 
merits and patronage of the most serene Virgin Mary the 
Mother of God." Ha sido servido nuestro Senor Dios conservar 
estos reyiws de Espana en la entereza de laFe, como a un Pa- 
rayso terrenal, mediants el Cherubin del Santo Officio, que con su 
espada de fuego les ha defendido la entrada por los meritos y 
patrocinio de la serenissima Virgen Maria Madre de Dios.'^ — 
Desc. de Toledo, L. 1, C. 25. 

This passage is truly and lamentably characteristic. 



T7ie Oaken Cross. — 'K.XV. p. 707, col. ]. 

The oaken cross which Pelayo bore in battle is said to have 
been preserved at Oviedo, in the Camara Santa, in company 
with that which the angels made for Alfonso the Great, con- 
cerning which Morales delivers a careful opinion, how much 
of it was made by the angels, and how much has been human 
workmanship. The people of Cangas, not willing that Pe- 
layo's cross should be in any thing inferior to his successor's, 
insist that it fell from Heaven. Morales, however, says, it is 
more certain that the king had it made to go out with it to 
battle at Covadonga. It was covered with gold and enamel 
in the year 908 ; when Morales wrote, it was in fine preserva- 
tion, and doubtless so continued till the present generation. 
Upon the top branch of the cross there was this inscription : 
Susceptum placide maneat hoc in honore Dei, quod offerunt 
famuli Christi Adefonsus Princeps et Scemena Regina. On the 
right arm, Quisquis auferre hcec donaria nostra presumpserit, 
fulmine divine intereat ipse. On the left. Hoc opus perfectum 
est, concessum est Sancto Salvatori Ocetensis Sedis. Hoc signo 
tuetur piusi hoc signo vincitur inimicus. On the foot, Et ope- 
ratum est in Castello Oauzon anno Regni nostri XVII discur- 
Tcnte Era DCCCCXLVI. 

" There is no other testimony," says Morales, " that this 
is the cross of King Don Pelayo, than tradition handed down 
from one age to another. I wish the king had stated that it 
was so in his inscription, and I even tliink he would not have 
been silent upon this point, unless he had wished to imitate 
Alonso el Casto, who, in like manner, says nothing concern- 
ing the Angels upon his cross." This passage is very char- 
acteristic of good old Ambrosio. 



Like a mirror sparkling to the sun. — XXV. p. 709, col. 1. 

The Damascus blades are so highly polished, that when any 
one wants to arrange his turban, he uses his cimeter for a 
looking-glass. — Le Brocquiere, p. 138. 



0, who could tell what deeds were wrought that day, ^ 

Or who endure to hear! — XXV. p. 709, col. 1. 

1 have nowhere seen a more curious description of a battle 
between Christians and Saracens than in Barret's manuscript : 

The forlorn Christian troops Moon'd troops encharge, 

The Mooned troops requite them with the like ; 

Whilst Grecian lance cracks (thundering) Parthian targe, 

Parth's flame-flash arrow Grecian through doth prick : 

And whilst that Median scymetar unlimbs 

The Cljristian knight, doth Clrristian curtle-axe 

Unhead the JMedian horsemen 3 whilst here dims 

The Pagan's goggling-eyes by Greekish axe. 

The Greek unhorsed lies by Persian push. 

And both all rageful grapple on the ground. 

And whilst the Saracen with furious rush 

The Syrian shocks, the Syrian as round 

Down shouldreth Saracen : whilst Babel blade 

Sends soul Byzantine to the starred cell, 

Byzantine pike with like-employed trade, 

Packs Babel's spirit posting down to hell. 



Who from their thirsty sands 
Pray that the locusts on the peopled plain 
May settle and prepare their way. — XXV. p. 709, col. 1. 

The Saharawans, or Arabs of the Desert, rejoice to seethe 
clouds of locusts proceeding towards the north, anticipating 
therefrom a general mortality, which they call eWiere, the 
good, or the benediction ; for, after depopulating tlie rich 
plains of Barbary, it affords to them an opportunity of ema- 
nating from tlieir arid recesses, in the desert, to pitch their 
tents in the desolated plains, or along the banks of some 
river. — Jaclison's Morocco, p. 106. 



But where was he whose hand 
Had wieldea it so well that glorious day ? — XXV. p. 709, col. 2. 

The account which the Romantic Chronicle gives of Rode- 
rick after his disappearance, is in so singular a strain of fic- 
tion, that I have been tempted to translate it. It strikingly 
exemplifies the doctrine of penance, of which monastic his- 
tory supplies many instances almost as extraordinary as this 
fable. 



Chap. 238. — How the King Don Rodrigo left the battle and 
arrived at a hermitage, and of that which befell Mm. ■ 

" Now when the King Don Rodrigo had escaped from the , 
battle, he began to go as fast as he could upon his horse along , 
the banks of the Guadalete, and night came on, and the horse n 
began to fail by reason of the many wounds which lie had 
received ; and as he went thus by the river side deploring the 
great ruin wliich had come upon him, he knew not where he , 
was, and the horse got into a quagmire, and when he was in 
he could not get out. And when the king saw this he alighted, 
and stript off all his rich arms and the furniture thereof, and 1 
took off his crown from his head, and threw them all into the 
quagmire, saying, Of earth was I made, and even so are all 
my deeds Hke unto mud and mire. Therefore my pomp and 
vanity shall be buried in this mud till it has all returned 
again to earth, as I myself must do. And the vile end which 
I have deserved will beseem me well, seeing that I have been 
the principal cause of this great cruelty. And as he thus 
stript off all his ricli apparel, he cast the shoes from his feet, 
and went his way, and wandered on towards Portugal ; and 
he travelled so far that night and the day following, that he 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 739 



ame to a hermitage near the sea, wliere there was a good man 
ifho had dwelt there serving God for full forty years ; and 
lOW lie was of great age, for he was well nigh a hundred years 
ild. And he entered into the hermitage, and found a crucifix 
herein, heing the image of our Lord Jesus Chiist, even as he 
vas crucified, and for the remembrance of Him, he bent both 
lis knees to the ground, and claspt his hands, weeping and 
onfessing his sins before God, for he weened not that any man 
n the world saw or heard him. And he said thus, O very 
jord who by thy word hast made all the world from nothing 
vhich it was, and hast created all things, those which are 
■isible to men, and those which are invisible, the heavenly as 
veil as the earthly, and who didst incarnate thyself that thou 
Qightst undergo tiiy passion and death, to save those who 
irmly put their trust in thee, giving up thy holy ghost from 
hy glorified body upon the tree of the true cross, — and who 
idst descend into Hell, and deliveredst thy friends from 
hence, and didst regale them with the glory of Heaven : And 
fterwards thy holy spirit came again into that most holy body, 
vhich thou wast pleased to take upon thee in this world ; and, 
manifesting thyself for the true God which thou wert, thou 
idst deign to abide in this dark world forty days with their 
ights, and then thou didst ascend into thy heavenly glory, 
nd didst enlighten with the grace of the Holy Ghost thy 
eloved disciples. I beseech thee, O Lord, that thou wouldst 
nlighten me, a king in tribulation, wretched and full of many 
ins, and deserving all evils ; let not the soul which is thine, 
nd which cost thee so dear, receive the evil and the desert of 
his abominahle flesh ; and may it please thee, O Lord, after 
he downfall, destruction, perdition, and desolation, which I, 
miserable king, have suffered in this world, that my discon- 
olate soul may not be forgotten by thee, and that all this 
lisery may be in satisfaction for my errors. And I earnestly 
eseech thee, O Lord, that thy grace may breathe upon me, 
hat in this world I may make satisfaction for my sins, so that 
t the Great Day of Judgment I may not be condemned to the 
prments of hell. 

" Having said these words, weeping as though he would 
urst, he remained there a long hour. And when the Hermit 
eard him say all this, he was greatly astonished, and he went 
nto him. And when the King saw him he was little pleased ; 
owbeit after he had talked with him, he would rather have 
3und him there than have been restored again to the great 
onor which he had lost ; for the Hermit comforted him in 
uch wise in this his tribulation, that he was right well con- 
ented ; and he confessed unto him, and told him all that 
oncerned him. And the Hermit said to him. King, thou shalt 
amain in this hermitage, which is a remote place, and where 
hou mayst lead thy life as long as it shall please God. And 
jr me, on the third day from hence, I shall pass away out of 
his world; and thou shalt bury me, and thou shalt take my 
arments, and fulfil the time of a year in this hermitage, 
.^ake no thought as to provision for thy support, for every 
'riday thou shalt have it after the same manner as I, and thou 
jhalt so husband it, that it may suffice thee for the whole 
peek ; That flesh which hath been fostered in great delight 
hall suff'er abstinence, lest it should grow proud ; and thou 
halt endure hunger and cold and thirst in the love of our 
jord, that he may have compassion upon thee. Thy station 
11 the hour of sleep must always be upon that rock, where 
here is an oratory facing the east ; and thou shalt continue 
he service of God in such manner as God will direct thee 
b do. And take heed that thy soul full not into temptation, 
^nd since thou hast spoken this day of penitence, to-morrow 
hou shalt communicate and receive the true body of our Lord 
esus Christ, who will be thy protection and support against 
he enemy and the persecutor. And put thou thy firm trust 
h the sign of the Cross; and thus shalt thou please thy 
Savior. 

" Many (.ther thin.<rs the holy Hermit said, which made the 
ving right joyful to hear them ; and there they continued till 
t was the hour for sleep. And the holy Hermit showed him 
is bed, and said. When I shall have left the company, thou 
yUt follow the ways which I have followed, for which our 

ord will have mercy upon thee, and will extend his hand 
ver thee, that thou mayst persevere in good, and in his holy 
jervice. And then they laid down and slept till it was the 
our of matins, when they should both arise. And the Her- 
iiit awoke him, for as the King had not dept for a long time, 



and was moreover full weary, he would not have awaked so 
soon, if the Hermit had not roused him; and they said their 
hours. And when it was time, the Hermit said mass, and the 
King heard it with great devotion, and communicated with 
great contrition, and remained in prayer for the space of two 
hours. And the hour for taking food came, and the Hermit 
took a loaf which was made of pannick and of rye, and gave 
half thereof to the King, and took for himself the other half: 
And they ate little of it, as men who could not cat more, the 
one by reason of age, and the other because he was not used 
to such fare. And thus they continued till the third day, 
when the holy Hermit departed this life. 

Ch. 239. — How the Hermit died, and the King found a writing 
in his hand. 

" On the third day, the pious Hermit expired at the same 
hour which he had said to the King, whereat the King was 
full sorrowful, as one who took great consolation in the lessons 
which he gave. And when he liad thus deceased, the King 
by himself, with his hands, and with an oaken stick which 
was there, made his grave. And when he was about to bury 
him, he found a writing in his hand ; and he took it and opened 
it, and found that it contained these words. 

Ch. 240. — Of the rule of life which the Hermit left written for 
King Don Rodrigo. 

" O King, who through thy sins hast lost the great honor 
in which thou wert placed, take heed that thy soul also come 
not into the same judgment which hath fallen upon thy flesh. 
And receive into thy heart the instructions that I shall give 
thee now, and see that thou swerve not from them, nor abatest 
them a jot ; for if thou ohservest them not, or departest in 
ought from them, thou wilt bring damnation upon thy soul; 
for all that thou shalt find in this writing is given thee for 
penance, and thou must learn with great contrition of repent- 
ance, and with humbleness of patience, to be content with that 
which God hath given thee to sufter in this world. And that 
thou mayst not be deceived in case any company should come 
unto thee, mark and observe this and pass in it thy life. Thou 
shalt arise two hours after midnight, and say thy matins 
within the hermitage. When the day breaks thou shalt go to 
the oratory, and kneeling upon the ground, say the whole 
hours by the breviary, and when thou hast finislied them thou 
shalt say certain prayers of our Lord, which thou wilt find 
therein. And when thou hast done this, contemplate then 
upon the great power of our Lord, and upon his mercy, and 
also upon the most holy passion which he sufiered for mankind 
upon the cross, being himself very God, and maker of all 
things ; and how with great humility he chose, to be incarnate 
in a poor virgin, and not to come as a king, but as a mediator 
among the nations. And contemplate also upon the poor life 
which he always led in this world, to give us an example ; and 
that he will come at the day of judgment to judge the quick 
and the dead, and give to every one the meed which he hath 
deserved. Then shalt thou give sustenance to thy flesh of 
that bread of pannick and rye, which shall be brought to thee 
every Friday in the manner tliat I have said; and of other 
food thou shalt not eat, although it should be given or sent 
thee ; neither shalt thou change thy bread. And when thou 
hast eaten give thanks to God, because he has let thee come 
to repentance ; and then thou shalt go to the oratory, and there 
give praise to the Virgin our Lady holy Mary, mother of God, 
in such manner as shall come to thee in devotion. If, when 
thou hast finished, heaviness should come upon thee, thou 
mayst sleep, and when thou shalt have rested as long as is 
reasonable, return thou to thy oratory, and there remain, 
making thy prayers always upon thy knees, and for nothing 
which may befall thee depart thou from thence, till thou hast 
made an end of thy prayers, whether it rain or snow, or if a 
tempest should blow. And for as much as the flesh could 
sustain so many mundane pleasures, so must it sufl^er also 
celestial abstinences ; two masses thou hast heard in this 
hermitage, and in it, it is God's will that thou shalt hear no 
more, for more would not be to his service. And if thou 
observest these things, God will have compassion upon thy 
deserts. And when the King had read this, he laid it upon 
the altar, in a place where it would be well preserved. 



740 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



Ch. 241. — How the Devil came in the form of a Hermit to de- 
ceive the King Don Rodrigo. 
" Now when the Khig had made a grave in which to bury 
the Hermit, the Devil was troubled at the good course which 
the King had taken, and he cast about for means how he 
might deceive him ; and he found none so certain as to come 
to him in the figure of a hermit, and keep company with him, 
to turn him aside from those doctrines which the Hermit had 
given him, that he might not fulfil his penitence. And the 
King being in great haste to bury the body, the Devil came to 
him with a long white beard, and a great hood over the eyes, 
and some paternosters hanging from his girdle, and supporting 
himself upon a staiF as though he were lame, and could not 
go. And when he came where the King was, he humbled 
himself, and said unto him. Peace be with thee ! And the 
King turned toward that side from which he came, and when 
he saw him of so great age, he thought that it was some holy 
man who knew of the death of the Hermit, and was come to 
bury him ; and he humbled himself, and went towards him to 
kiss his hand, and tlie Devil would not, saying, It is not fitting 
that a King should kiss the hand of a poor servant of God. 
And the King was astonished at hearing himself named, and 
believed that this must needs be a man of holy life, and that 
he spake by some revelation ; nevertheless, he said, I am not 
a king, but a miserable sinner, for wliom it had been better 
never to have been born, than that so much evil should have 
happened through me. And the false Hermit said to him. 
Think not that thou hast so much fault as thou imaginest in 
what has now been done, for even if thou hadst had no part 
in it, this destruction would have fiillen at this time. And 
since it was ordained that it should be so, the fault is not 
thine ; some fault thou hadst, but it was very little. And think 
not that I speak this of myself j for my words are those of a 
spirit made and created by the will of God, who speaks 
through me this and many other things, which hereafter thou 
shalt know, that thou mayst see how God has given me power 
that I should know all thy concerns, and counsel thee in what 
manner thou shouldst live. And albeit I have more need of 
rest than of labor, by reason of my age, which is far greater 
than my countenance shows, yet I have disposed myself to 
labor for the love of thee, to console thee in this thy persecu- 
tion, knowing that this good man was about to die. Of a 
truth you may believe that on this day month I was in Rome, 
being there in the church of St. John de Lateran, out of which 
I had never gone for thirty years, till I came now to keep thee 
company according as I am commanded. Marvel not that a 
man of so great age, and crippled as I am, should have been 
able to traverse so much land in so short time, for certes I tell 
thee that he who speaks in this form which thou seest, has 
given me strength to go through so great a journey ; and sans 
doubt I feel myself as strong now as on the day when I set 
forth. And the King said to him, Friend of God, I rejoice 
much in thy coming, for that in my misfortunes I shall be by 
thee consoled and instructed in that which must be done to 
fulfil my penitence ; I rejoice also that this holy Hermit here 
shall receive burial from the hands of a man much more right- 
eous than I. And the false Hermit said, Think not. King, 
that it is for the service of God to give to any person a name 
not appertaining to him. And this I say because I well know 
the life of this person, what it was ; and as thou knowest 
nothing of celestials, thou thinkest that as the tongue speaketh, 
even such is the heart. But I tell thee the habit doth not 
make the monk, and it is from such persons as these that the 
saying arose which is common in the world, I would have jus- 
tice, but not for my own house. This I say to thee, because 
he commanded thee to perform a penance such as never 
man did, the which is, that thou shouldst eat only once a 
day, and that of such bread that even the shepherds' dogs 
would not eat it ; and of this that thou shouldst not eat as 
much as thou couldst j and appointed thee tl;e term of a year 
that thou shouldst continue in this diet. Also he commanded 
thee that thou shouldst not hear mass during the time that 
thou abidest here, for that the two masses which thou hast 
heard should suffice j look now if that doctrine be good, which 
bids a man forget the holy sacrament \ Certes I tell thee that 
only for that which he commanded thee to observe, his soul is 
consigned to a place where 1 would not that thine should go 
for all the world, if it were in my power, with all its riches. 



Nevertheless, to be rid of the ill smell which he would give, 
it is fit that you should bury him, and while you do this I will 
go for food. And the King said. Friend of God, do not take 
this trouble, but remain still, and before noon there will come 
food, which will suffice for you and for me ; help me now to 
give burial to this good man, which will be much for the ser- 
vice of God, although he may have been a sinner. And the 
false Hermit answered. King, it would be less evil to roll him 
over these rocks into the sea ; but if not, let him lie thus upon 
the earth till the birds and the beasts devour his flesh. And 
the King marvelled at this : nevertheless though he believed 
that this false Hermit was a servant of God, he left not for 
that to bury the good Hermit who there lay without life, and 
he began by himself to carry him to the grave which he had 
made. And as he was employed in burying him, he saw that 
the false Hermit went away over the mountains at a great 
rate, not as one who was a cripple, but like a stout man and 
a young ; and he marvelled what this might mean. 

Ch. 242. — How King Don Rodrigo informed himself concerning 
the -penance which he was to perform, from the writing which 
the holy Hermit left him. 

" When the King had finished burying the good servant of 
God, he went to the altar, and took the writing in his hand, 
and read it to inform himself well of it. And when he had 
read it, he saw that of a certainty all that was said therein 
was for the service of God, and was of good doctrine for hia 
soul 5 and he said, that, according to the greatness of his sins, 
it behoved that his penitence must be severe, if he wished to 
save his soul. And then he called to mind the life which St. 
Mary Magdalen endured, for which God had mercy on her. 
And forthwith he went to his oratory, and began his prayers j 
and he remained there till it was near noon ; and he knew 
that he had nothing to eat, and awaited till it should be 
brought him. 

Ch. 243. — HoiD the Devil brought ineat to King Don Rodrigo ^ 
that he should eat it; and he would only eat of the Hermifs. 
bread. 

" After it was mid-day the false Hermit came with a basket 
upon his shoulders, and went straight to where the King wasjf 
and he came sweating and weary. And the King had cora-^ 
passion on him, howbeit he said nothing, neither did he leave li 
his prayers. And the false Hermit said to him, King, make:'] 
an end of thy prayers, for it is time to eat; and here I bringi 
food. And the King lifted up his eyes and looked toward him,i 
and he saw that there came into the hermitage a shepherd 
with a wallet upon his back, and he thought this must be hei 
who brought him that which he was to eat. And so in truth 
it was, that that shepherd brought every Friday four loaves ofj> 
pannick and rye for the holy Hermit, upon which he lived 
during the week. And as this shepherd knew not that thei^ 
good man was dead, he did no more than put his bread uponil 
the altar, and go his way. And the King, when he had ceased; 
praying, rose up from the oratory, and went to the false Her-/ 
mit. And he found the four loaves, and he took one, an^: 
brake it in the middle, and laid by the rest carefully, and heii 
went out of the hermitage into the portal, where there was a 
table full small, and he laid a cloth upon it, and the bread; 
which he was to eat, and the water ; and he began to bless: 
the table, and then seated himself. And the false Hermit 
noted well how he blest the table, and arose from where hei 
was, and went to the King, and said, King, take of this pool 
fare which I have brought, and which has been given me ini 
alms. And he took out two loaves which were full white, 
and a roasted partridge, and a fowl, of which the legs wereij 
wanting; and he placed it upon the table. And when the 
King saw it, his eyes were filled with tears, for he could not 
but call to mind his great honor in former times, and how it 
was now fallen, and that his table had never before been 
served like this. And he said, addressing himself to the Lord, 
Praised be thy name, thou who canst make the high low, and 
the low nothing. And he turned to his bread, and did eat 
thereof. And though he had great hunger, yet could he 
scarcely eat thereof, for he had never used it till in that hef' 
mitage, and now it seemed worse by reason of the white 
bread which that false Hermit had brought. And the false 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 741 



Hermit, who saw that he gave no regard neither to the bread, 
lor the meat which he had brought, said to the King, Why 
?atest tliou not of this which God has sent thee ? and the 
|King said, I cams not to tliis hermitage to serve God, but to 
po penance for my sins, that my soul may not be lost. And 
;he penance which is given me in tliis life, I must observe for 
I year, and not df part from it, lest it should prove to my great 
lurt. And tlie false Hermit said. How, King, hath it been 
jiven thee for penance, that thou sliouldst let thyself die for 
lespair ? The Gospel commands not so ; contrariwise it 
brbids man to do any such penance through which the body 
night be brought to death ; for if in killing another, he who 
auses the death is held for a murderer, much m.ore is he who 
cilleth himself; and such thou wouldst be. And now tlirough 
lespair thou wouldst let thyself die of hunger, that thou 
lightst no longer live in this world, wherefore I say eat of 
his food that 1 have brought thee some little, that thou 
fiayst not die. And witii that he began to eat right heartily. 
ind the King, when he beheld him, was seized with affection 
o do the liiie, howbeit he was withheld, and would eat noth- 
ng thereof. And as it was time when he would drink of the 
irater, the false Hermit said to him, that he should drink of 
he wine ; and the King would only taste of that water ; and 
s he went to take of it, the false Hermit struggled with him, 
ut he could not prevail, and the King did according to his 
iule, and departed not from it. And when he had eaten, he 
'Sgan to give thanks to God. And the false Hermit, who saw 
jhat he would have to cross himself at arising from the table, 
up before him, as one who was about to do something ; 
nd the King heeded it not. And when he had thus eaten, 
went to the oratory, and began to give praises to the Virgin 
lary, according as the good man had commanded him, when 
lat traitor went to him and said, Certes this doctrine which 
lou boldest is no way to serve God, for sans doul)t when the 
tomach is heated with food tlie will shall have no power to 
jray as it ougiit ; and although the tongue may say the prayers, 
le heart confirms them not, being hindered by the force 
t-hich nature derives from the food. Therefore I say to thee 
hat thou oughtest to sleep first ; for whilst tliou art sleeping 
le food will settle, and the will will then be more able for 
ontemplation. Moreover, God is not pleased with prayers 
ithout contrition, as with one who speaketh of one thing, 
nd hath his heart placed on another, so that he can give no 
lith to the words wliich he beginneth. If thou wouldst be 
ived, O King, it behoves tliee to listen to me ; and if thou 
ilt not believe me, I will depart and leave thee, as one 
ho will take no counsel, except from himself. And the 
ing replied, If I should see that thou confirmedst the good 
lianner of life whereof my soul hath need, according as it 
as appointed by the good man whom I have buried, then 
ould I follow thy way. But I see that thy life is not that 
f a man of abstinence, nor of one who forsakes worldly en- 
oyments for the love of God ; rather it seemeth by what I 
ie in thee that thy life is a strengthening of worldly glory ; 
n' thou satisfiest thy flesh with good viands as I was wont to 
0, when I was puffed up with the vanities of the world, 
therefore I will in no wise follow thy way, for I see that thou 
t a worldly man, who deceivest God and the world, and when 
comes to the end thou thyself wilt be deceived. 

h. 244. — Of what the Devil said to King Don Rodrigo to 
dispart him from his penance. 

The false Hermit said to him. For what reason art thou 
srtain that the rule which this deceiver whom thou hast 
uried appointed for thee, will be salvation for thy soul, and 
lat what t say to thee is not of a truth ? Thou understand- 
3t me not well : I never forbade thee that thou shouldst hear 
lass, as he has done ; for this is one of the good things that 
lan may every day see his Savior and adore him. And see- 
g that he forbade thee to do this, thou mayst be certain 
lat as he deceived his own soul, he would deceive thine also, 
or at the hour when man passeth away out of the world, he 
■onld fain that that same hour should be the end of all the 
'orld ; and thus that enemy did, for where he went, thither 
^ would draw thee also. Now since God hath given thee 
jnse and reason, thou mayst clearly understand that his 
aunsel and doctrine are deceitful, and what thou oughtest 
do. 



Ch. 245. — Of the reply which the King made to the Devil. 

" Sans doubt, said the King, he forbade me not that I should 
hear mass ; but because he commanded me that I should ful- 
fil my penance here for the term of a year, as he knew the 
hour of his own death, so also he knew that no other person 
who could say mass w'ould come to this hermitage within the 
year ; and, therefore, he said to me, that in this hermitage 
I should not liear mass, but he never forbade me from hear- 
ing it. 

Ch. 246. — Of the reasoning lohich the false Hermit made to 
King Don Rodrigo. 
'• The false Hermit said. Now thou thyself manifestest that 
he was not so worthy as a man ought to be who knows that 
which is to come. For according to thy words, he knew not 
that I should come here, who can say mass if I please ; and 
if there be good judgment in thee, thou wilt understand that 
I must needs be nearer to God, because I know all which he 
had commanded thee to do, and also how he was to die. And 
I can know better in what place he is, than he who has com- 
manded thee to observe this rule, knew concerning himself 
while he was here. But this I tell thee, that as I came to 
teach thee the way in which thou shouldst live, and thou wilt 
not follow my directions, I will return as I came. And now 
I marvel not at any thing which has befallen thee, for thou 
hast a right stubborn heart ; hard and painful wilt thou find 
the way of thy salvation, and in vain wilt thou do all this, for 
it is a thing which profitcth nothing. 

Ch. 247. — Of the reply lohich King Don Rodrigo made to the 
false Hermit. 

" Good man, said the King, all that thou shalt command 
me to do beyond the rule which the holy Hermit appointed 
me, that will I do ; that in which my penance may be more 
severe, willingly will I do it. But in other manner I will not 
take thy counsel ; and as thou hast talked enough of this, 
leave me, therefore, to my prayers. And then the King bent 
his knees, and began to go on with his rule. And the false 
Hermit, when he saw this, departed, and returned not again 
for a month ; and all that time the King maintained his pen. 
ance, in the manner which had been appointed him. And by 
reason that he ate only of that black bread, and drank only 
water, his flesh fell away, and he became such that there was 
not a man in the world who would have known him. Thus 
he remained in the hermitage, thinking of no other thing than 
to implore the mercy of God that he would pardon him. 

Ch. 248. — Of what the false Hermit said to King Don Rodri- 
go to dispart him from his rule. 

" King DonRodrigo living thus, one day, between midnight 
and dawn, the fiilse Hermit came to the hermitage ; and not 
in the same figure as before, but appearing more youthful, so 
that he would not be known. And he called at the door, and 
the King looked who it might be, and saw that he was habited 
like a servant of God, and he opened the door forthwith. 
And they saluted each other. And when they saw each other, 
the false Hermit greeted the King, and demanded of him 
where the father was ; and the King answered, that for more 
than a month there had been no person dwelling there save 
himself. And the false Hermit, when he heard this, made 
semblance as if he were afflicted with exceeding grief, and 
said. How came this to be, for it is not yet six weeks since I 
came here and confessed my sins to the father who abode 
here, and then departed from this hermitage to my own, which 
is a league from hence ? And King Don Rodrigo said. Friend, 
know that this Hermit is now in Paradise, as I believe, and I 
buried him with my own hands : and he showed him the 
place where he lay. And when he went there he began to 
kiss the earth of the grave, and to make great dole and lam- 
entation over him. And when some half hour had past, he 
withdrew, making semblance as if he wished to say his hours. 
And before the King had finished to say his, he came to him, 
and said. Good man, will you say mass ? And the King an- 
swered, that he never said it. Then, said the false Hermit, 
Hear me then in penitence, for I would confess. And the 



742 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS, 



King seeing that it was for the service of God to hear him in 
penitence, they seated themselves hoth at the foot of tlie 
altar. And when tlie false Hermit spake, it appeared that he 
had no sin to confess : for he began to relate many great ser- 
vices which he had done to God, as well in the life which he 
kd as in other things. And before the King could absolve 
him ho rose up, and asked if things were ready for the mass. 
And the King said that he knew not, and bade him look. It 
was now time that he should go to his oratory. And the false 
Hermit asked him that he should assist him in saying mass, 
and then he should hear it. And the King said, that for noth- 
ing in the world would lie leave to fulfil his penance, accord- 
ing as it had been appointed him : and he went to his oratory. 
And the false Hermit made as if he put on the vestments and 
all the ornaments, and began to say mass, to the end that he 
might deceive tlie King, and make him cease to observe his 
penance, and come to adore the mass. And he made a watery 
cloud arise, so that it rained heavily where the King was. 
And when he saw that he could in no ways entice him, then 
he went to him, and said. Good man, for that you may be 
placed out of danger in cases which at all times will happen, 
seeing that you are alone, I have consecrated the body of Je- 
sus Christ, that you may adore it every day, since you may 
not hear mass ; and thus you may fulfil your penance as a 
faithful Christian. And with that he dispeeded himself, say- 
ing, In the coffer upon tlie altar you will find the Corpus 
Christi : when you rise from hence go and adore it. When he 
had said this, he went his way. And the King believed that 
what he said was true, and held that he was a good man, and 
of holy life. 



Ch. 249. — How the Holy Ghost 



King Don Rodrigo. 



" Now when the King had ended liis prayers, which he used 
to say every day before he took his food, he saw a good man 
come towards him, clad in white garments, and with a fresh 
countenance and a cheerful, and a cross upon his breast. And 
as he arrived where the King was, he blest him ; and when 
the King saw him he perceived that it was a revelation of 
God, and he joined his hands and placed himself on liis knees 
upon the ground, weeping plenti ully. And the holy man 
said. King, wlio art desirous of heavenly glory, continue the 
service which thou art performing for the love of my holy 
name ; and take heed lest the enemy overcome thee, as he 
who many times hath overcome thee, whereby thou hast come 
to what thou now art. And believe none of all those who 
may come to thee here, for tliey come for no other cause but 
only to deceive thee, and withdraw thee from the service 
which thou dost me. And always observe the rule given thee 
by the lioly man whom thou buriedst ; for I am content with 
it, and thy soul shall receive refreshment if thou observest it. 
Come here, and I will show thee how the Devil thought to 
deceive thee, that thou mightst adore him. Then the King 
arose and went, alway upon his knees, following the Holy 
Spirit of God ; and when he was within the hermitage, our 
Lord spake and said. Depart from hence, thou cursed one, and 
go thy way, for thou hast no power to deceive him who con- 
tinues in my service. Get thee to the infernal pains which 
are suffered by those who are in the ninth torment ! And at 
that hour the King plainly saw how from the ark, which was 
upon tlie altar, there went out a foul and filthy devil, with 
more than fifty tails, and as many eyes, who, uttering great 
yells, departed from the place. And the King was greatly 
dismayed at the manner in which the false Hermit had de- 
ceived him. And the Holy Spirit of God said to him, King, 
let thy hope be in my name, and I will alway lie with thee, 
so thou wilt not let thyself be vanquished by tlie enemy. 
Tlien the Holy Spirit of God departed, and the King remained 
full joyful and greatly comforted, as if he had been in celes- 
tial glory. And thus he continued his life for nearly two 
months. 

Ch. 250. — How the Devil would have deceived King Don Rod- 
rigo in the figure of Count Don Julian. 

« The King was in his oratory one Sunday toward nightfall, 
just as the sun was setting, when he saw a man coming toward 
him, clad in such guise as is fitting for one who follows arms. 
And as he looked at him, he saw that it was the Count Don Ju- 



lian who approached ; and he saw that behind him there came 
a great power of armed people. And the false Count, when he 
drew nigh, made obeisance to him; and the King was amazed 
at seeing him, for he knew him well: nevertheless he re- 
mained still. And the false Count came to him, and would 
have kissed his hand, but the King would not give it, neither 
would lie rise up from the oratory : and the false Count knelt 
upon the ground before him, and said, Sir, forasmuch as I am 
he who sinned against thee like a man who is a traitor to his 
Lord, and as I did it with great wrath and fury, which pos- 
sessed my heart through the strength of the Devil, our Lord 
God hath had compassion upon me, and would not that 1 
should be utterly lost, nor that Spain should be destroyed, nor 
that thou, sir, shouldst be put down from thy great honor and 
state, and the great lordship which thou hadst in Spain. And 
he has shown me, in a revelation, how thou v.'ert here in tliia 
hermitage doing this great penance for thy sins. Wherefore 
I say to thee, that thou shouldst do justice upon me, and take 
vengeance according to thy will, as upon one who deserves it, 
for I acknowledge that thou wert my lord, and also the great 
treason into which I have fallen. Wherefore, sir, I pray and 
beseech thee by the one only God, that thou wilt take the 
power of Spain, which is there awaiting thee, and that thou 
wilt go forth to defend the faith of our Lord Jesus Christ, and 
suffer not that poor Spain should be utterly destroyed, seeing 
that thou canst defend it and protect it. And then Count Ju- 
han drew his sword, and gave it to the King, saying, Sir, take 
this my sword, and with thine own hand do justice upon me, 
and take such vengeance as thou pleasest; for I will suffer it 
with much patience, seeing I have sinned against thee. And 
the King was greatly troubled at this sight, and at his words 
also, and knew not what he should do, neither what he should 
say. Howbeit, presently he called to mind what the Holj 
Spirit of God had said to him, how he should take heed lesl 
the Devil should subdue him ; and so he said nothing, but 
continued in his prayer. And the false Count Don Julian saic 
to him, Sir, wilt thou not turn for the Holy Faith of Jesus 
Christ, which is utterly going to destruction 1 rise up anc 
defend it, for I bring thee a full great power ; and thus thot 
wilt serve God and recover the honor which thou hadst lost 
Rise then and go forth, and have pity upon miserable Spain 
which is about to be lost ; and have compassion also upon sc 
many people as are perishing for want of a Lord who shoult 
defend them. Now all these words were only meant to de 
ceive him, for it was the Devil who had taken the form of 
Count Don Julian, and not the Count himself. But the Kinfi 
could no longer restrain himself from replying, and he saidi 
Go you. Count, and defend the land with this force which yov 
have assembled, even as you went to destroy it by the grea' 
treason which you committed against me and against God^ 
And even as you brougjit the men, who are enemies of Go(i' 
and of his Holy Faith, and led them into Spain, so now thrus 
them out and defend it ; for I will neither slay you, nor assis 
you in it. Leave me to myself; I am no longer for the world 
for here I will do penance for my sins. Urge me, thereforei' 
no more with these reasons. And the false Count Don Juliai 
rose, and went to the great company which he had brough' 
there, and brought them all before the King. And the King 
when he beheld that great company of knights, saw somi' 
among them whom he surely thought had been slain in battle' 
And they all said to him with loud voices. Sir, whom wil; 
thou send us, that we may take him for our King and Lord t 
protect and defend us, seeing that thou wilt not defend th 
land, neither go with us ? Wouldst thou give us thy nephev 
the Infant Don Sancho .' He is dead. What then woulds 
thou command us that we sjiould do ? Look to it well, sir 
it is no service of God that thou shouldst let perish so great ; 
Christianity as is every day perishing, because thou art her 
dwelling in this solitude. Look to it, for God will require a: 
account at thy hands : thou hadst the charge of defendin 
them, and thou lettest them die. And tell us what cours 
shall we take. And when the King heard these words he wa 
moved to compassion : and the tears came into his eyes, s 
that he could not restrain them : and he was in such state the 
his thoughts failed him, and he was silent, and made no repl 
to any thing that they could say. And all these companie 
who saw him complained so much the more, and sent fort 
great cries, and made a great tumult and uproar, and said, 
miserable King, why wilt thou not rouse thyself for thy ow 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 743 



|ake, and for that of all thy people whom thou seest without 
Lord? and thou wilt not even speak a word to comfort tliein, 
,nd tell them what they shall do. And all this while the 
Cing did nothing but weep, and answered them never a word. 
ijid when this vile race saw that they could not take him 
rem thence, and that he answered them nothing, and that 
hey could not overcome him by whatever they might do, they 
irent forthwith from the mountain down into a plain, which 
iras then made to appear before the King, and there they drew 
ip their battles in such guise as the King Don Rodrigo was 
sed to darraii) them. And eft-soon he saw great multitudes of 
trange people, who came from the other side, and they begun 
battle so fierce and so cruel, that the King thought he had 
ever seen one like it. And the one party put tlie other to 
he worst, and followed after them in pursuit. And then there 
ame messengers to the King, telling him that his people had 
onqucred, and had slain many of the enemy ; but the King 
73.9 confounded, and as it were beside himself, and heeded 
ot, neither did he know what they said, and he answered 
othing. And then they all went away, and seemed to the 
[ing that the one were pursuing the others, and this continued 
the first crowing of the cock. And tiie King recovered 
IS senses : howbeit he knew not whether it was a vision, or 
it had indeed happened ; but he called to mind that he had 
ot completed the prayers which he made every day ; and he 
egan them again and finished them. And when he had fin- 
hed, great part of the night was past, and he laid himself 
own to sleep. And then for three months he had no other 
emptation. 



Jh. 251.— How the Devil, in the figure of La Cava, the 
daughter of Count Don Julian, sought to deceive King Don 
Rodrigo. 

" The King was saying his prayers at the hour of vespers 
n a Tuesday, when he saw people on horseback coming 
)ward him : and as they were about the reacli of a cross-bow 
om him, he saw that they alighted, and that there came 
jward him a woman, who was full nobly clad ; and when she 
me near, he knew her that she was La Cava, the daughter 
Count Don Julian, and she seemed to him more beautiful 
lan he had ever before seen her in his life. And when she 
rew nigh, she humbled herself, and said, Sir, what fortune 
as brought you to this wretched life in which you have so 
\>ng continued.' And the King held his peace, and said 
othing. And that false Cava said. Sir, it is a month since 
holy man, clad in white garments, and having a red cross 
pon his breast, appeared to me when I was with my father 
ount Don Julian in Toledo 3 where he now holds the 
eat of the lordship of Spain, as he who, by force of arms, 
as subdued the Moors, and killed or made captives of them 
At the hour when this holy man appeared to me, I 
'as alone in my chamber, having great sorrow in my heart, 
jecause I had no certain news where you was, and whether 
iour soul continued to live in this world, or in another. 
ind, moreover, I was full sorrowful, because of the death of 
lyLady the dueen Eliaca, your wife, who is now deceased. 
.nd for these things my heart was full sorrowful, and in 
reat trouble with griefs and thoughts, which came to me I 
now not from whence, and I was like one bereft of his judg- 
ent. And while I was contemplating in this state, the 
{oly man appeared to me in such wise as I have said, and 
jiid to me, Of what art thou taking thought.? Cease to la- 
ment, for without me thou canst do nothing certain of that 
hich thou desirest. But that the dominion of Spain may 
pt pass away from the power of the Goths, and tbat he who 
Kill have it may descend from thy seed, and be of the gene- 
ition of King Don Rodrigo, it is my will that thou shouldst 
now where he is, and that thou shouldst go to him, and that 
e should go in unto thee, and that thou shouldst conceive of 
a son, and shalt call his name Felbersan, the which shall 
3 such a one that he shall reduce under his forces all the 
irth which is below the firmament. Depart, therefore, from 
ence, and go to the place where he is, and make no tar- 
ance : for thus it behoveth for the service of God, and for 
l'>e weal and protection and defence of the land. And I said 
p him, Sir, how can this be which you tell me, seeing that 
ping Don Rodrigo is dead ; for his enemies slew him when they 
'on the battle in which the great chivalry of Spain perished. 



11. 



And he said to me. Cava, think not he is dead, for he liveth> 
and passeth his life alone in a hermitage ; of the which thy 
father Count Don Julian will certify thee, for he went to seek 
him there, and found him there when he overcame the 
Moors, He will tell thee that he is alive, and in what place 
is the hermitage wherein he abideth. And I said to him, 
But if King Don Rodrigo passeth his life after this manner in 
the service of God, he will not approach me that I may con- 
ceive of him this son who shall prove so good. And since it 
thus pleases you, give me a sign by which I may show him 
that this is pleasing to God, and that he may do this which 
you say, seeing so great good is to follow from it. And, 
moreover, he will be brought to such weakness that he will 
not be able to obey, by reason of the great abstinence to which 
his body has been subjected during his continuance there. 
And the holy man said to me. Care not for this, for God will 
give him strength ; and thou shalt say to him for a sign that 
he may believe thee, how I told him that he should take heed 
lest the enemy deceive him, and how I bade the Devil depart 
from the altar where he was in the ark instead of the Corpus 
Cluisti, for that he should adore him. When thou tellest him 
this he will believe thee, and will understand that it is by the 
command of God. And when he had said these words he dis- 
appeared, so that I saw him no more ; and I remained for a 
full hour, being greatly comforted, because I knew of your 
life, so that it seemed to me there were no other glory in this 
world. And when I came to myself I went incontinently to 
my father Count Don Julian, and told him all that had be- 
fallen me with the holy man who came in that holy vision ; 
and I asked him if he knew aught concerning you. And he 
told me how he had gone to you with all his chivalry to bid 
you come out from thence to defend your country, which the 
enemies had taken from you, and that you would not ; but 
rather commended it to him that he should undertake it, and 
defend the land and govern it ,• and that it grieved him to think 
that you would not be alive, because of the great abstinence 
which you imposed every day upon your flesh : nevertheless, 
since it pleases our Lord that I should have a son by you, who 
should be so good a man that he should recover all Spain, he 
would have me go to this place, where I should find you if 
you were alive ; and right content would he be that there 
should rpmain of you so great good. And I, sir King, seeing 
how it pleased God that this should be accomplished, accord- 
ing as I have said, am come here in secret, for neither man 
nor woman knoweth of this, save my father Count Don 
Julian ; for I have told my people who came with me to re- 
main yonder, because I would go and confess to a holy man 
who had made his abode here more than fifty years. Now, 
since God is the author of this, recover yourself, and remember 
the time when you told me that there was nothing in the world 
which you loved so much as me, nor which you desired so 
greatly as to obtain a promise of me, the which I could not 
give at that hour, by reason that the Queen was living, and I 
knew it to be great sin. And if I come to you now, it is by 
command of God, for it pleases him to send me here ; and, 
also, because the dueen is no longer in this present life. And 
because you are so fallen away of your strength, let us go into 
the hermitage, or 1 will order a tent to be placed here, and let 
us sup together, that your heart may revive and you may fulfil 
the command of God. 



Ch. 252. — Hoio the Devil would have deceived King Don 
Rodrigo, if the Holy Spirit had not visited and protected him. 

" As the King heard all this, his whole body began to 
tremble, and his soul within him also ; and all sense and 
power passed away from him, so that he was in a trance, and 
then it was revealed to him that he should take heed against 
that temptation. And the false Cava, who saw him thus en- 
tranced, made many burning torches of wax come there, by 
reason that it was cold, and because that the King should 
derive heat ; also there was a pavilion pitched there, and a 
table set within it with many viands thereon, and all the 
people who came with her were seen to lodge themselves 
far away upon the mountain. And when he had recovered 
himself, he saw that the false Cava was drest in a close-fitting 
kirtle, which came half way below the knee, and she seemed 
to him the fairest woman that he had ever seen in his life, and 
it appeared to the King that she said to him. Here, sir, come 



744 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



and take your supper. And the King began again to tremblo 
and lose his judgment, and fell into such a state that he knew 
not where he was, and it was revealed to him in that hour that 
he should guard against the temptation. And when he came 
to himself he saw that the pavilion was spread over his head ; 
and seeuig himself in that place, he looked for the oratory, and 
perceived that it was where it used to be ; and within the pa- 
vilion he saw the false Cava, who was there with him, and that 
she was standing beside a bed, which was a full rich one, and 
that she began to take off her kirtle, and remained in her shift 
only, and with her long hair, which reached to her feet 5 and 
she said to him, See, sir, here in your power that which you 
most desired, and which is now awaiting you. Rejoice, then, 
and take heart, and do that which God has appointed, and 
which will recover Spain, and recompense the losses, and 
sorrows, and wrongs, which you have endured. And then 
she turned toward the King, for the Devil thought thus to 
tempt him, and make him break the penance which he had 
begun ; and certes I ween there was no living man who would 
not right gladly have approached her. And then before him, in 
his sight, she began to comb and to plait her golden locks. And 
the King, seeing how beautiful she was, began to tremble all 
over, as if he had been struck with palsy ; and he lost his 
judgment again, and became entranced, and remained thus a 
long while before he came again to himself. And it was re- 
vealed to him again that he should take heed how the Devil 
tempted him, and that he should have firm hope in God, 
and not break the penance which the holy Hermit had ap- 
pointed him. But ever when he recovered from these trances, 
he forgot all which had been revealed to him while he 
was entranced ; and now he found that there was a large 
estrado placed by him, and that La Cava was lying there beside 
him on some pillows, which were richly wrought in gold, un- 
drest, as he had seen her, and that she said to him, Come, sir, 
for you tarry long, and it will soon be day-break. And the 
King seeing her so near him, then he was greatly troubled, yet 
could he not withdraw his eyes from her: but he called to 
mind how the Holy Spirit of God had bade him that he should 
always confide in his name, and place his true hope in the 
sign of tlie cross. And he clasped his hands, and lifted them 
towards Heaven, and weeping bitterly, and in great contrition, 
lie said, O Lord and very God Jesus Christ, deliver me from all 
temptation, and preserve my soul, that it fall not into perdition. 
And while he was praying thus, he sav/ how there came from 
the hermitage a great brightness, and he said. Deliver me, 
Lord, from the power of the Devil, that I may not be de- 
ceived, nor witlidrawn from thy holy service. And at that 
hour he made the sign of the cross upon his forehead, and 
blest iiimself ; and at that hour the false Cava fell down 
the rock into the sea, with such a sound as if the whole 
world were falling to pieces, and with the plunge which she 
made the sea dashed up so high, that where the oratory was 
the King was wetted with the spray. And he remained in 
such astonishment that he could not for an hour recover him- 
self. And when he came to himself he began to pray with 
great repentance, as if he had been on the point of falling into 
temptation. And the Holy Spirit of God came to him in that 
same manner in which he had seen it the former time. And 
he fell on his face upon the ground, and began to lament full 
bitterly, and to say, Lord, have mercy upon my soul, and for- 
sake me not among mine enemies, who would withdraw me 
from thee. And the Holy Spirit said to him, O King, of little 
faith, how hast thou been on the point of perishing ! And the 
King made no reply, for he did nothing but weep. And the 
Holy Spirit of God said to him. Take heed. King, lest the 
Devil deceive thee, and have power over thee, that thou 
shouldst not fulfil the penance which thou hast commenced, 
neither save thy soul. And the King lifted up his countenance, 
and had great shame to behold him. Howbeit he took cour- 
age, and said, Lord, have mercy upon me, and let me not be 
tempted by the enemy, for my heart is weak, and hath no 
power to defend itself against the false one : for my judgment 
is clean confounded, as one who hath no virtue if he be not 
aided by thy grace. Deliver me, Lord, for thy holy mercy 
and compassion : my salvation cannot come through the 
strength of my heart, for it is wholly full of fear, like a thing 
which is overcome. And the Holy Spirit of God said to him, 
Take courage and fear not, for thou shalt depart from this 
place sooner than thou thinkest. And when it is time I will 



guide thee to the place Avhere thou shalt do thy penance, that 
thy soul may receive salvation. When thou shalt see a little 
white cloud appear above thee, and that there is no other in 
the sky, follow after it: and in the place where it shall stop 
shalt thou fulfil thy penance, according as the chief priest in 
that place shall appoint it thee. And take heart, and alway 
call to mind my holy name, and have true faith and constant 
hope in thy Savior. And when he had said this he departed. 
And the King was greatly comforted and full of grace, as one 
with whom God was present in his mercy. And he abode in 
the hermitage a whole year, according to his reckoning, and 
twelve days more. And one day, when it was full clear, the 
King looked up and saw above him the cloud of which the 
Holy Spirit of God had told him ; and when he saw it he was 
full joyful, and gave many thanks to God. Nevertheless the 
King did not rise from his prayers, neither did the cloud move 
from above him. And when he had finished his prayers he 
looked at the cloud and saw that it moved forward. 



Ch. 253. — How King Don Roclrigo 

age, and arrived where he was to 



from the hermit- 
penance. 

" The King arose from the oratory and followed the cloud; 
and so great was the pleasure which he had, that he cared not 
for food, neither remembered it, but went after that his holy 
guide. And at night he saw how the cloud, when the sun was 
about to set, turned to the right of the road toward the moun- 
tains ; and it went on so far, that before night had closed it 
came to a hermitage, in which there was a good man for a 
Hermit, who was more than ninety years of age, and there it 
stopt. And the King perceived that he was to rest there, and 
the good man welcomed the King, and they spake together of 
many things. And the King was well contented with his 
speech, and saw that certes he was a servant of God. And all 
that day the King had not eaten, and he was barefoot, and his 
raiment tattered : and as he had not been used to travel a-foot, 
and with his feet bare, his feet were swollen with blisters. 
And when it was an hour after night, the Hermit gave him 
a loaf, full small, which was made of rye, and there were ashes 
kneaded with it, and the King ate it : and when he had eaten 
they said prayers. And when they had said their hours, they 
lay down to sleep. And when it was midnight they arose and 
said their hours : and when they had said them the King went 
out of the hermitage, and saw that the cloud did not move : 
and then the King understood that he had to tarry here, or 
that he was to hear mass before he departed, and he asked the 
Hermit to hear his confession, and the Hermit confessed him. 
And when he had confessed, he said that he would communi- 
cate, and the good Hermit saw that it was good, and he put on 
his vestments and said mass : and the King heard the mass, 
and received the very body of our Lord Jesus Christ. And 
when the King had done this, he went out to look at the cloud. 
And as he went out of the hermitage he sa-w that the cloud 
began to move, and then he dispeeded himself from the Her- 
mit, and they embraced each other weeping, and each en- 
treated the other, that he would bear him in mind, and 
remember him in his prayers. And when the King had 
dispeeded himself, he followed after his holy guide, and the 
holy Hermit returned to his hermitage. And the King Don 
Rodrigo, notwithstanding his feet were swollen and full of 
blisters, and that in many places they were broken and bleed- 
ing, such and so great was the joy which he felt at going on in 
the course which he now held, that he endured it all as though 
he felt nothing. And he went, according as it seemed to him, 
full six leagues, and arrived at a convent of Black Monks, and 
there the cloud stopt, and would proceed no farther. And at 
that convent there was an Abbot who led an extraordinary I 
good and holy life ; and they were not there like other monks ;] 
and he was a great friend of God and of our Lady the Virgin 
St. Mary : and this Abbot took the King to his cell, and! 
asked if he would eat as he was wont to do, or like the other 
monks ; and the King said, that he would do as he should 
direct him. And the Abbot ordered that a loaf should be 
brought of pannick and maize mixed together, and a jar of wa- 
ter, and on the other side he had food placed such as the monks 
used ; and the King would eat only of the pannick bread, as 
he had been wont to do, and he drank of the water. Anc 
when he had eaten, the Abbot asked him if he would remair 



NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS 



745 



that night or not, and the King said tliat he knew not, but 
that he would go out and see whether he were to go or to re- 
main. And the Abbot said that it was the hour of vespers, 
and that he ought to remain ; and the King went out and saw 
tliat the cloud moved, and that it behoved him to go, and he 
dispeeded himself from the Abbot, and they commended them- 
selves each to the other in his prayers. And the Abbot saw 
plainly how that cloud had guided him, and how there was no 
other in the sky, and he marvelled greatly, and said, Certes 
this is some holy man, and he gave thanks to God. And the 
King went on that evening till he came to a church which was 
solitary and remote from peopled places : and there the cloud 
stopt, and he abode there that night. And the King went 
into the church, and found in it a lamp burning, and it re- 
joiced him much, for by the light of it he said his hours as well 
before he should sleep as after. And on the morrow when he 
had made his prayer, he went out of the church and beheld the 
cloud, and saw that it moved ; and he went after it, and after 
two days' journey he came to a place which where it is, or what 
it is called, is not said, save that it is the place of his burial, 
for such it is. And there the cloud stopt, and proceeded no 
farther ; and it rested without the town over an ancient her- 
mitage. And the Elder of that place incontinently knew by 
the Holy Spirit how King Don Rodrigo was come there : but 
he knew not his name, neither who he was ; and he asked him 
if he meant to lead his life there, and he answered that it was 
to be as God should please. And the Elder said to him. 
Friend, I am the Elder of this place, for all the others, M'hen 
they knew that King Don Rodrigo and his chivalry were slain 
and vanquished, fled from hence for fear of the Moors, and of 
the traitor Count Don Julian, and they all went to tlie moun- 
tains to escape. And I remained, putting my trust in our 
Lord God, and in his holy hands: for that I would rather 
abide that which may befall and take my adventure here, than 
utterly forsake our mother holy church ; while I am able I 
will remain hero and not forsake it, but rather receive my 
death. And therefore I say, that if you are to abide here you 
must provide yourself of that whereof you have need. And 
the King said, Friend of God, concerning my tarriance 1 
cannot certify you ; though surely I think that I shall abide ; 
and if for the service of God you will be pleased to send me 
every day that T remain a loaf of pannick and water, I shall 
be contented therewith. And the Elder promised this, and 
departed forthwith and went to his home, and sent him a loaf 
of pannick and water. And the cloud remained there three 
days over that hermitage, and when the three days were at 
an end, it was seen no more. And the King, when he could 
no longer see it, understood that there he must perform his 
penance, and gave many thanks to God, and was full joyful 
thereat. And on the morrow the Elder came to see him, and 
they communed with each other in such manner, that the 
King confessed to him all the sins which he had committed 
during his whole life till that time, all which he called to 
mind with great contrition, weeping full bitterly and groaning 
for his errors and sins. And the Elder was greatly astonished, 
and said, that on the third day from thence he would appoint 
him his penance. And he went to his church and confessed, 
and addrest himself to prayer in such guise that he neither ate 
nor drank, nor raised himself from one place, weeping bitterly, 
i;and beseeching God that he would show him what penance 
(he should appoint the King ; for after no other manner did he 
i think to appoint it, than such as his holy mercy and compas- 
iision should direct. And on the third day he heard a voice 
(which said thus : Command King Don Rodrigo that he go to 
i a fountain which is below his hermitage, and he shall find 
there a smooth stone ; and bid him lift it up, and under it he 
shall find three little serpents, the one having two heads. And 
bid him take that which hath two heads, and carry it away, 
and place it in ajar, and nurse it secretly, so that no person 
in the world shall know thereof, save only he and thou ; and 
let him keep it till it wax so great that it hath made three 
turns within the jar, and puts its head out ; and when it is of 
that greatness, then let him take it out, and lay it in a tomb 
which is there, and lie down himself with it, naked ; and close 
the tomb well, that the serpent may not be able to go out ; and 
in this manner God is pleased that King Don Rodrigo should 
do penance. 



Ch. 254. — Of the penance which was appointed King Don 
Rodrigo. 
" The Elder when he heard the voice was greatly amazed at 
so rigorous a penance as this, and gave many thanks to God, 
and he went to King Don Rodrigo, and told him the manner 
how he had heard the voice ; and the King was full joyful and 
content and pleased therewith, and gave many thanks to our 
Lord, for that he should now complete his penance and save 
his soul. And therewith in great joy, and shedding many 
tears for pleasure, he went to the fountain ae he had been di- 
rected, and found the smooth stone. And when he had lifted 
it up, he found the three serpents according as the Elder had 
said, and he took that which had two heads, and he took it and 
put it in a great jar, such as would be a large wine vessel, and 
nurst it there till it was of such bigness as the voice had said. 
And when King Don Rodrigo saw that it was of this bigness 
he confessed to the Elder, weeping full bitterly, demanding 
favor of God that he would give him grace and strength with 
patience to fulfil that penance without any temptation or 
trouble of soul ; to the end that, the penance being completed, 
it might please our Lord God to receive his soul into his 
glory. And before the fifth day after the serpent was thus 
big, the King and the Elder went to the tomb, and they 
cleansed it well witliin ; and the King placed himself in it 
naked as he was born, and the serpent with him, and the 
Elder with a great levt r laid the stone upon the top. And the 
King besought the Elder that he would pray to our Lord to 
give him grace that he might patiently endure that penance, 
and the Elder promised him, and thus the King remained in 
his tomb, and the serpent with him. And the Elder con- 
soled him, saying to him many things to the end that he 
might not be dismayed, neither fall into despair, whereby he 
should lose the service of God. And all this was so secret 
that no man knew it, save only the King and the Elder. And 
when it was day-break the Elder went to the church and said 
mass, with many tears and with great devotion beseeching God 
that he would have mercy and compassion upon King Don Rod- 
rigo, that with true devotion and repentance he might com- 
plete his penance in this manner, which was for his service. 
And when he had said mass, he went to the place where 
King Don Rodrigo lay, and asked him how he fared, and the 
King answered, Well, thanks to God, and better than he de- 
served, but that as yet he was just as when he went in. And 
the Elder strengthened him as much as he could, telling him 
that he should call to mind how he had been a sinner, and that 
he should give thanks to our Lord God, for that he had visited 
him in this world, and delivered him from many temptations, 
and had himself appointed for him this penance ; the wliich he 
should suffer and take with patience, for soon he would be in 
heavenly glory. And the King said to him, that he well knew 
how according to his great sins he merited a stronger penance : 
but that he gave many thanks to our Lord Jesus, for that he 
himself had given him this penance, which he did receive and 
take Avith great patience ; and he besought the Elder that he 
would continue to pray our Lord God that he would let 
him fulfil it. And the Elder said to him many good things 
concerning our Lord God. And the King lay there three 
days, during all which time the serpent would not seize on 
him. And when the third day, after that he had gone into the 
tomb, was completed, the serpent rose from his side, and crept 
upon his belly and his breast, and began with the one head to 
eat at his nature, and with the other straight toward his heart. 
And at this time the Elder came to the tomb, and asked him 
how he fared, and he said, Well, thanks to God, for now the 
serpent had begun to eat. And the Elder asked him at what 
place, and he answered at two, one right against the heart with 
which he had conceived all the ills that he had done, and the 
other at his nature, the which had been the cause of the great 
destruction of Spain, And the Elder said that God was with 
him, and exhorted him tliat he should be of good courage, for 
now all his persecutions both of the body and of the soul would 
have an end. And the King ceased not always to demand 
help of our Lord, and to entreat that of his holy mercy he 
would be pleased to forgive him. And the Elder went to his 
home, and would not seat himself to eat, but retired into his 
chamber, and weeping, prayed full devoutly to our Lord that 
he would give strength to the King that he might complete 
his penance. And the serpent, as he was dying for hunger. 



746 NOTES TO RODERICK, THE LAST OF THE GOTHS. 



and moreover was large, had in one minute eaten the nature, 
and began to eat at the bowels ; nevertheless he did not eat so 
fast, but that the King endured in that torment from an hour 
before night till it was past the middle of the day. And when 
the serpent broke through the web of tlie heart, he staid there 
and ate no further. And incontinently the King gave up his 
spirit to our Lord, who by his holy mercy took him into his 
glory. And at that hoar when he expired all the bells of the 
place rang of themselves as if men had rung them. Then 
tlie Elder knew that the King was dead, and that his soul 
was saved." 

Thomas Newton, in his " Notable History of the Saracens," 
seems to imagine that this story is allegorical. " Novve," he 
says, " whereas it is reported, and written that he folowed a 
starre or a messenger of God, which conducted and guided 
him in his way ; it may be so, and the same hath also hap- 
pened to others ; but it may as well also be understoode of a 
certaine secrete starre moving and directing his will. 

" And whereas they say he was put by that holy man into a 
cave or hole, and a serpent with him that had two heads, which 
in two days' space gnawed all the flesh off his body from the 
bones ; this, beyng simplie taken and understanded, hath no 
likelihood of any truth. For what sanctity, what religion, or 
what pietie, commandeth to kill a penitent person, and one 
that seeketh comfort of liys afflicted mind by amendment of 
life, with such horrible torments and straunge punishment.^ 
Wherefore I woulde rather think it to be spoken mysticallye, 
and that the serpent with two heads signifieth his sinful and 
gylty conscience." 



j1 humUe tomb was found, — XXV. p. 709, col. 2. 

How Carestes found the grave of King Don Rodrlgo at Viseo 
in Portugal. 
" I, Carestes, vassal of King Don Alfonso of Leon, son-in- 
law of the Knight of God, King Don Pelayo, when the said 
King Don Alfonso won Viseo from the Moors who held it, 
found a grave in a field, upon the which were written in 
Gothic letters, the words which you shall here read. This 
grave was in front of a little church, without the town of Viseo, 
and the superscription of the writing was thus : — 

Of the writing wliich was upon the grave of King Don Rodrigo. 

"Here lies King Don Eodrigo, the last of the Goths. 
Cursed be the wrath of the traitor Julian, for it was of long 
endurance, and cursed be his anger, for it was obdurate and 
evil, for he was mad with rage, and stomachful with pride, 
and puffed up with folly, and void of loyalty, and unmindful 
of the laws, and a despiser thereof; cruel in himself, a slayer 
of his lord, a destroyer of his country, a traitor to his coun- 
trymen ; bitter is his name ; and it is as grief and son-ow in 
the mouth of him who pronounces it ; and it shall always be 
cursed by all that speak of him." 



That veracious chronicler Carestes then concludes his true 
history in these words : — " And by this which I found 
written upon this grave, T am of mind that King Don Rod- 
rigo lies there, and because of the life which ho led in his 
penitence, according as ye have heard, which also was in the 
same tomb written in a book of parchment, I believe without 
doubt that it is true, and because of the great penance which 
he did, that God was pleased to make it known in such 
manner as it past, for those who hereafter shall have to rule 
and govern, to the end that all men may see how soon pride is 
abased and humility exalted. This Chronicle is composed in 
memory of the noble King Don Rodrigo ; that God pardon 
his sins, and that the son of the Virgin without stain, Jesus 
Christ, bring us to true repentance, who liveth and reigneth 
for ever and ever. Amen. 

Thanks be to God ! " 

I believe the Archbishop Roderick of Toledo is the earliest 
writer who mentions this discovery. He died in 1247. The 
fact may very possibly have been true, for there seems to have 
been no intention of setting up a shrine connected with it. 
The archbishop's words are as follow : — 

" Quid de Rege Roderico acciderit ignoratur ; tamen corona, 
vestes et insignia et calciamenta auro et lapidibus adornata, et 
equus qui Orelia dicebatur, in loco tremulo juxta fluvium sine 
corpore sunt inventa. Quid autem de corpora fuer it factum peni- 
tus ignoratur, nisi quod modernis temporibus ajmd Viseum civi- 
tatem Portugallim inscriptus tumulus invenitur, Hie jacet Rode- 
ricus ultimus Rex Gothorum. Maledictus furor impius Julia.ni 
quia per tinax, etindignatio, quia dura; animosus indignatione, 
impetuosus furore, oblitus fidelitatis, immemor religionis, con- 
temptor divinitatis, crudelis in se, homicida in dominum, hostis 
in domesticos, vastator in patriam, reus in omnes, memoria ejus 
in omni ore amarescet, et nomen ejus in atemum putrescet.^' — 
Rod. Tol. f. 3, g. 19. 

Lope de Vega has made this epitaph, with its accompany- 
ing reflections, into two stanzas of Latin rhymes, which occur 
in the midst of one of his long poems r — 

Hoc jacet in sarcophago Rex ille ' 
Penultimus Gothorum in Hispania, 

Iiifelix Rodericus ; viator sile, 
JVe forte pereat tota Lusitania, 

Provocatus Cupidinis missile 

Telo, tarn magnet affectusfuit insanidt 

Quam tota Hiberia vinculis astricta 

Testatur maesta, lachrimatur victa. 

Execrahilem Comitem Julianum 
Mhorreant omnes, nomine et remote 

Patrio, appellent Erostratum Hispanum, 
J\rec tantum nostri, sed in orbe toto .- 

Dum current cali sidera, vesanum 
Vociferant, testante Mauro et Ootho, 

Cesset Florindo! nomen insuave. 

Cava viator est, a Cava cave. 

Jerusalen Conquistada, I. 6, ff. 137 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



747 



SCfie ^otVu ^ilQvitnuBt to Wiuttvloo 



Evav&sa d' uva(iuaoiiai 
2r6kov ainp^ aQsra 

Pindar. Pytk. 2. 



TO JOHN MAY, 

AFTER A FRIENDSHIP OF TWENTY YEARS, 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, 

IN TESTIMONY OF THE HIGHEST ESTEEM AND AFFECTION, 

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



ARGUMENT. 

The first part of this Poem describes a journey 
!jto the scene of war. The second is in an allegor- 
ical form; it exposes the gross material philoso- 
phy which has been the guiding principle of the 
French politicians, from Mirabeau to Bonaparte ; 
and it states the opinions of those persons who 
lament the restoration of the Bourbons, because 
the hopes which they entertained from the French 
Revolution have not been realized ; and of those 
who see only evil, or blind chance, in the course 
jof human events. 

To the Christian philosopher all things are con- 
sistent and clear. Our first parents brought with 
them the light of natural religion and the moral 
law ; as men departed from these, they tended 
towards barbarous and savage life ; large portions 
of the world are in this degenerated state ; still, 
upon the great scale, the human race, from the 
beginning, has been progressive. But the direct 
object of Bonaparte was to establish a military 
despotism wherever his power extended ; and the 
immediate and inevitable consequence of such a 
system is to brutalize and degrade mankind. The 
contest in which this country was engaged against 
Jiat Tyrant, was a struggle between good and evil 
jrinciples ; and never was there a victory so im- 
aortant to .he best hopes of human nature as that 

A^hich was won by British valor at Waterloo, 

ts effects extending over the whole civilized 
vorld, and involving the vital interests of all 
nankind. 

That victory leaves England in security and 
>eace. In no age, and in no country, has man 
:ver existed under circumstances so favorable to 
he full development of his moral and intellectual 
acuities, as in England at this time. The peace 



which she has won by the battle of Waterloo, 
leaves her at leisure to pursue the great objects 
and duties of bettering her own condition, and 
diff'using the blessings of civilization and Chris- 
tianity. 



PROEM. 



1. 

Once more 1 see thee, Skiddaw ! once again 

Behold thee in thy majesty serene. 
Where, like the bulwark of this favor'd plain. 

Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene — 
Thou glorious Mountain, on whose ample breast 
The sunbeams love to play, the vapors love to rest ! 

2. 

Once more, O Derwent, to thy awful shores 
I come, insatiate of the accustom'd sight, 

And, listening as the eternal torrent roars, 
Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight ; 

For I have wander' d far by land and sea, 

In all my wanderings still remembering thee. 



Twelve years, (how large a part of man's brief 
day!) 

Nor idly nor ingloriously spent, 
Of evil and of good have held their way. 

Since first upon thy banks I pitch'd my tent. 
Hither I came in manhood's active prime, 
And here my head hath felt the touch of time. 



Heaven hath with goodly increase blest me here. 
Where childless and oppress'd with grief I came 



748 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



With voice of fervent thankfulness sincere 

Let me the blessings which are mine proclaim : 
Here I possess — what more should I require ? — 
Books, children, leisure, — all my heart's desire. 

5. 

O joyful hour, when to our longing home 

The long-expected wheels at length drew nigh ! 
When the first sound went forth, " They come, 
they come ! " 
And hope's impatience quicken'd every eye ! 
" Never had man whom Heaven would heap with 

bliss 
More glad return, more happy hour than this." 



Aloft on yonder bench, with arms dispread, 

My boy stood, shouting there his father's name. 

Waving his hat around his happy head ; 

And there, a younger group, his sisters came : 

Smiling they stood with looks of pleased surprise. 

While tears of joy were seen in elder eyes. 



Soon each and all came crowding round to share 
The cordial greeting, the beloved sight ; 

What welcomings of hand and lip were there ! 
And when those overflowings of delight 

Subsided to a sense of quiet bliss, 

Life hath no purer, deeper happiness. 



The young companion of our weary way 
Found here the end desired of all her ills ; 

She who, in sickness pining many a day, 
Hunger'd and thirsted for her native hills. 

Forgetful now of sufferings pass'd and pain. 

Rejoiced to see her own dear home again. 



Recover'd now, the homesick mountaineer 

Sat by the playmate of her infancy. 
Her twin-like comrade, — render'd doubly dear 

For that long absence : full of life was she, 
With voluble discourse and eager mien 
Telling of all the wonders she had seen, 

10. 

Here silently between her parents stood 
My dark-eyed Bertha, timid as a dove ; 

And gently oft from time to time she woo'd 
Pressure of hand, or word, or look of love, 

With impulse shy of bashful tenderness. 

Soliciting again the wish'd caress. 

11. 

The younger twain, in wonder lost were they, 
My gentle Kate, and my sweet Isabel : 

Long of our promised coming, day by day, 
It had been their delight to hear and tell ; 

And now, when that long-promised hour was 
come. 

Surprise and wakening Memory held them dumb. 



12. 

For in the infant mind, as in the old, 

When to its second childhood life declines, 

A dim and troubled power doth Memory hold : 
But soon the light of young Remembrance 
shines 

Renew'd, and influences of dormant love, 

Waken'd within, with quickening influence move. 

13. 

O happy season theirs, when absence brings 
Small feeling of privation, none of pain, 

Yet at the present object love re-springs, 

As night-closed flowers at morn expand again ! 

Nor deem our second infancy unblest, 

When gradually composed we sink to rest. 

14. 

Soon they grew blithe as they were wont to be ; 

Her old endearments each began to seek : 
And Isabel drew near to climb my knee. 

And pat with fondling hand her father's cheek j 
With voice, and touch, and look, reviving thus 
The feelings which had slept in long disuse. 

15. 

But there stood one whose heart could entertain 
And comprehend the fulness of the joy; 

The father, teacher, playmate, was again 
Come to his only and his studious boy : 

And he beheld again that mother's eye 

Which with such ceaseless care had watch'd his 
infancy. 

16. 

Bring forth the treasures now, — a proud display, — [ 
For rich as Eastern merchants we return ! 

Behold the black Beguine, the Sister gray, ■' 

The Friars whose heads with sober motion turn, 

The Ark well-fill'd with all its numerous hives, 

Noah, and Shem, and Ham, and Japhet, and their 



17. 

The tumbler, loose of limb ; the wrestlers twain ; 

And many a toy beside of quaint device. 
Which, when his fleecy troops no more can gain 

Their pasture on the mountains hoar with ice, 
The German shepherd carves with curious knife, 
Earning m easy toil the food of frugal life. 

18. 
It was a group which Richter, had he view'd. 

Might have deem'd worthy of his perfect skill; 
The keen impatience of the younger brood, 

Their eager eyes and fingers never still; 
The hope, the wonder, and the restless joy 
Of those glad girls and that vociferous boy ! — 

19. 

The aged friend serene with quiet smile. 

Who in their pleasure finds her own delight ; 

The mother's heart-felt happiness the while ; 
The aunts, rejoicing in the joyful sight; 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



749 



And he who, in his gayety of heart, 
With ghb and noisy tongue perform'd the show- 
man's part. 

20. 

Scoff ye who will ! but let me, gracious Heaven, 
Preserve this boyish heart till life's last day ! 

For so that inward light by Nature given 
Shall still direct, and cheer me on my way, 

And, brightening as the shades of age descend, 

Shine forth with heavenly radiance at the end. 

21. 

This was the morning light vouchsafed, which led 
My favor'd footsteps to the Muses' hill. 

Whose arduous paths I have not ceased to tread. 
From good to better persevering still ; 

And if but self-approved, to praise or blame 

Indifferent, while I toil for lasting fame. 

22. 
And, O ye nymphs of Castaly divine ! 

Whom I have dutifully served so long, 
Benignant to your votary now incline. 

That I may win your ear with gentle song. 
Such as, I ween, is ne'er disown'd by you, — 
A low, prelusive strain, to nature true. 

23. 
But when I reach at themes of loftier thought. 

And tell of things surpassing earthly sense, 
(Which by yourselves, O Muses, I am taught,) 

Then aid me with your fuller influence. 
And to the height of that great argument. 
Support my spirit in her strong ascent I 

24. 

So may I boldly round my temples bind 

The laurel which my master Spenser wore ; 

And free in spirit as the mountain wind 

That makes my symphony, in this lone hour, 

No perishable song of triumph raise. 

But sing in worthy strains my Country's praise. 



PART I. 
THE JOURNEY. 



Twi/ TToXvKTOvcov yap 

'OVK dcXKOTTOL 0£Ot jiEsCHYLUS. 



I. 

FLANDERS. 



Our world hath seen the work of war's debate 
Consummated in one momentous day 

Twice in the course of time ; and twice the fate 
Of unborn ages hung upon the fray : 



First at Platsea, in that awful hour 

When Greece united smote the Persian's power. 



For had the Persian triumph'd, then the spring 
Of knowledge from that living source had ceased ; 

All would have fallen before the barbarous King, 
Art, Science, Freedom ; the despotic East, 

Setting her mark upon the race subdued. 

Had stamp'd them in the mould of sensual ser- 
vitude. 

3. 

The second day was that when Martel broke 
The Mussulmen, delivering France oppress'd, 

And in one mighty conflict, from the yoke 
Of misbelieving Mecca saved the West ; 

Else had the Impostor's law destroy'd the ties 

Of public weal and private charities. 



Such was the danger when that Man of Blood 
Burst from the iron Isle, and brought again, 

Like Satan rising from the sulphurous flood, 
His impious legions to the battle plain : 

Such too was our deliverance when the field 

Of Waterloo beheld his fortunes yield. 

5. 

I, who, with faith unshaken from the first, 

Even when the Tyrant seem'd to touch the skies, 

Had look'd to see the high-blown bubble burst. 
And for a fall conspicuous as his rise, 

Even in that faith had look'd not for defeat 

So swift, so overwhelming, so complete. 



Me most of all men it behoved to raise 

The strain of triumph for this foe subdued, 

To give a voice to joy, and in my lays 
Exalt a nation's hymn of gratitude, 

And blazon forth in song that day's renown, — 

For I was graced with England's laurel crown. 

7. 
And as I once had joumey'd to behold, 

Far off, Ourique's consecrated field, 
Where Portugal, the faithful and the bold, 

Assumed the symbols of her sacred shield. 
More reason now that I should bend my way 
The field of British glory to survey. 

8. 
So forth I set upon this pilgrimage. 

And took the partner of my life with me, 
And one dear girl just ripe enough of age 

Retentively to see what I should see ; 
That thus, with mutual recollections fraught. 
We might bring home a store for after-thought. 



We lefl our pleasant Land of Lakes, and went 
Throughout wholeEngland's length,a weary wa,y, 

Even to the farthest shores of eastern Kent : 
Embarking there upon an autumn day, 



750 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



1. 



Toward Ostend we held our course all night, 
And anchor'd by its quay at morning's earliest 
light. 

10. 

Small vestige there of that old siege appears, 
And little of remembrance would be found, 

When, for the space of three long, painful years, 
The persevering Spaniard girt it round. 

And gallant youths, of many a realm from far. 

Went students to that busy school of war. 

n. 

Yet still those wars of obstinate defence 
Their lessons offer to the soldier's hand ; 

Large knowledge may the statesman draw from 
thence ; 
And still from underneath the drifted sand 

Sometimes the storm, or passing foot, lays bare 

Part of the harvest Death has gather'd there. 

12. 

Peace be within thy walls, thou famous town, 
For thy brave bearing in those times of old ; 

May plenty thy industrious children crown. 
And prosperous merchants day by day behold 

Many a rich vessel, from the injurious sea. 

Enter the bosom of thy quiet quay . 

13. 

Embarking there, we glided on between 

Strait banks raised high above the level land, 

With many a cheerful dwelling, white and green. 
In goodly neighborhood on either hand. 

Huge-timber'd bridges o'er the passage lay. 

Which wheel' d aside and gave us easy way. 

14. 

Four horses, aided by the favoring breeze. 

Drew our gay vessel, slow, and sleek, and large ; 

Crack goes the whip ; the steersman at his ease 
Directs the way, and steady went the barge. 

Ere evening closed, to Bruges thus we came, — 

Fair city, worthy of her ancient fame. 

15. 

The season of her splendor is gone by, 
Yet every where its monuments remain — 

Temples which rear their stately heads on high. 
Canals that intersect the fertile plain. 

Wide streets and squares, with many a court and 
hall 

Spacious and undefaced, but ancient all. 

16. 

Time hath not wrong'd her, nor hath Ruin sought 
liudely her splendid structures to destroy. 

Save in those recent days, with evil fraught. 
When Mutability, in drunken joy 

Triumphant, and from all restraint released, 

Let loose the fierce and many-headed beast. 

17. 

But for the scars in that unhappy rage 
Inflicted, firm she stands and undecay'd ; 



Like our first sires', a beautiful old age 

Is hers, in venerable years array'd , 
And yet to her benignant stars may bring, 
What fate denies to man, — a second spring. 

18. 
When 1 may read of tilts in days of old. 

And tourneys graced by chieftains of renown, 
Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold. 

If Fancy would portray some stately town, 
W^hich for such pomp fit theatre should be. 
Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee. 

19. 

Nor did thy landscape yield me less delight. 

Seen from the deck as slow it glided by. 
Or Avhen beneath us, from thy Belfroy's height, 

Its boundless circle met the bending sky ; 
The waters smooth and straight, thy proper boast. 
And lines of road-side trees in long perspective 
lost. 

20. 
No happier landscape may on earth be seen, 

Rich gardens all around and fruitful groves^ 
White dwellings trim relieved with lively green, 

The pollard that the Flemish painter loves. 
With aspens tall and poplars fair to view. 
Casting o'er all the land a gray and willowy hue. 

21. 

My lot hath lain in scenes sublime and rude. 
Where still devoutly I have served and sought 

The Power divine which dwells in solitude. 
In boyhood was I wont, with rapture fraught, 

Amid those rocks and woods to wander free, 

Where Avon hastens to the Severn sea. 

22. 

In Cintra also have 1 dwelt erewhile. 
That earthly Eden, and have seen at eve 

The sea-mists, gathering round its mountain pile, 
Whelm with their billows all below, but leave 

One pinnacle sole seen, whereon it stood 

Like the Ark on Ararat, above the flood. 

23. 

And now am I a Cumbrian mountaineer; 

Their wintry garment of unsullied snow 
The mountains have put on, the heavens are clear, 

And yon dark lake spreads silently below ; 
Who sees them only in their summer hour 
Sees but their beauties half, and knows not half 
their power. 

24. 

Yet hath the Flemish scene a charm for me 
That soothes and wins upon the willing heart ; 

Though all is level as the sleeping sea, 
A natural beauty springs from perfect art, 

And something more than pleasure fills the breast, 

To see how well-directed toil is blest. 

25. 
Two nights have past ; the morning opens well ; 
Fair are the aspects of the favoring sky ; 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



751 



Soon yon sweet chimes the appointed hour will 
tell, 
For here to music Time moves merrily : 
Aboard ! aboard ! no more must we delay, — 
Farewell, good people of the Fleur de Bled J 

26. 
Beside the busy wharf the Trekschuit rides. 

With painted plumes and tent-like awning gay ; 
Carts, barrows, coaches, hurry from all sides, 

And passengers and porters throng the way, 
Contending all at once in clamorous speech, — 
French, Flemish, English, — each confusing each. 

27. 
All disregardant of the Babel sound, 

A swan kept oaring near with upraised eye, — 
A beauteous pensioner, who daily found 

The bounty of such casual company ; 
Nor left us till the bell said all was done, 
And slowly we our watery way begun. 

28. 
Europe can boast no richer, goodlier scene, 

Than that through which our pleasant passage 
lay, 
By fertile fields and fruitful gardens green, 

The journey of a short autumnal day ; 
Sleek, well-fed steeds our steady vessel drew ; 
jThe heavens were fair, and Mirth was of our crew. 

29. 
Along the smooth canal's unbending line, 

Beguiling time with light discourse, we went, 
Nor wanting savory food nor generous wine. 

Ashore, too, there was feast and merriment; 
The jovial peasants at some village fair 
Were dancing, drinking, smoking, gambling there. 

30. 
Of these, or of the ancient towers of Ghent 

Renown'd, I must not tarry now to tell; 
Of picture, or of church, or monument; 

Nor how we mounted to that ponderous bell. 
The Belfroy's boast, which bears old Roland's 

name. 

Nor yields to Oxford Tom, or Tom of Lincoln's 
fame ; — 

31. 

Nor of that sisterhood whom to their rule 
Of holy life no hasty vows restrain. 

Who, meek disciples of the Christian school, 
Watch by the bed of sickness and of pain : 

Oh what a strength divine doth Faith impart 

|To inborn goodness in the female heart ! 

32. 
jA gentle party from the shores of Kent 

Thus far had been our comrades, as befell ; 
Fortune had link'd us first, and now Consent, — 
(For why should Choice divide whom Chance so 
well 

Had join'd ?) and they to view the famous ground, 
Like us, were to the Field of Battle bound. 



33. 

Farther as yet they look'd not than that quest, — 
The land was all before them where to choose. 

So we consorted here as seemed best ; 

Who would such pleasant fellowship refuse 

Of ladies fair and gentle comrades free ^ 

Certes we were a joyous company. 

34. 

Yet lack'd we not discourse for graver times, 
Such as might suit sage auditors, I ween ; 

For some among us, in far distant climes 
The cities and the ways of men had seen ; 

No unobservant travellers they, but well 

Of what they there had learnt they knew to tell. 

35. 
The one of frozen Moscovy could speak, 

And well his willing listeners entertain 
With tales of that inclement region bleak. 

The pageantry and pomp of Catherine's reign, 
And that proud city, which with wise intent 
The mighty founder raised, his own great mon- 
ument. 

36. 
And one had dwelt with Malabars and Moors, 

Where fertile earth and genial heaven dispense 
Profuse their bounty upon Indian shores ; 

Whate'er delights the eye, or charms the sense, 
The valleys with perpetual fruitage bless'd, 
The mountains with unfading foliage dress'd. 

37. 
He those barbaric palaces had seen, 

The work of Eastern potentates of old ; 
And in the Temples of the Rock had been, 

Awe-struck their dread recesses to behold ; 
A gifted hand was his, which by its skill 
Could to the eye portray such wondrous scenes at 
v/ill. 

38. 
A third, who from the Land of Lakes with me 

Went out upon this pleasant pilgrimage, 
Had sojourn'd long beyond the Atlantic sea ; 

Adventurous was his spirit as his age. 
For he in far Brazil, through wood and waste, 
Had travell'd many a day, and there his heart was 
placed. 

39. 
Wild region, — happy if at night he found 

The shelter of some rude Tapuya's shed, 
Else would he take his lodgment on the ground, 

Or from the tree suspend his hardy bed ; 
And sometimes, starting at the jaguar's cries. 
See through the murky night the prowler's fiery 
eyes. 

40. 

And sometimes over thirsty deserts drear. 

And sometimes over flooded plains he went ; — 

A joy it was his fireside tales to hear, 

And he a comrade to my heart's content : 



752 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



For he of what I most desired could tell, [well. 
And loved the Portugals because he knew them 

41. 
Here to the easy barge we bade adieu ; 

Land-travellers now along the well-paved way, 
Where road-side trees still lengthening on the view. 

Before us and behind unvarying lay : 
Through lands well labor 'd to Alost we came, 
Where whilome treachery stain'd the English 



42. 

Then saw we Afflighem, by ruin rent, 

Whose venerable fragments strow the land ; 

Grown wise too lat(;, the multitude lament 
The ravage of their own unhappy hand ; 

Its records in their frenzy torn and tost, 

Its precious stores of learning wreck'd and lost. 

43. 

Whatever else we saw was cheerful all. 
The signs of steady labor well repaid ; 

The grapes were ripe on every cottage wall. 
And merry peasants seated in the shade 

Of garner, or within the open door, [store. 

From gather'd hop-vines pluck'd the plenteous 

44. 

Through Assche, for water and for cakes renown'd. 
We pass'd, pursuing still our way, though late ; 

And when the shades of night were closing round, 
Brussels received us through her friendly gate, — 

Proud city, fated many a change to see. 

And now the seat of new-made monarchy. 



II. 



BRUSSELS. 



1. 



Where might a gayer spectacle be found 
Than Brussels offer'd on that festive night, 

Her squares and palaces irradiate round 
To welcome the imperial Moscovite, 

Who now, the wrongs of Europe twice redress'd. 

Came there a welcome and a glorious guest ? 



Her mile-long avenue with lamps was hung, 
Innumerous, which diffused a light like day ; 

Where, through the line of splendor, old and young 
Paraded all in festival array ; 

While fiery barges, plying to and fro. 

Illumined as they moved the liquid glass below. 



By day with hurrying crowds the streets were 
throng' d. 
To gain of this great Czar a passing sight ; 
And music, dance, and banquetings prolong'd 
The various work of pleasure through the 
night. 



You might have deem'd, to see that joyous town. 
That wretchedness and pain were there unknown . 



Yet three short months had scarcely pass'd away, 

Since, shaken with the approaching battle's 

breath. 

Her inmost chambers trembled with dismay ; 
And now, within her walls, insatiate Death, 

Devourer whom no harvest e'er can fill, 

The gleanings of that field was gathering still. 



Within those walls there linger'd at that hour 
Many a brave soldier on the bed of pain. 

Whom aid of human art should ne'er restore 
To see his country and his friends again ; 

And many a victim of that fell debate 

Whose life yet waver'd in the scales of fate. 



Some I beheld, for whom the doubtful scale 
Had to the side of life inclined at length ; 

Emaciate was their form, their features pale, 
The limbs, so vigorous late, bereft of strength; j 

And for their gay habiliments of yore, 

The habit of the House of Pain they wore. 

7. 
Some in the courts of that great hospital, 

That they might taste the sun and open air, 
Crawl'd out; or sat beneath the southern wall; 

Or, leaning in the gate, stood gazing there 
In listless guise upon the passers by, 
Whiling away the hours of slow recovery. 



Others in wagons borne abroad I saw, 

Albeit recovering, still a mournful sight : 
Languid and helpless, some were stretch'd on 
straw ; 
Some, more advanced, sustain'd themselves 
upright. 
And with bold eye and careless front, methought, 
Seem'd to set wounds and death again at nought. 

9. 

Well had it fared with these ; nor went it ill 
With those whom war had of a limb bereft. 

Leaving the life untouch'd, that they had still 
Enough for health as for existence left ; 

But some there were who lived to draw the breath 

Of pain through hopeless years of lingering death. , 

10. 
Here might the hideous face of war be seen, 

Stripp'd of all pomp, adornment, and disguise; 
It was a dismal spectacle, I ween, 

Such as might well to the beholders' eyes 
Bring sudden tears, and make the pious mind 
Grieve for the crimes and follies of mankind. 

11. 

What had it been, then, in the recent days 
Of that great triumph, when the open wound 



til. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE, 



753 



Was festering, and along the crowded ways, 

Hour after hour, was heard the incessant sound 
3f wheels, which o'er the rough and stony road 
[Jonvey'd their living, agonizing load ! 

12. 

Hearts little to the melting mood inclined 

Grew sick to see their sufferings ; and the 
thought 

Still comes with horror to the shuddering mind 
Of those sad days when Belgian ears were taught 

The British soldier's cry, half groan, half prayer. 

Breathed when his pain is more than he can bear. 

13. 

Brave spirits, nobly had their part been done ! 
Brussels could show, where Senne's slow waters 
glide. 
The cannon which their matchless valor won. 

Proud trophies of the field, ranged side by side, 
Where, as they stood in inoffensive row, 
The solitary guard paced to and fro, 

14. 

Unconscious instruments of human woe, 
Some for their mark the royal lilies bore, 
ix'd there when Britain was the Bourbon's foe ; 
And some, emboss'd in brazen letters, wore 
'he sign of that abhorr'd misrule, which broke 
'he guilty nation for a Tyrant's yoke. 

15. 
Others were stamp'd with that Usurper's name, — 

Recorders thus of many a change were they, 
Their deadly work through every change the same ; 

Nor ever had they seen a bloodier day, 
Than when, as their late thunders roll'd around, 
Brabant in all her cities felt the sound. 

16. 
iThen ceased their occupation. From the field 
! Of battle here in triumph were they brought ; 
Ribbons and flowers, and laurels half conceal'd 
j Their brazen mouths, so late with ruin fraught ; 
Women beheld them pass with joyful eyes. 
And children clapp'd their hands and rent the air 
with cries. • 

17. 

Now idly on the banks of Senne they lay, 

Like toys with which a child is pleased no more : 

Only the British traveller bends his way 
To see them on that unfrequented shore, 

And, as a mournful feeling blends with pride, 

Elemembers those who fought, and those who died. 



III. 
THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 



Southward from Brussels lies the field of blood, 
Some three hours' journey for a well-girt man ; 
95 



A horseman who in haste pursued his road 

Would reach it as the second hour began. 
The way is through a forest deep and wide, 
Extending many a mile on either side. 



No cheerful woodland this of antic trees, 
With thickets varied and with sunny glade ; 

Look where he will, the weary traveller sees 
One gloomy, thick, impenetrable shade 

Of tall, straight trunks, which move before his sight, 

With interchange of lines of long green light. 



Here, where the woods, receding from the road, 
Have left, on either hand, an open space 

For fields and gardens, and for man's abode, 
Stands Waterloo; a little, lowly place. 

Obscure till now, when it hath risen to fame, 

And given the victory its English name. 



What time the second Carlos ruled in Spain, 
Last of the Austrian line by Fate decreed. 

Here Castanaca reared a votive fane. 

Praying the Patron Saints to bless with seed 

His childless sovereign ; Heaven denied an heir, 

And Europe mourn'd in blood the frustrate prayer 



That temple to our hearts was hallow'd now ; 

For many a wounded Briton there was laid, 
With such poor help as time might then allow 

From the fresh carnage of the field convey'd ; 
And they whom human succors could not save. 
Here in its precincts found a hasty grave. 

6. 
And here, on marble tablets set on high. 

In English lines by foreign workmen traced, 
Are names familiar to an English eye ; 

Their brethren here the fit memorials placed, 
Whose unadorn'd inscriptions briefly tell 
Their gallant comrades' rank, and where they fell. 



The stateliest monument of public pride, 
Enrich'd with all magnificence of art, 

To honor Chieftains who in victory died, 

Would wake no stronger feeling in the heart 

Than these plain tablets, by the soldier's hand 

Raised to his comrades in a foreign land. 



Not far removed you find the burial-ground. 
Yet so that skirts of woodland intervene ; 

A small enclosure, rudely fenced around; 

Three grave-stones only for the dead are seen : 

One bears the name of some rich villager, 

The first for whom a stone was planted there. 

9. 

Beneath the second is a German laid. 

Whom Bremen, shaking off the Frenchman's 
yoke. 



754 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



III 



Sent with her sons the general cause to aid ; 
He in the fight received his mortal stroke, 
Yet for his country's aggravated woes 
Lived to see vengeance on her hated foes. 

10. 

A son of Erin sleeps below the third ; 

By friendly hands his body where it lay 
Upon the field of blood had been interr'd, 

And thence by those who mourn' d him borne 
away, 
In pious reverence for departed worth, 
Laid here with holy rites in consecrated earth, 

11. 

Repose in peace, brave soldiers, who have found 
In Waterloo and Soigny's shade your rest ! 

Ere this hath British valor made that ground 
Sacred to you, and for your foes unbless'd, 

When Marlborough here, victorious in his might, 

Surprised the French, and smote them in their 
flight. 

12. 

Those wars are as a tale of times gone by. 
For so doth perishable fame decay, — 

Here on the ground wherein the slaughter'd lie. 
The memory of that fight is pass'd away ; — 

And even our glorious Blenheim to the field 

Of Waterloo and Wellington must yield. 

13. 

Soon shall we reach that scene of mighty deeds. 
In one unbending line a short league hence ; 

Aright the forest from the road recedes. 

With wide sweep trending south and westward 
thence ; 

Aleft along the line it keeps its place, 

Some half hour's distance at a traveller's pace. 

14. 

The country here expands, a wide-spread scene ; 

No Flemish gardens fringed with willows 
these ; 
Nor rich Brabantine pastures ever green. 

With trenches lined and rows of aspen trees ; 
In tillage here the unwooded, open land 
Returns its increase to the farmer's hand. 

15. 
Behold the scene where Slaughter had full sway ! 

A mile before us lieth Mount St. John, 
The hamlet which the Highlanders that day 

Preserved from spoil ; yet as much farther on 
The single farm is placed, now known to fame. 
Which from the sacred hedge derives its name. 

16. 
Straight onward yet for one like distance more. 

And there the house of Belle Alliance stands, 
So named, I guess, by some in days of yore. 

In friendship or in wedlock joining hands : 
Little did they who call'd it thus foresee 
The place that name should hold in history ! 



17. 

Beyond these points the fight extended not — 

Small theatre for such a tragedy ! 
Its breadth scarce more, from eastern Papclot 

To where the groves of Hougoumont on high 
Rear in the west tlieir venerable head. 
And cover with their shade the countless dead. 

18. 
But wouldst thou tread this celebrated ground, 

And trace with understanding eyes a scene 
Above all other fields of war renown'd. 

From western Hougoumont thy way begin ; 
There was our strength on that side, and there first, 
In all its force, the storm of battle burst. 

19. 
Strike eastward then across toward La Haye, 

The single farm : with dead the fields between 
Are lined, and thou wilt see upon the way 

Long wave-like dips and swells which intervene, 
Such as would breathe the war-horse, and impede, 
When that deep soil was wet, his martial speed. 

20. 
This is the ground whereon the young Nassau, 

Emuling that day his ancestors' renown. 
Received his hurt ) admiring Belgium saw 

The youth proved worthy of his destined crown : 
All tongues his prowess on that day proclaim. 
And children lisp his praise and bless their Prince's 
name. 

2L 

When thou hast reach'd La Haye, survey it well ; 

Here was the heat and centre of the strife ; 
This point must Britain hold whate'er befell. 

And here both armies were profuse of life : 
Once it was lost, — and then a stander by 
Belike had trembled for the victory. 

22. 

Not so the leader, on whose equal mind 

Such interests hung in that momentous day ; 

So well had he his motley troops assign'd. 
That where the vital points of action lay. 

There had he placed those soldiers whom he knew 

No fears could quail, no dangers could subdue. 

23. 

Small was his British force, nor had he here 
The Portugals, in heart so near allied. 

The worthy comrades of his late career. 

Who fought so oft and conquer'd at his side. 

When with the Red Cross join'd in brave advance, 

The glorious Quinas mock'd the air of France. 

24. 

Now of the troops with whom he took the field, 
Some were of doubtful faith, and others raw ; 

He station'd these where they might stand or yield ; 
But where the stress of battle he foresaw. 

There were his links (his own strong words I speak) 

And rivets, which no human force could break. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



755 



25. 
p my brave countrymen, ye answer'd well 

To that heroic trust ! Nor less did ye, 
iVhose worth your grateful country aye shall tell. 

True children of our sister Germany, 
Who, while she groan'd beneath the oppressor's 

chain, 
bought for her freedom in the fields of Spain. 

26. 
La Haye, bear witness ! sacred is it hight. 

And sacred is it truly from that day ; 
For never braver blood was spent in fight 

Than Britain here hath mingled with the clay. 
3et where thou wilt thy foot, thou scarce canst 

tread 
Here on a spot unhallow'd by the dead. 

27. 
Here was it that the Highlanders withstood 

The tide of hostile power, received its weight 
With resolute strength, and stemm'd and turn'd 
the flood ; 
And fitly here, as in that Grecian strait. 
The funeral stone might say, Go, traveller, tell 
Scotland, that in our duty here we fell. 

28. 
Still eastward from this point thy way pursue. 

There grows a single hedge along the lane, — 
No other is there far or near in view : 
The raging enemy essay' d in vain 
To pass that line, — a braver foe withstood, 
And this whole ground was moisten'd with their 
blood. 

29. 
Leading his gallant men, as he was wont, 

The hot assailants' onset to repel. 
Advancing hat in hand, here in the front 

Of battle and of danger, Picton fell ; 
Lamented Chief! than whom no braver name 
His country's annals shall consign to fame. 

30. 
Scheldt had not seen us, had his voice been heard. 

Return with shame from her disastrous coast : 
But Fortune soon to fairer fields preferr'd 

His worth approved, which Cambria long may 
boast : 
France felt him then, and Portugal and Spain 
His honor 'd memory will for aye retain. 

31. 

Hence to the high-wall'd house of Papelot, 
The battle's boundary on the left, incline ; 

Here thou seest Frischermont not far remote. 
From whence, like ministers of wrath divine. 

The Prussians, issuing on the yielding foe. 

Consummated their great and total overthrow. 

32. 

Deem not that I the martial skill should boast, 
Where horse and foot were station'd, here to tell. 



What points were occupied by either host. 

And how the battle raged, and what befell, 
And how our great Commander's eagle eye, 
Which comprehended all, secured the victory. 

33. 

This were the historian's, not the poet's part; 

Such task would ill the gentle Muse beseem, 
Who, to the thoughtful mind and pious heart. 

Comes with her offering from this awful theme j 
Content if what she saw and gather'd there 
She may in unambitious song declare. 

34. 

Look how upon the Ocean's treacherous face 
The breeze and summer sunshine softly play, 

And the green-heaving billows bear no trace 
Of all the wrath and wreck of yesterday; — 

So from the field, which here we look'd upon, 

The vestiges of dreadful war were gone. 

35. 
Earth had received into her silent womb 

Her slaughter'd creatures : horse and man they 
lay, 
And friend and foe, within the general tomb. 

Equal had been their lot ; one fatal day 
For all, — one labor, — and one place of rest 
They found within their common parent's breast. 

36. 

The passing seasons had not yet effaced 

The stamp of numerous hoofs impress'd by force 

Of cavalry, whose path might still be traced. 
Yet Nature every where resumed her course ; 

Low pansies to the sun their purple gave. 

And the soft poppy blossom 'd on the grave. 

37. 
In parts the careful farmer had renew'd 

His labors, late by battle frustrated ; 
And where the unconscious soil had been imbued 

With blood, profusely there like water shed. 
There had his ploughshare turn'd the guilty 

ground. 
And the green corn was springing all around. 

38. 
The graves he left for natural thought humane 
Untouch'd ; and here and there, where in the 
strife 
Contending feet had trampled down the grain, 
Some hardier roots were found, which of their 
life 
Tenacious, had put forth a second head. 
And sprung, and ear'd, and ripen'd on the dead. 

39. 
Some marks of wreck were scatter'd all around, 

As shoe, and belt, and broken bandoleer. 
And hats which bore the mark of mortal wound ; 

Gun-flints and balls for those who closelier peer; 
And sometimes did the bi-eeze upon its breath 
Bear from ill-cover'd graves a taint of death. 



756 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



III. 



40. 

More vestige of destructive man was seen 

Where man in works of peace had labor'd more; 

At Hougoumont the hottest strife had been, 

Where trees and walls the mournful record bore 

Of war's wild rage, trunks pierced with many a 
wound, 

And roofs and half-burnt rafters on the ground. 

41. 

A goodly mansion this, with gardens fair, 

And ancient groves and fruitful orchard wide, 

Its dove-cot and its decent house of prayer, 
Its ample stalls and garners well supplied. 

And spacious bartons clean, well-wall'd around, 

Where all the wealth of rural life was found. 

42. 

That goodly mansion on the ground was laid. 
Save here and there a blacken'd, broken wall; 

The wounded who were borne beneath its shade 
Had there been crush'd and buried by the fall ; 

And there they lie, where they received their 
doom, — 

Oh, let no hand disturb that honorable tomb ! 

43. 

Contiguous to this wreck, the little fane. 

For worship hallow'd, still uninjured stands, 

Save that its Crucifix displays too plain 

The marks of outrage from irreverent hands. 

Alas, to think such irreligious deed 

Of wrong from British soldiers should proceed! 

44. 
The dove-cot too remains ; scared at the fight. 

The birds sought shelter in the forest shade ; 
But still they kept their native haunts in sight, 

And, when few days their terror had allay'd. 
Forsook again the solitary wood. 
For their old home and human neighborhood. 

45. 

The gardener's dwelling was untouch'd; his wife 
Fled with her children to some near retreat. 

And there lay trembling for her husband's life : 

He stood the issue, saw the foe's retreat. 

And lives unhurt, where thousands fell around. 

To tell the story of that famous ground. 

46. 

His generous dog was well approved that hour. 
By courage as by love to man allied ; 

He through the fiery storm and iron shower 
Kept the ground bravely by his master's side ; 

And now, when to the stranger's hand he draws, 

The noble beast seems conscious of applause. 

47. 
Toward the grove, the wall with musket-holes 

Is pierced ; our soldiers here their station held 
Against the foe ; and many were the souls 

Then from their fleshly tenements expell'd. 
Six hundred Frenchmen have been burnt close by. 
And underneath one mound their bones and ashes 
he. 



48. 
One streak of blood upon the wall was traced, 

In length a man's just stature from the head ; 
There where it gush'd you saw it uneffaced : 

Of all the blood which on that day was shed, 
This mortal stain alone remain'd impress'd, — 
The all-devouring earth had drunk the rest. 

49. 
Here, from the heaps who strew'd the fatal plain, 

Was Howard's corse by faithful hands convey 'd, 
And, not to be confounded with the slain. 

Here in a grave apart with reverence laid, 
Till hence his honor'd relics o'er the seas 
Were borne to England, there to rest in peace. 

50. 
Another grave had yielded up its dead. 

From whence to bear his son a father came. 
That he might lay him where his own gray head 

Ere long must needs be laid. That soldier's name 
Was not remember'd there, yet may the verse 
Present this reverent tribute to his hearse. 

51. 

Was it a soothing or a mournful thought. 
Amid this scene of slaughter as we stood, 

Where armies had with recent fury fought. 
To mark how gentle Nature still pursued 

Her quiet course, as if she took no care 

For what her noblest work had suffer'd there ? 

52. 

The pears had ripen'd on the garden wall; 

Those leaves which on the autumnal earth were 

spread, j 

The trees, though pierced and scarr'd with many 

a ball. 

Had only in their natural season shed : 

Flowers were in seed, whose buds to swell began | 

When such wild havock here was made of man ! \ 

53. 

Throughout the garden, fruits, and herbs, and' 
flowers. 

You saw in growth, or ripeness, or decay ; 
The green and well-trimm'd dial mark'd the hours 

With gliding shadow as they pass'd away; 
Who would have thought, to see this garden fair, 
Such horrors had so late been acted there ! 

54. 

Now, Hougoumont, farewell to thy domain ! 

Might I dispose of thee, no woodman's hand 
Should e'er thy venerable groves profane ; 

Untouch'd, and like a temple should they stand,: 

And, consecrate by general feeling, wave 

Their branches o'er the ground where sleep the 

brave. 

55. 
Thy ruins, as they fell, should aye remain, — 

What monument so fit for those below .'' 
Thy garden through whole ages should retain 

The form and fashion which it weareth now, 



[V. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



757 



sfhat future pilgrims here might all things see, 
^3uch as they were at this great victory. 



IV. 

THE SCENE OF WAR. 



N'o cloud the azure vault of heaven distain'd 
That day when we the field of war survey 'd ; 

The leaves were falling, but the groves retain'd 
Foliage enough for beauty and for shade ; 

Soft airs prevail'd, and through the sunny hours 

The bees were busy on the year's last flowers. 



Well was the season with the scene combined. 

The autumnal sunshine suited well the mood 
Which here possess'd the meditative mind, — 

A human sense upon the field of blood, 
k. Christian thankfulness, a British pride, 
Temper'd by solemn thought, yet still to joy allied. 



What British heart that would not feel a flow, 
Upon that ground, of elevating pride ^ 

What British cheek is there that would not glow 
To hear our country blest and magnified ? — 

Por Britain here was blest by old and young, 

flidmired by every heart, and praised by every 
tongue. 



Not for brave bearing in the field alone 
Doth grateful Belgium bless the British name ; 

The order and the perfect honor shown 
In all things, have enhanced the soldier's fame 

For this we heard the admiring people raise 

One universal voice sincere of praise. 



fet with indignant feeling they inquired 
Wherefore we spared the author of this strife ? 

Why had we not, as highest law required, 
With ignominy closed the culprit's life .'' 

For him alone had all this blood been shed, — 

Why had not vengeance struck the guilty head ? 



O God 1 they said, it was a piteous thing 
To see the after-horrors of the fight. 

The lingering death, the hopeless suffering, — 
What heart of flesh unmoved could bear the 
sight 1 

One man was cause of all this world of woe, — 

Ye had him, — and ye did not strike the blow ! 

7. 
How will ye answer to all after-time 

For that great lesson which ye fail'd to give ? 
As if excess of guilt excused the crime. 

Black as he is with blood, ye let him live ! 



Children of evil, take your course henceforth, 
For what is Justice but a name on earth ! 



Vain had it been with ttiese in glozing speech 

Of precedents to use the specious tongue : 
This might perplex the ear, but fail to reach 
The heart, from whence that honest feeling 
sprung ; 
And had I dared my inner sense belie, 
The voice of blood was there to join them in their 
cry. 

9. 
We left the field of battle in such mood 

As human hearts from thence should bear 
away. 
And musing thus our purposed route pursued. 
Which still through scenes of recent bloodshed 
lay, 
Where Prussia late, with strong and stern delight, 
Hung on her hated foes to persecute their flight. 

10. 

No hour for tarriance that, or for remorse ! 

Vengeance, who long had hunger'd, took her fill, 
And Retribution held its righteous course : 

As when in elder time, the Sun stood still 
On Gibeon, and the Moon above the vale 
Of Ajalon hung motionless and pale, 

11. 

And what though no portentous day was given 
To render here the work of wrath complete ; 

The Sun, I ween, seem'd standing still in heaven 
To those who hurried from that dire defeat ; 

And when they pray'd for darkness in their flight. 

The Moon arose upon them broad and bright. 

12. 

No covert might they find ; the open land. 
O'er which so late exultingly they pass'd, 

Lay all before them and on either hand ; 

Close on their flight the avengers follow'd fast, 

And when they reach'd Genappe, and there drew 
breath. 

Short respite found they there from fear and death. 

13. 

That fatal town betray'd them to more loss ; 

Through one long street the only passage lay, 
And then the narrow bridge they needs must cross 

Where Dyle, a shallow streamlet, cross'd the 
way : 
For life they fled, — no thought had they but fear, 
And their own baggage chok'd the outlet here. 

14. 

He who had bridged the Danube's affluent stream. 
With all the unbroken Austrian power in sight, 

(So had his empire vanish'd like a dream,) 
Was by this brook impeded in his flight, — 

And then what passions did he witness there 

Rage, terror, execrations, and despair ! 



758 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



IV. 



Brought on the French, in warning to all times, 
A vengeance wide and sweeping as their crimes ; — 

23. 

Vengeance for Egypt and for Syria's wrong ; | 
For Portugal's unutterable woes ; ' 

For Germany, who suffered all too long 

Beneath these lawless, faithless, godless foes ', 

For blood which on the Lord so long had cried, 

For Earth oppress'd, and Heaven insulted and 
defied. 

24. 

We follow'd from Genappe their line of flight 
To the Cross Roads, where Britain's sonSi 
sustain 'd 

Against such perilous force the desperate fight; 
Deserving for that field, so well maintain'd, 

Such fame as for a like devotion's meed 

The world hath to the Spartan band decreed. 

25. 

Upon this ground the noble Brunswick died. 
Led on too rashly by his ardent heart; 

Long shall his grateful country tell with pride 
How manfully he chose the better part ; 

When groaning Germany in chains was bound. 

He only of her Princes faithful found. 

26. 
And here right bravely did the German band 

Once more sustain their well-deserved applause ;, 
As when, revenging there their native land, 

In Spain they labor'd for the general cause. 
In this most arduous strife none more than they 
Endured the heat and burden of the day. 

27. 
Here too we heard the praise of British worth. 

Still best approved when most severely tried ; 
Here were broad patches of loose-lying earth. 

Sufficing scarce the mingled bones to hide, — ' 
And half-uncover'd graves, where one might see i 
The loathliest features of mortality. 

28. 
Eastward from hence we struck, and reach'd th<' 
field ' 

Of Ligny, where the Prussian, on that day 
By far-outnumbering force constrain'd to yield, 

Fronted the foe, and held them still at bay ; 
And in that brave defeat acquired fresh claim 
To glory, and enhanced his country's fame. 

29. 
Here was a scene which fancy might delight 

To treasure up among her cherish 'd stores, 
And bring again before the inward sight 

Often when she recalls the long-pass'd hours;- 
Well-cultured hill and dale extending wide, 
Hamlets and village spires on every side ; — 

30. 
The autumnal-tinted groves ; the upland mill, 
Which oft was won and lost amid the fray ; 



15. 

Eie through the wreck his passage could be made. 
Three miserable hours, which seem'd like years. 

Was he in that ignoble strait delay'd ; 

The dreadful Prussian's cry was in his ears, 

Fear in his heart, and in his soul that hell 

Whose due rewards he merited so well. 

16. 

Foremost again, as he was wont to be 

In flight, though not the foremost in the strife. 

The Tyrant hurried on, of infamy 

Regardless, nor regarding ought but life ; — 

O wretch ! without the courage or the faith 

To die with those whom he had led to death ! 

17. 

Meantime his guilty followers in disgrace. 
Whose pride forever now was beaten down. 

Some in the houses sought a hiding-place ; 
While at the entrance of that fatal town 

Others, who yet some show of heart display'd, 

A short, vain effort of resistance made ; — 

18. 
Feeble and ill-sustain'd ! — The foe burst through : 

With unabating heat they search'd around; 
The wretches from their lurking-holes they 
drew, — 
Such mercy as the French had given they found ; 
Death had more victims there in that one hour 
Tlian fifty years might else have render'd to his 
power. 

19. 
Here did we inn upon our pilgrimage, 

After such day an unfit resting-place : 
For who from ghastly thoughts could disengage 

The haunted mind, when every where the trace 
Of death was seen, — the blood-stain on the wall. 
And musket-marks in chamber and in hall ! 

20. 
All talk, too, was of death. They show'd us here 
The room where Brunswick's body had been 
laid. 
Where his brave followers, bending o'er the bier. 

In bitterness their vow of vengeance made ; 
Where Wellington beheld the slaughter 'd Chief, 
And for a while gave way to manly grief. 

21. 

Duhesme, whose crimes the Catalans may tell, 
Died here ; — with sabre strokes the posts are 
scored. 

Hewn down upon the threshold where he fell. 
Himself then tasting of the ruthless sword ; 

A Brunswicker discharged the debt of Spain, 

And where he dropp'd the stone preserves the stain. 

22. 
Too much of life hath on thy plains been shed, 

Brabant ! so oft the scene of war's debate ; 
But ne'er with blood were they so largely fed 

As in this rout and wreck ; when righteous Fate 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



759 



jrreen pastures water' d by the silent rill; 

The lordly Castle yielding to decay, 
tVith bridge and barbican, and moat and tower, 
\. fairer sight perchance than when it frown'd in 
power ; — 

31. 

The avenue before its ruin'd gate, 

Which, when the Castle, suffering less from 
time 
Than havock, hath foregone its strength and state. 

Uninjured flourisheth in nature's prime ; 
To us a grateful shade did it supply, 
prlad of that shelter from the noontide sky ; — 

32. 

t'he quarries deep, where many a massive block 
For some Parisian monument of pride, 

lewn with long labor from the granite rock, 
Lay in the change of fortune cast aside; 

3u.t rightly with those stones should Prussia build 

tier monumental pile on Ligny's bloody field ! — 

33. 

The wealthy village bearing but too plain 
The dismal marks of recent fire and spoil ; 

ts decent habitants, an active train, 
And many a one at work with needful toil 

)n roof or thatch, the ruin to repair, — 

ylay never War repeat such devastation there ! 

34. 

11 had we done if we had hurried by 
A scene in faithful history to be famed 

Through long s\icceeding ages ; nor may I 
The hospitality let pass unnamed, 

^nd courteous kindness on that distant ground, 

rVhich, strangers as we were, for England's sake 
we found. 

35. 

^nd dear to England should be Ligny's name ; 
Prussia and England both were proved that 
day; 
3ach generous nation to the other's fame 

Her ample tribute of applause will pay ; 
L(Ong as the memory of those labors past, 
Jnbroken may their Fair Alliance last ! 

i 

36. 

The tales which of that field I could unfold. 
Better it is that silence should conceal. 

They who had seen them shudder'd while they told 
Of things so hideous ; and they cried with zeal, 

3ne man hath caused all this, of men the worst, — 

D wherefore have ye spared his head accurst ? 

37. 

, ft fits not now to tell our farther way 
' Through many a scene by bounteous nature 

blest, 

^or how we found, where'er our journey lay, 
I An Englishman was still an honor'd guest; 
But still upon this point, where'er we went, 
The indignant voice was heard of discontent. 



38. 
And hence there lay, too plainly might we see, 

An ominous feeling upon every heart : 
What hope of lasting order could there be, 

They said, where Justice has not had her part ? 
Wisdom doth rule with Justice by her side ; 
Justice from Wisdom none may e'er divide. 

39. 
The shaken mind felt all things insecure : 

Accustom'd long to see successful crimes, 
And helplessly the heavy yoke endure. 

They now look'd back upon their fathers' times, 
Ere the wild rule of Anarchy began, 
As to some happier world, or golden age of man. 

40. 
As they who in the vale of years advance, 

And the dark eve is closing on their way, 
When on their mind the recollections glance 

Of early joy, and Hope's delightful day, 
Behold, in brighter hues than those of truth, 
The light of morning on the fields of youth. 

4L 

Those who amid these troubles had grown gray, 
Recurr'd with mournful feeling to the past; 

Blest had we known our blessings, they would say ; 
We were not worthy that our bliss should last i 

Peaceful we were, and flourishing, and free ; 

But madly we required more liberty ! 

42. 

Remorseless France had long oppress'd the land, 
And for her frantic projects drain'd its blood ; 

And now they felt the Prussian's heavy hand : 
He came to aid them ; bravely had he stood 

In their defence ; — but oh ! in peace how ill 

The soldier's deeds, how insolent his will ! 

43. 

One general wish prevail'd, — if they might see 
The happy order of old times restored ; 

Give them their former laws and liberty ; 
This their desires and secret prayers implored ; — 

Forgetful, as the stream of time flows on. 

That that which passes is forever gone. 



PART II. 
THE VISION. 



E77£X£ VCJV CKOIVM TO^OV, 

"Aye ■&«//£ Pindar. 



THE TOWER. 



I THOUGHT upon those things in solitude, 
And mused upon them in the silent night; 



760 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



The open graves, the recent scene of blood, 
Were present to the soul's creative sight; 
These mournful images my mind possess'd, 
And mingled with the visions of my rest. 



Methought that 1 was travelling o'er a plain 
Whose limits, far beyond all reach of sense, 

The aching, anxious sight explored in vain. 

How I came there I could not tell, nor whence ; 

Nor where my melancholy journey lay ; 

Only that soon the night would close upon my 
way. 

3. 

Behind me was a dolorous, dreary scene. 

With huge and mouldering ruins widely spread ; 

Wastes which had whilome fertile regions been. 
Tombs which had lost all record of the dead ; 

And where the dim horizon seem'd to close, 

Far off the gloomy Pyramids arose. 



Full fain would 1 have known what lay before, 
But lifted there in vain my mortal eye ; 

That point with cloud and mist was cover' d o'er 
As though the earth were mingled with 
sky. 

Yet thither, as some power unseen impell'd, 

My blind, involuntary way I held. 



the 



Across the plain innumerable crowds. 

Like me, were on their destined journey bent. 

Toward the land of shadows and of clouds: 

One pace they travelled, to one point they 
went ; — 

A motley multitude of old and young, 

Men of all climes and hues, and every tongue. 



Erelong I came upon a field of dead, 

Where heaps of recent carnage fill'd the way; 

A ghastly sight, — nor was there where to tread. 
So thickly slaughter'd, horse and man, they 
lay. 

Methought that in that place of death I knew 

Again the late-seen field of Waterloo. 



Troubled I stood, and doubtful where to go ; 

A cold, damp shuddering ran through all my 
frame ; 
Fain would I fly from that dread scene, when, lo ! 

A voice as from above pronounced my name ; 
And looking to the sound, by the way-side 
I saw a lofty structure edified. 



Most like it seem'd to that aspiring Tower 
Which old Ambition rear'd on Babel's plam. 

As if he ween'd in his presumptuous power 

To scale high Heaven, with daring pride profane ; 

Such was its giddy height ; and round and round 

The spiral steps in long ascension wound. 



Its frail foundations upon sand were placed, 
And round about it mouldering rubbish lay; 

For easily by time and storms defaced. 
The loose materials crumbled in decay } 

Rising so high, and built so insecure, 

111 might such perishable work endure. 

10. 

I not the less went up, and as I drew 

Toward the top, more firm the structure seem'dji 
With nicer art composed, and fair to view : 

Strong and well-built, perchance, I might have 
deera'd 
The pile, had I not seen and understood 
Of what frail matter form'd, and on what base 
it stood 

11. 

There, on the summit, a grave personage 

P»-eceived and welcomed me in courteous guise ] 

On his gray temples were the marks of age. 
As one whom years, methought, should reudei 
wise. 

I saw that thou wert fill'd with doubt and fear, 

He said, and therefore have I call'd thee here. 

12. 
Hence from this eminence sublime I see 

The wanderings of the erring crowd below, 
And pitying thee in thy perplexity, 

Will tell thee all that thou canst need to know 
To guide thy steps aright. 1 bent my head 
As if in thanks, — And who art thou.? I said. 

13. 

He answer'd, I am Wisdom. Mother Earth 
Me, in her vigor self-conceiving, bore ; 

And as from eldest time I date my birth, 
Eternally with her shall I endure ; 

Her noblest offspring 1, to whom alone 

The course of sublunary things is known. 

14. 

Master ! quoth 1, regarding him, I thought 
That Wisdom was the child divine of Heaven. 

So, he replied, have fabling preachers taught, 
And the dull World a light belief hath given. 

But vainly would these fools my claim decry,— 

Wisdom I am, and of the Earth am I. 

15. 

Thus while he spake I scann'd his features well ; 

Small but audacious was the Old Man's eye ; 
His countenance was hard, and seem'd to tell 

Of knowledge less than of effrontery. 
Instruct me then, I said, for thou shouldst know 
From whence I came, and whither I must go. 

16. 

Art thou then one who would his mind perplex 
With knowledge bootless even if attain'd ? 

Fond man ! he answer'd ; — wherefore shoulds 
thou vex 
Thy heart with seeking what may notbe gam'd 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



761 



Regard not what has been, nor what may be ; 
O Child of Earth, this Now is all that toucheth 
thee ! 

17. 

He who performs the journey of to-day 
Cares not if yesterday were shower or sun : 

To-morrow let the heavens be what they may, 
And what recks he? — his wayfare will be done. 

Heedless of what hereafter may befall, 

fLive whilst thou livest, for this life is all ! 

18. 
kept my rising indignation down, 
That I might hear what farther he would teach ; 
Yet on my darken'd brow the instinctive frown. 

Gathering at that abominable speech, 
Maintain'd its place : he mark'd it, and pursued, 
iTuning his practised tongue to subtle flattery's 
mood : — 

19. 

bo I not know thee, — that from earliest youth 
Knowledge hath been thy only heart's desire .'' 

Here seeing all things as they are in truth, 
I show thee all to which thy thoughts aspire : 

So vapors here impede the exalted sense, 

ST or mists of earth attain this eminence. 

20. 
yVhither thy way, thou askest me, and what 

The region dark whereto thy footsteps tend, 
Vnd where, by one inevitable lot. 

The course of all yon multitude must end. 
Pake thou this glass, whose perfect power shall aid 
Thy faulty vision, and therewith explore the shade. 

21. 

ilager I look'd ; but seeing with surprise 
That the same darkness still the view o'erspread, 

lalf angrily I turn'd away mine eyes. 
Complacent then the Old Man smiled and said, 

)arkness is all ! what more wouldst thou descry ? 

lest now content, for fartlier none can spy. 

22. 
^ow mark me, Child of Earth ! he thus pursued ; 

Let not the hypocrites thy reason blind, 
Lnd to the quest of some unreal good 

Divert with dogmas vain thine erring mind : 
jcarn thou, whate'er the motive they may call, 
^'hat Pleasure is the aim, and Self the spring of all. 

23. 

his is the root of knowledge. Wise are they 
Who to this guiding principle attend; 
hey, as they press along the world's highway. 
With single aim pursue their steady end ; 
fo vain compunction checks their sure career ; 
fo idle dreams deceive ; their heart is here. 

24. 
l^'rhey from the nature and the fate of man, 

Thus clearly understood, derive their strength ; 
96 



Knowing that as from nothing they began, 

To nothing they must needs return at length ; 
This knowledge steels the heart and clears the 

mind. 
And they create on earth the Heaven they find. 

25. 

Such, 1 made answer, was the Tyrant's creed 
Who bruised the nations with his iron rod, 

Till on yon field the wretch received his meed 
From Britain, and the outstretch'd arm of God! 

Behold him now, — Death ever in his view. 

The only change for him, — and Judgment to 



26. 
Behold him when the unbidden thoughts arise 

Of his old passions and unbridled power; 
As the fierce tiger in confinement lies. 

And dreams of blood that he must taste no 
more, — 
Then waking in that appetite of rage, 
Frets to and fro within his narrow cage. 

27. 
Hath he not chosen well ? the Old Man replied ; 

Bravely he aim'd at universal sway; 
And never earthly Chief was glorified 

Like this Napoleon in his prosperous day. 
All-ruling Fate itself hath not the power 
To alter what has been : and he has had his hour ! 

28. 
Take him, I answer'd, at his fortune's flood ; 

Russia his friend, the Austrian wars surceased. 
When Kings, his creatures some, and some 
subdued. 
Like vassals waited at his marriage feast; 
And Europe like a map before him lay. 
Of which he gave at will, or took away. 

29. 
Call then to mind Navarre's heroic chief. 

Wandering by night and day through wood 
and glen. 
His country's sufferings like a private grief 

Wringing his heart : would Mina even then 
Those perils and that sorrow have foregone 
To be that Tyrant on his prosperous throne ? 

30. 
Bat wherefore name I him whose arm was free.'' 

A living hope his noble heart sustain'd, 
A faith which bade him through all dangers see 

The triumph his enduring country gain'd. 
See Hofer with no earthly hope to aid, — 
His country lost, himself to chains and death be- 
tray 'd ! 

31. 

By those he served deserted in his need ; 

Given to the unrelenting Tyrant's power, 
And by his mean revenge condemn'd to bleed, — 

Would he have barter'd, in that awful hour, 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



II. 



His heart, his conscience, and his sure renown, 
For the mahgnant murderer's crimes and crown? 

32. 
Him too, I know, a worthy thought of fame 

In that dread trance upheld ; — the foresight sure 
That in his own dear country his good name 
Long as the streams and mountains should 
endure ; 
The herdsmen on the hills should sing his praise, 
And children learn his deeds through all succeeding 
days. 

33. 
Turn we to those in whom no glorious thought 

Lent its strong succor to the passive mind ; 
Nor stirring enterprise within them wrought ; — 

Who to their lot of bitterness resign'd, 
Endured their sorrows by the world unknown. 
And look'd for their reward to Death alone : 

34. 

Mothers within Gerona's leaguer'd wall, [die ; — 
Who saw their famish'd children pine and 

Widows surviving Zaragoza's fall 
To linger in abhorr'd captivity ; — 

Yet would not have exchanged their sacred woe 

For all the empire of their miscreant foe ! 

35. 

Serene the Old Man replied, and smiled with scorn. 
Behold the effect of error ! thus to wear 

The days of miserable life forlorn. 

Struggling with evil and consumed with care ; — 

Poor fools, whom vain and empty hopes mislead ! 

They reap their sufferings for their only meed. 

36. 
O false one, I exclaim'd, whom canst thou fool 

With such gross sophisms, but the wicked heart ? 
The pupils of thine own unhappy school 

Are they who choose the vain and empty part; 
How oft in age, in sickness, and in woe. 
Have they complain' d that all was vanity below ! 

37. 
Look at that mighty Gaznevide, Mahmood, 

When, pining in his Palace of Delight, 
He bade the gather'd spoils of realms subdued 

Be spread before him to regale his sight, 
Whate'er the Orient boasts of rich and rare, — 
And then he wept to think what toys they were ! 

38. 
Look at the Russian minion when he play'd 

With pearls and jewels which surpass'd all price } 
And now apart their various hues array'd. 

Blended their colors now in union nice, 
Then, weary of the bawbles, with a sigh. 
Swept them aside, and thought that all was vanity ! 

39. 
Wean'd by the fatal Messenger from pride. 

The Syrian through the streets exposed his 
shroud ; 



And one that ravaged kingdoms far and wide 

Upon the bed of sickness cried aloud, 
What boots my empire in this mortal throe ? 
For the Grave calls me now, and I must go ! 

40. 

Thus felt these wretched men, because decay 
Had touch'd them in their vitals ; Death stood by; 

And Reason, when the props of flesh gave way, 
Purged as with euphrasy the mortal eye. 

Who seeks for worldly honors, wealth, or power, 

Will find them vain indeed at that dread hour ! 

41. 

These things are vain ; but all things are not so ; 

The virtues and the hopes of human-kind ! — 
Yea, by the God who, ordering all below, jj 

In his own image made the immortal mind, ' 

Desires there are whicit draw from Him their birth,i 

And bring forth lasting fruits for Heaven and 

Earth. 

42. 
Therefore through evil and through good content 

The righteous man performs his part assign'd ;; 
In bondage lingering, or with sufierings spent, 

Therefore doth peace support the heroic mind 
And from the dreadful sacrifice of all. 
Meek woman doth not shrink at Duty's call. 

43. 

Therefore the Martyr clasps the stake in faith. 
And sings thanksgiving while the flames aspire; 

Victorious over agony and death. 

Sublime he stands, and triumphs in the fire, 

As though to him Elijah's lot were given, 

And that the chariot and the steeds of Heaven. 



II. 



THE EVIL PROPHET. 

1. 

With that my passionate discourse I brake ; 

Too fast the thought, too strong the feeling came 
Composed the Old Man listen'd while I spake, 

Nor moved to wrath, nor capable of shame ; 
And when I ceased, unalter'd was his mien. 
His hard eye unabash'd, his front serene. 



Hard is it error from the mind to weed, 

He answer'd, where it strikes so deep a root 

Let us to other argument proceed. 

And if we may, discover what the fruit 

Of this long strife, — what harvest of great good 

The World shall reap for all this cost of blood ! 

3. 

Assuming then a frown as thus he said, 

He stretch'd his hand from that commandir 
height ; 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



763 



Behold, quoth he, where thrice ten thousand dead 

Are laid, the victims of a single fight ! 
And thrice ten thousand more at Ligny lie, 
Slain for the prelude to this tragedy ! 

4. 

This but a page of the great book of war, — 
A drop amid the sea of human woes ! 

Thou canst remember when the Morning Star 
Of Freedom on rejoicing France arose, 

Over her vine-clad hills and regions gay, 

Fair even as Phosphor, who foreruns the day. 

5. 

Such and so beautiful that Star's uprise ; 

But soon the glorious dawn was overcast : 
A baleful track it held across the skies. 

Till now, through all its fatal changes past. 
Its course fulfill'd, its aspects understood. 
On Waterloo it hath gone down in blood. 

6. 

Where now the hopes with which thine ardent 
youth 
Rejoicingly to run its race began ? 
Where now the reign of Liberty and Truth, 

The Rights Omnipotent of Equal Man, 
The principles should make all discord cease, 
And bid poor human-kind repose at length in 
peace .'' 



And saw his legions, raging from the fight, 
Root out the noble nation they subdued ; 
Even at this day the peasant findeth there 
The relics of that ruthless massacre. 



Behold the Bourbon to that throne by force 
Restored, from whence by fury he was cast 

Thus to the point where it began its course, 
The melancholy cycle comes at last ; 

And what are all the intermediate j^ears? — 

What, but a bootless waste of blood and tears ! 



The peace which thus at Waterloo ye won. 
Shall it endure with this exasperate foe ? 

In gratitude for all that ye have done, 
Will France her ancient enmity forego ? 

Her wounded spirit, her envenorn'd will 

I Ye know, — and ample means are left her still. 

9. 
What though the tresses of her strength be shorn; 

The roots remain untouch'd ; and as of old 
The bondsman Samson felt his power return 

To his knit sinews, so shall ye behold 
France, like a giant fresh from sleep, arise 
And rush upon her slumbering enemies. 

10. 
Woe then for Belgium ! for this ill-doom'd land. 

The theatre of strife through every age ! 
Look from this eminence, whereon we stand, — 

What is the region round us but a stage 
For the mad pastime of Ambition made. 
Whereon War's dreadful drama may be play'd.? 

I 11. 

Thus hath it been from history's earliest light, 
When yonder by the Sabis C^sar stood, 



12. 

Need I recall the long religious strife ? 

Or William's hard-fought fields.? or Marl- 
borough's fame. 
Here purchased at such lavish price of life, — 

Or Fontenoy, or Fleurus' later name ? 
Wherever here the foot of man may tread. 
The blood of man hath on that spot been shed. 

13. 

Shall then Futurity a happier train 

Unfold, than this dark picture of the past ? 

Dreamst thou again of some Saturnian reign, 
Or that this ill-compacted realm should last ? 

Its wealth and weakness to the foe are known. 

And the first shock subverts its baseless throne. 

14. 

O wretched country, better should thy soil 
Be laid again beneath the invading seas, 

Thou goodliest masterpiece of human toil. 

If still thou must be doom'd to scenes like 
these ! 

O Destiny inexorable and blind ! 

O miserable lot of poor mankind ! 

15. 

Saying thus, he fix'd on me a searching eye 
Of stern regard, as if my heart to reach • 

Yet gave he now no leisure to reply ; 

For ere I might dispose my thoughts for speech. 

The Old Man, as one who felt and understood 

His strength, the theme of his discourse pursued. 

16. 

If we look farther, what shall we behold 
But every where tlie swelling seeds of ill, 

Half-smother'd fires, and causes manifold 

Of strife to come ; the powerful watching still 

For fresh occasion to enlarge his power. 

The weak and injured waiting for their hour ? 

17. 

Will the rude Cossack with his spoils bear back 
The love of peace and humanizing art ? 

Think ye the mighty Moscovite shall lack 

Some specious business for the ambitious heart ? 

Or the black Eagle, when she moults her plume. 

The form and temper of the Dove assume .' 

18. 
From the old Germanic chaos hath there risen 

A happier order of establish'd things ? 
And is the Italian Mind from papal prison 

Set free to soar upon its native wings ? 
Or look to Spain, and let her Despot tell 
If there thy high-raised hopes are answer'd well ! 

19. 

At that appeal my spirit breathed a groan ; 
But he triumphantly pursued his speech : 



764 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



III. 



O Child of Earth, he cried with loftier tone, 

The present and the past one lesson teach ; 
Look where thou wilt, the history of man 
Is but a thorny maze, without a plan ! 

20. 
The winds which have in viewless heaven their 
birth. 
The waves which in their fury meet the clouds, 
The central storms which shake the solid earth, 

And from volcanoes burst in fiery floods. 
Are not more vague, and purportless, and blind, 
Than is the course of things among mankind ! 

21. 

Rash hands unravel what the wise have spun ; 

Realms which in story fill so large a part, 
Rear'd by the strong, are by the weak undone ; 

Barbarians overthrow the works of art. 
And what force spares is sapp'd by sure decay, — 
So earthly things are changed and pass away. 

22. 

And think not thou thy England hath a spell, 
That she this general fortune should elude ; 

Easier to crush the foreign foe, than quell 
The malice which misleads the multitude. 

And that dread malady of erring zeal. 

Which like a cancer eats into the commonweal. 

23. 
The fabric of her power is undermined ; 

The earthquake underneath it will have way, 
And all that glorious structure, as the wind 

Scatters a summer cloud, be swept away ; 
For Destiny, on this terrestrial ball. 
Drives on her iron car, and crushes all. 

24. 

Thus as he ended, his mysterious form [view. 

Enlarged, grew dim, and vanish'd from my 
At once on all sides rush'd the gather'd storm, 

The thunders roll'd around, the wild winds 
blew, 
And as the tempest round the summit beat, 
The whole frail fabric shook beneath my feet. 



III. 



THE SACRED MOUNTAIN. 



But then, methought, I heard a voice exclaim, 
Hither, my Son, oh, hither take thy flight ! 

A heavenly voice which call'd me by my name, 
And bade me hasten from that treacherous 
height : 

The voice it was which 1 was wont to hear. 

Sweet as a Mother's to her infant's ear. 



I hesitated nr , but at the call 

Sprung from the summit of that tottering tower. 



There is a motion known in dreams to all, 

When, buoyant by some self-sustaining power, 
Through air we seem to glide, as if set free 
From all encumbrance of mortality. 

3. 

Thus borne aloft, I reach'd the Sacred Hill, 
And left the scene of tempests far behind ; 

But that old tempter's parting language still 
Press'd like a painful burden on my mind ; 

The troubled soul had lost her inward light, 

And all within was black as Erebus and Night. 



The thoughts which I had known in youth return'd, 
But, oh, how changed ! a sad and spectral train ; 

And while for all the miseries past I mourn'd. 
And for the lives which had been given in vain, 

In sorrow and in fear I turn'd mine eye 

From the dark aspects of futurity. 



I sought the thickest woodland's shade profound, 
As suited best my melancholy mood, 

And cast myself upon the gloomy ground. 

When lo ! a gradual radiance fill'd the wood j 

A heavenly presence rose upon my view, 

And in that form divine the awful Muse I knew. 



Hath then that Spirit false perplex'd thy heart, 

thou of little faith ! severe she cried. 
Bear with me, Goddess, heavenly as thou art, 

Bear with my earthly nature ! I replied. 
And let me pour into thine ear my grief; 
Thou canst enlighten, thou canst give relief. 

7. 
The ploughshare had gone deep, the sower's hand 

Had scatter'd in the open soil the grain : 
The harrow, too, had well prepared the land ; 

1 look'd to see the fruit of all this pain ! — 
Alas ! the thorns and old inveterate weed 
Have sprung again, and stifled the good seed. 



I hoped that Italy should break her chains, j 

Foreign and papal, with the world's applause, J| 

Knit in firm union her divided reigns. 
And rear a well-built pile of equal laws : 

Then might the wrongs of Venice be forgiven. 

And joy should reach Petrarca's soul in Heaven. 



I hoped that that abhorr'd Idolatry 

Had in the strife received its mortal wound : 

The Souls which from beneath the Altar cry, 
At length, I thought, had their just vengeance 
found ; — 

In purple and in scarlet clad, behold 

The Harlot sits, adorn'd with gems and gold ! 

10. 

The golden cup she bears full to the brim 
Of her abominations, as of yore ; 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



765 



Her eyeballs with inebriate triumph swim ; 

Though drunk with righteous blood, she thirsts 
for more, 
Eager to reassert her influence fell, 
And once again let loose the Dogs of Hell 

11. 

Woe for that people, too, who by their path 

For these late triumphs first made plain the 
way; 

Whom, in the Valley of the Shade of Death, 
No fears nor fiery sufferings could dismay ; 

Art could not tempt, nor violence enthrall 

Their firm devotion, faithful found through all. 

12. 

Strange race of haughty heart and stubborn will. 
Slavery they love, and chains with pride they 
wear ; 

Inflexible alike in good or ill, 

The inveterate stamp of servitude they bear. 

Oh fate perverse, to see all change withstood, 

There only where all change must needs be good ! 

13. 

But them no foe can force, nor friend persuade ; 

Impassive souls in iron forms enclosed. 
As though of human mould they were not made. 

But of some sterner elements composed, 
Against offending nations to be sent. 
The ruthless ministers of punishment. 

14. 

Where are those Minas after that career 

Wherewith all Europe rang from side to side ? 

In exile wandering ! Where the Mountaineer, — 
Late, like Pelayo, the Asturian's pride ? 

'Had Ferdinand no mercy for that life, 

jExposed so long for him in daily, hourly strife ! 

15. 

From her Athenian orator of old 

I Greece never listen' d to sublimer strain 

Than that with which, for truth and freedom bold, 

Quintana moved the inmost soul of Spain. 
What meed is his let Ferdinand declare — 
Chains, and the silent dungeon, and despair ! 

16. 
Tov this hath England borne so brave a part ! 

Spent with endurance, or in battle slain, 
;s it for this so many an English heart 

Lies mingled with the insensate soil of Spain ! 
[s this the issue, this the happy birth 
[n those long throes and that strong agony brought 
forth ! 



17. 

\nd oh ! if England's fatal hour draw nigh, — 
j If that most glorious edifice should fall 
3y the wild hands of bestial Anarchy, — 
j Then might it seem that He who ordereth all 
Doth take for sublunary things no care ; — 
The burden of that thought is more than I can 
bear. 



18. 
Even as a mother listens to her child 

My plaint the Muse divine benignant heard. 
Then answer'd, in reproving accents mild. 

What if thou seest the fruit of hope deferr'd; 
Dost thou for this in faltering faith repine .'' 
A manlier, wiser virtue should be thine ! 

19. 

Ere the good seed can give its fruit in Spain, 
The light must shine on that bedarken'd land, 

And Italy must break her papal chain. 
Ere the soil answer to the sower's hand ; 

For, till the sons their fathers' fault repent, 

The old error brings its direful punishment. 

20. 
Hath not experience bade the wise man see 

Poor hope from innovations premature .'* 
All sudden change is ill : slow grows the tree 

Which in its strength through ages shall endure. 
In that ungrateful earth it long may lie 
Dormant, but fear not that the seed should die. 

21. 

Falsely that Tempter taught thee that the past 
Was but a blind, inextricable maze ; 

Falsely he taught that evil overcast 

With gathering tempests these propitious days, 

That he in subtle snares thy soul might bind. 

And rob thee of thy hopes for human-kind. 

22. 

He told thee the beginning and the end 
Were indistinguishable all, and dark ; 

And when from his vain Tower he bade thee bend 
Thy curious eye, well knew he that no spark 

Of heavenly light would reach the baffled sense ; 

The mists of earth lay round him all too dense. 

23. 

Must 1, as thou hadst chosen the evil part. 
Tell thee that Man is free and God is good ? 

These primal truths are rooted in thy heart : 
But these, being rightly felt and understood, 

Should bring with them a hope, calm, constant, 
sure. 

Patient, and on the rock of faitli secure. 

24. 

The Monitress Divine, as thus she spake, 
Induced me gently on, ascending still. 

And thus emerging from that mournful brake 
We drew toward the summit of the hill, 

And reach'd a green and sunny place, so fair 

As well with long-lost Eden might compare. 

25. 
Broad cedars grew around that lovely glade, 

Exempted from decay, and never sere. 
Their wide-spread boughs diffused a fragrant 
shade ; 
The cypress incorruptible was here. 
With fluted stem and head aspiring high, 
Nature's proud column, pointing to the sky. 



766 



THE POET*S PILGRIMAGE. 



III. 



26. 
There, too, the vigorous olive in its pride, 

As in its own Apulian soil uncheck'd, 
Tower'd high, and spread its glaucous foliage wide : 

With liveliest hues the mead beneath was deck'd, 
Gift of that grateful tree that with its root 
Repays the earth, from whence it feeds its fruit. 

27. 
There, too, the sacred bay, of brighter green, 

Exalted its rejoicing head on high ; 
And there the martyrs' holier palm was seen 

Waving its plumage as the breeze went by. 
All fruits which ripen under genial skies 
Grew there, as in another Paradise. 

28. 
And over all that lovely glade there grew 

All wholesome roots and plants of healing power ; 
The herb of grace, the medicinal rue. 

The poppy rich in worth as gay in flower ; 
The heart's-ease that delighteth every eye, 
And sage divine, and virtuous euphrasy. 

29. 
Unwounded here Jud^a's balm distill'd 

Its precious juice ; the snowy jasmine here 
Spread its luxuriant tresses wide, and fill'd 

With fragrance the delicious atmosphere ; 
More piercing still did orange-flowers dispense 
From golden groves the purest joy of sense. 

30. 
As low it lurk'd the tufted moss between. 

The violet there its modest perfume shed, 
Like humble virtue, rather felt than seen : 

And here the Rose of Sharon rear'd its head, 
The glory of all flowers, to sense and sight 
Yielding their full contentment of delight. 

31. 

A gentle river wound its quiet way 

Through this sequester'd glade, meandering 
wide; 
Smooth as a mirror here the surface lay, 

Where the pure lotus, floating in its pride, 
Enjoy'd the breath of heaven, the sun's warm beam, 
And the cool freshness of its native stream. 

32. 

Here, o'er green weeds, whose tresses waved out- 
spread, 

With silent lapse the glassy waters run ; 
Here, in fleet motion o'er a pebbly bed. 

Gliding they glance and ripple to the sun ; 
The stirring breeze that swept them in its flight, 
Raised on the stream a shower of sparkling light. 

33. 

And all sweet birds sung there their lays of love; 

The mellow thrush, the blackbird loud and shrill. 
The rapturous nightingale that shook the grove. 

Made the ears vibrate, and the heart-strings thrill ; 
The ambitious lark, that, soaring in the sky, 
Pour'd forth her lyric strain of ecstasy. 



34. 

Sometimes, when that wild chorus intermits. 
The linnet's song was heard amid the trees, 

A low, sweet voice ; and sweeter still, at fits 
The ringdove's wooing came upon the breeze ; 

While with the wind which moved the leaves 
among. 

The murmuring waters join'd in undersong. 

35. 

The hare disported here, and fear'd no ill, 
For never evil thing that glade came nigh ; 

The sheep were free to wander at their will. 
As needing there no earthly shepherd's eye ; 

The bird sought no concealment for her nest. 

So perfect was the peace wherewith those bowers 
were blest. 

36. 
All blending thus with all in one delight, 

The soul was soothed, and satisfied, and fill'd ; 
This mingled bliss of sense, and sound, and sight, 
The flow of boisterous mirth might there have 
still'd. 
And, sinking in the gentle spirit deep. 
Have touch 'd those strings of joy which make us 
weep. 

37. 

Even thus in earthly gardens had it been. 

If earthly gardens might with these compare ; 

But more than all such influences, I ween, 
There was a heavenly virtue in the air. 

Which laid all vain, perplexing thoughts to rest, 

And heal'd, and calm'd, and purified the breast. 

38. 
Then said I to that guide divine. My soul, 

When here we enter'd, was o'ercharged with^ 
grief; 
For evil doubts, which I could not control, 
Beset my troubled spirit. This relief, — 
This change, — whence are they ? Almost it might 

seem 
I never lived till now : — all else had been a dream.J 

39. 
My heavenly teacher answer'd. Say not seem; — 

In this place all things are what they appear ; 
And they who feel the past a feverish dream. 

Wake to reality on entering here. 
These waters are the Well of Life, and lo ! 
The Rock of Ages there, from whence they flow. 

40. 
Saying thus, we came upon an inner glade. 

The holiest place that human eyes might see ; 
For all that vale was like a temple made 

By Nature's hand, and this the sanctuary; 
Where, in its bed of living rock, the Rood 
Of Man's redemption firmly planted stood. 

41. 
And at its foot the never-failing Well 
Of Life profusely flow'd that all might drink. 



Ill* 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



767 



Most blessed Water ! Neither tongue can tell 
The blessedness thereof, nor heart can think, 
Save only those to whom it hath been given 
To taste of that divinest gift of Heaven. 

42. 
There grew a goodly Tree this Well beside ; — 

Behold a branch from Eden planted here, 
Pluck'd from the Tree of Knowledge, said my 
guide. 

O Child of Adam, put away thy fear, — 
In thy first father's grave it hath its root ; 
Taste thou the bitter, but the wholesome fruit. 

43. 

In awe I heard, and trembled, and obey'd : 
The bitterness was even as of death ; 

I felt a cold and piercing thrill pervade 

My loosen'd limbs, and losing sight and breath, 

To earth I should have fallen in my despair. 

Had I not clasp'd the Cross, and been supported 
there. 

44. 

My heart, I thought, was bursting with the force 
Of that most fatal fruit ; soul-sick I felt, 

And tears ran down in such continuous course. 
As if the very eyes themselves should melt. 

But then I heard my heavenly teacher say. 

Drink, and this mortal stound will pass away. 

45. 
I stoop'd and drank of that divinest Well, 

Fresh from the Rock of Ages where it ran ; 
It had a heavenly quality to quell 

My pain : — I rose a renovated man. 
And would not now, when that relief was known. 
For worlds the needful suffering have foregone. 

46. 

Even as the Eagle (ancient storyers say) 

When, faint with years, she feels her flagging 
wing, 

Soars up toward the mid sun's piercing ray, 
Then, fill'd with fire, into some living spring 

Plunges, and casting there her aged plumes. 

The vigorous strength of primal youth resumes ; — 

47. 
Such change in me that blessed Water wrought ; 

The bitterness which, from its fatal root, 
The Tree derived, with painful healing fraught, 

Pass'd clean away ; and in its place the fruit 
Produced, by virtue of that wondrous wave. 
The savor which in Paradise it gave. 

48. 
Now, said the heavenly Muse, thou mayst ad- 
vance. 
Fitly prepared toward the mountain's height. 
O Child of Man, this necessary trance 

Hath purified from flaw thy mortal sight, 
That, with scope unconfined of vision free, 
Thou the beginning and the end mayst see. 



49. 
She took me by the hand, and on we went ; 

Hope urged me forward, and my soul was strong , 
With winged speed we scaled the steep ascent, 

Nor seem'd the labor difficult or long. 
Ere on the summit of the sacred hill 
Upraised I stood, where I might gaze my fill. 

50. 
Below me lay, unfolded like a scroll. 

The boundless region where I wander'd late, 
Where I might see realms spread and oceans roll, 
And mountains from their cloud-surmounting 
state 
Dwarf 'd like a map beneath the excursive sight, 
So ample was the range from that commanding 
height. 

51. 

Eastward with darkness round on every side, 
An eye of light was in the farthest sky. 

Lo, the beginning ! — said my heavenly Guide ; 
The steady ray which there thou canst descry, 

Comes from lost Eden, from the primal land 

Of man " waved over by the fiery brand." 

52. 
Look now toward the end ! no mists obscure. 
Nor clouds will there impede the strengthen 'd 
sight ; 
Unblench'd thine eye the vision may endure. 
I look'd, — surrounded with effulgent light 
More glorious than all glorious hues of even. 
The Angel Death stood there in the open Gate of 
Heaven. 



IV. 



THE HOPES OF MAN. 

1. 

Now, said my heavenly Teacher, all is clear! — 
Bear the Beginning and the End in mind. 

The course of human things will then appear 
Beneath its proper laws ; and thou wilt find. 

Through all their seeming labyrinth, the plan 

Which " vindicates the ways of God to Man." 



Free choice doth Man possess of good or ill ; 

All were but mockery else. From Wisdom's way. 
Too oft, perverted by the tainted will. 

Is his rebellious nature drawn astray ; 
Therefore an inward monitor is given, 
A voice that answers to the law of Heaven. 



Frail as he is, and as an infant weak. 

The knowledge of his weakness is his strength ; 
For succor is vouchsafed to those who seek 

In humble faith sincere ; and when at length 
Death sets the disimbodied spirit free, 
According to their deeds their lot shall be. 



768 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Thus, should the chance of private fortune raise 
A transitory doubt, Death answers all. 

And in the scale of nations, if the ways 
Of Providence mysterious we may call, 

Yet, rightly view'd, all history doth impart 

Comfort, and hope, and strength to the believing 
heart. 



For through the lapse of ages may the course 
Of moral good progressive still be seen. 

Though mournful dynasties of Fraud and Force, 
Dark Vice and purblind Ignorance intervene ; 

Empires and Nations rise, decay and fall, 

But still the Good survives and perseveres through 
all. 

6. 

Yea, even in those most lamentable times. 

When, every where to wars and woes a prey, 

Earth seem'd but one wide theatre of crimes, 
Good unperceived had work'd its silent way, 

And all those dread convulsions did but clear 

The obstructed path to give it free career. 



But deem not thou some overruling Fate, 
Directing all things with benign decree. 

Through all the turmoil of this mortal state. 
Appoints that what is best shall therefore be ; 

Even as from man his future doom proceeds. 

So nations rise or fall according to their deeds. 

8. 
Light at the first was given to human-kind. 

And Law was written in the human heart. 
If they forsake the Light, perverse of mind, 

And wilfully prefer the evil part. 
Then to their own devices are they left, 
By their own choice of Heaven's support bereft. 

9. 
The individual culprit may sometimes 

Unpunish'd to his after-reckoning go : 
Not thus collective man, — for public crimes 

Draw on their proper punishment below ; 
When Nations go astray, from age to age 
The effects remain, a fatal heritage. 

10. 
Bear witness, Egypt, thy huge monuments 

Of priestly fraud and tyranny austere ! 
Bear witness thou, whose only name presents 

All holy feelings to religion dear, — 
In Earth's dark circlet once the precious gem 
Of living light, — O fallen Jerusalem I 

11. 

See barbarous Africa, on every side 

To error, wretchedness, and crimes resign'd ! 
Behold the vicious Orient, far and wide 

Enthrall'd in slavery ! As the human mind 
Corrupts and goes to wreck, Earth sickens there, 
And the contagion taints the ambient air. 



12. 

They had the Light, and from the Light they 
turn'd ; 
What marvel if they grope in darkness lost.? 
They had the Law ; — God's natural Law they 
scorn'd. 
And choosing error, thus they pay the cost ! 
Wherever Falsehood and Oppression reign, 
There degradation follows in their train. 

13. 

What, then, in these late days had Europe been, 
This moral, intellectual heart of earth, — 

From which the nations who lie dead in sin 

Should one day yet receive their second birth, — 

To what had she been sunk if brutal Force 

Had taken unrestrain'd its impious course ! 

14. 

The Light had been extinguish'd, — this, be sure, 
The first wise aim of conscious Tyranny, 

Which knows it may not with the Light endure : 
But where Light is not. Freedom cannot be ; 

" Where Freedom is not, there no Virtue is; " 

Where Virtue is not, there no Happiness. 

15. 

If among hateful Tyrants of all times 
For endless execration handed down. 

One may be found surpassing all in crimes, 
One that for infamy should bear the crown, 

Napoleon is that man, in guilt the first, 

Preeminently bad among the worst. 

16. 

For not, like Scythian conquerors, did he tread 
From his youth up the common path of blood; 

Nor like some Eastern Tyrant was he bred 
In sensual harems, ignorant of good ; — 

Their vices from the circumstance have grown ; 

His, by deliberate purpose, were his own. 

17. 

Not led away by circumstance he err'd, 
But from the wicked heart his error came : 

By Fortune to the highest place preferr'd. 
He sought through evil means an evil aim, 

And all his ruthless measures were design'd 

To enslave, degrade, and brutalize mankind. 

18. 
Some barbarous dream of empire to fulfil, 

Those iron ages he would have restored. 
When Law was but the ruffian soldier's will. 

Might govern'd all, the sceptre was the sword. 
And Peace, not elsewhere finding where to dwell, 
Sought a sad refuge in the convent-cell. 

19. 

Too far had he succeeded ! In his mould 
An evil generation had been framed, 

By no religion temper'd or controll'd. 
By foul examples of all crimes inflamed. 

Of faith, of honor, of compassion void -, — 

Such were the fitting agents he employ'd. 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



769 



20. 
Believing as yon lying Spirit taught, 

They to that vain philosophy held fast, 
A.nd trusted that, as they began from nought, 

To nothing they should needs return at last ; 
'Hence no restraint of conscience, no remorse, 
But every baleful passion took its course. 

21. 

A.nd had they triumph'd, Earth had once again. 
To Violence subdued, and impious Pride, 

Verged to such state of wickedness, as when 
The Giantry of old their God defied. 

And Heaven, impatient of a world like this, 

Open'd its flood-gates, and broke up the abyss. 

22. 

That danger is gone by. On Waterloo 

The Tyrant's fortune in the scale was weigh'd, — 

His fortune and the World's, — and England threw 
Her sword into the balance — down it sway'd : 

And when in battle tirst he met that foe, 

There he received his mortal overthrow. 

23. 

O my brave Countrymen, with that 1 said, — 
For then my heart with transport overflow'd, — 

O Men of England ! nobly have ye paid 
The debt which to your ancestors ye owed. 

And gather'd for your children's heritage 

A glory that shall last from age to age ! 

24. 

And we did well when on our Mountain's height 
For Waterloo we raised the festal flame, 

And in our triumph taught the startled night 
To ring with Wellington's victorious name, 

Making the far-off" mariner admire 

To see the crest of Skiddaw plumed with fire. 

25. 
The Moon who had in silence visited 

His lonely summit from the birth of time. 
That hour an unavailing splendor shed. 

Lost in the effulgence of the flame sublime, 
In whose broad blaze rejoicingly we stood, 
And all below a depth of blackest solitude. 

26. 
Fit theatre for this great joy we chose; 

For never since above the abating Flood 
Emerging, first that pinnacle arose, 

Had cause been given for deeper gratitude. 
For prouder joy to every English heart. 
When England had so well perform'd her arduous 
part. 

27. 
The Muse replied with gentle smile benign, — 
Well mayst thou praise the land that gave thee 
birth, 
And bless the Fate which made that country thine ; 

For of all ages and all parts of earth, 
To choose thy time and place did Fate allow, 
Wise choice would be this England and this Now. 
97 



r 28. 

From bodily and mental bondage, there 

Hath Man his full emancipation gain'd ; 
The viewless and illimitable air 

Is not more free than Thought; all unrestrain'd, 
Nor pined in want, nor sunk in sensual sloth, 
There may the immortal Mind attain its growth. 

29. 
There, under Freedom's tutelary wing, 

Deliberate Courage fears no human foe ; 
There, undefiled, as in their native spring, 

The living waters of Religion flow ; 
There, like a beacon, the transmitted Light, 
Conspicuous to all nations, burnetii bright. 

30. 
The virtuous will she hath, which should aspire 

To spread the sphere of happiness and light ; 
She hath the power to answer her desire, 

The wisdom to direct her power aright ; 
The will, the power, the wisdom thus combined, 
What glorious prospects open on mankind ! 

31. 
Behold ! she cried, and lifting up her hand, 

The shaping elements obey'd her will ; — 
A vapor gather'd round our lofty stand, 

Roll'd in thick volumes o'er the Sacred Hill ; 
Descending then, its surges far and near 
Fill'd all the wide subjacent atmosphere. 

32. 

As I have seen from Skiddaw's stony height 
The fleecy clouds scud round me on their way, 

Condense beneath, and hide the vale from sight. 
Then, opening, just disclose where Derwent lay 

Burnish'd with sunshine like a silver shield. 

Or old Enchanter's glass, for magic forms fit 
field ;— 

33. 
So at her will, in that receding sheet 

Of mist wherewith the world was overlaid, 
A living picture moved beneath our feet. 

A spacious City first was there display 'd, 
The seat where England from her ancient reign 
Doth rule the Ocean as her own domain. 

34. 

In splendor with those famous cities old. 

Whose power it hath surpass'd, it now might 
vie ; 

Through many a bridge the wealthy river roll'd ; 
Aspiring columns rear'd their heads on high ; 

Triumphal arches spann'd the roads, and gave 

Due guerdon to the memory of the brave. 

35. 
A landscape follow'd, such as might compare 

With Flemish fields for well-requited toil : 
The wonder-working hand had every where 

Subdued all circumstance of stubborn soil ; 
In fen and moor reclaim'd, rich gardens smiled, 
And populous hamlets rose amid the wild. 



770 



THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



36. 
There the old seaman, on his native shore, 

Enjoy'd the competence deserved so well ; 
The soldier, his dread occupation o'er, 

Of well-rewarded service loved to tell ; 
The gray-hair'd laborer there, whose work was 

done. 
In comfort saw the day of life go down. 

37. 
Such was the lot of eld ; for childhood there 

The duties which belong to life was taught : 
The good seed, early sown and nursed with care. 

This bounteous harvest in its season brought j 
Thus youth for manhood, manhood for old age 
Prepared, and found their weal in every stage, 

38. 
Enough of knowledge unto all was given 

In wisdom's way to guide their steps on earth. 
And make the immortal spirit fit for heaven. 

This needful learning was their right of birth; 
Further might each, who chose it, persevere ; 
No mind was lost for lack of culture here. 

39. 
And that whole happy region swarm'd with life, — 

Village and town; — as busy bees in spring, 
In sunny days, when sweetest flowers are rife, 

Fill fields and gardens with their murmuring. 
Oh joy to see the State in perfect health ! 
Her numbers were her pride , and power, and wealth. 

40. 
Then saw I, as the magic picture moved. 

Her shores enrich'd with many a port and pier ; 
No gift of liberal Nature unimproved. 

The seas their never-failing harvest here 
Supplied, as bounteous as the air which fed 
Israel, when manna fell from heaven for bread. 

41. 

Many a tall vessel in her harbors lay, 
About to spread its canvass to the breeze, 

Bound upon happy errand to convey 

The adventurous colonist beyond the seas, 

Toward those distant lands where Britain blest 

With her redundant life the East and West 

42. 

The landscape changed ; — a region next was seen, 
Where sable swans on rivers yet unfound 

Glided through broad savannahs ever green ; 
Innumerous flocks and herds were feeding round. 

And scatter'd farms appear'd, and hamlets fair. 

And rising towns, which made another Britain there. 

43. 
Then, thick as stars which stud the moonless sky. 

Green islands in a peaceful sea were seen ; 
Darken 'd no more with blind idolatry. 

Nor curst with hideous usages obscene, 
But heal'd of leprous crimes, from butchering 

strife 
Deliver'd, and reclaim'd to moral life. 



44. 

Around the rude Morai, the temple now 
Of truth, hosannahs to the Holiest rung: 

There, from the Christian's equal marriage-vow, 
In natural growth, the household virtues sprung j 

Children were taught the paths of heavenly peace, 

And age in hope look'd on to its release. 

45. 

The light those happy Islanders enjoy'd, ■ 

Good messengers from Britain had convey'd ; 

(Where might such bounty wiselier be employ'd.?) ' 
One people with their teachers were they made, 

Their arts, their language, and their faith the 
same, 

And, blest in all, for all they blest the British name. 

46. 
Then rose a different land, where loftiest trees 

High o'er the grove their fan-like foliage rear; 
Where spicy bowers upon the passing breeze 

Diffuse their precious fragrance far and near ; 
And yet untaught to bend his massive knee, 
Wisest of brutes, the elephant roams free. 

47. 
Ministrant there to health and public good, 

The busy axe was heard on every side. 
Opening new channels, that the noxious wood 

With wind and sunshine might be purified, 
And that wise Government, the general friend, 
Might every where its eye and arm extend. 

48. 
The half-brutal Bedah came from his retreat, 

To human life by human kindness won ; 
The Cingalese beheld that work complete 

Which Holland in her day had well begun; 
The Candian, prospering under Britain's reign, 
Blest the redeeming hand which broke his chain. 

49. 
Colors and castes were heeded there no more ; 

Laws which depraved, degraded, and oppress'd, 
Were laid aside, for on that happy shore 

All men with equal liberty were blest ; 
And through the land, the breeze upon its swells 
Bore the sweet music of the Sabbath bells. 

50. 
Again the picture changed ; those Isles I saw 
With every crime through three long centuries 
curst. 
While unrelenting Avarice gave the law ; 

Scene of the injured Indians' sufferings first, 
Then doom'd, for Europe's lasting shame, to see 
The wider-wasting guilt of Slavery. 

51. 

That foulest blot had been at length effaced ; 

Slavery was gone, and all the power it gave, 
Whereby so long our nature was debased, 

Baleful alike to master and to slave. 
O lovely Isles ! ye were indeed a sight 
To fill the spirit with intense delight ! ,. . , 



NOTES TO THE POET'S PILGRIMA.GE 



771 



52. 

or willing industry and cheerful toil 
Perform'd their easy task, with Hope to aid; 
nd the free children of that happy soil 
Dwelt each in peace beneath his cocoa's shade ; — 
race who with the European mind 
he adapted mould of Africa combined. 

53. 

.non, methought that in a spacious Square, 
Of some great town the goodly ornament, 
hree statutes I beheld, of sculpture fair : 
These, said the Muse, are they whom one consent 
hall there deem worthy of the purest fame ; — 
newest thou who best such gratitude may claim.'' 

54. 

Jlarkson, I answer'd, first; whom to have seen 

And known in social hours may be my pride. 

Inch friendship being praise ; and one, I ween, 

Is Wilberforce, placed rightly at his side, 
iVhose eloquent voice in that great cause was 

heard 
Jo oft and well. But who shall be the third ? 

55. 
rime, said my Teacher, will reveal the name 

Of him who with these worthies shall enjoy 
The equal honor of enduring fame ; — 

He who the root of evil shall destroy, 
^nd from our Laws shall blot the accursed word 
Of Slave, shall rightly stand with them preferr'd. 

56. 
Enough ! the Goddess cried : with that the cloud 

Obey'd, and closed upon the magic scene : 
Thus much, quoth she, is to thine hopes allow'd; 

Ills may impede, delays may intervene. 
But scenes like these the coming age will bless. 
If England but pursue the course of righteousness. 

57. 
On she must go progressively in good, 

In wisdom and in weal, — or she must wane. 
Like Ocean, she may have her ebb and flood, 

But stagnates not. And now her path is plain : 
Heaven's first command she may fulfil in peace, 
Replenishing the earth with her increase. 

58. 
Peace she hath won, — with her victorious hand 

Hath won through rightful war auspicious peace ; 
Nor this alone, but that in every land 

The withering rule of violence may cease. 
Was ever War with such blest victory crown'd? 
Did ever Victory with such fruits abound ? 

59. 

Rightly for this shall all good men rejoice. 

They most who most abhor all deeds of blood ; 

Rightly for this with reverential voice 

Exalt to Heaven their hymns of gratitude ; 

For ne'er till now did Heaven thy country bless 

With such transcendent cause for joy and thank- 
fulness. 



60. 
If they in heart all tyranny abhor, 

This was the fall of Freedom's direst foe ; 
If they detest the impious lust of war, 

Here hath that passion had its overthrow ; — 
As the best prospects of mankind are dear, 
Their joy should be complete, their prayers of praise 



6L 

And thou to whom in spirit at this hour 
The vision of thy Country's bliss is given. 

Who feelest that she holo^ \er trusted power 
To do the will and spread the word of Heaven, — 

Hold fast the faith which animates thy mind. 

And in thy songs proclaim the hopes of human-kind. 



NOTES. 



PART I. 

TVie second day was that when Martel broke 
The Mussulmen. — I. 3, p. 749. 

Upon this subject Miss Plumptre relates a remarkable an- 
ecdote, in the words of one of the sufferers at Lyons : — 

"At my entrance into the prison of the Recluse I found 
about twelve hundred of my fellow-citizens already immured 
there, distributed in different apartments. The doom of four 
fifths of them at least was considered as inevitable j it was loss 
a prison than a fold, where the innocent sheep patiently waited 
the hour that was to carry them to the revolutionary shambles. 
In this dreary abode, how long, how tedious did the days 
appear ! they seemed to have many more than twenty-four 
hours. Yet we were allowed to read and write, and were 
composed enough to avail ourselves of this privilege ; nay, we 
could sometimes even so far forget our situation as to sport and 
gambol together. The continued images of destruction and 
devastation which we had before our eyes, the little hope that 
appeared to any of us of escaping our menaced fate, so famil- 
iarized us with the idea of death, that a stoical serenity had 
taken possession of our minds : we had been kept in a state of 
fear till the sentiment of fear was lost. All our conversation 
bore the character of this disposition : it was reflective, but not 
complaining; it was serious without being melancholy; and 
often presented novel and striking ideas. One day, when we 
were conversing on the inevitable chain of events, and the ir- 
revocable order of things, on a sudden one of our party ex- 
claimed that we owed all our misfortunes to Charles Martel. 
We thought him raving ; but thus he reasoned to prove his 
hypothesis. ' Had not Charles Martel,' said he, ' conquered 
the Saracens, these latter, already masters of Guienne, of 
Saintongfi, of Perigord, and of Poitou, would soon have ex- 
tended their dominion over all France, and from that time we 
should have had no more religious quarrels, no more state dis- 
putes ; we should not now have assemblies of the people, clubs, 
committees of public safety, sieges, imprisonments, bloody ex- 
ecutions.' To this man the Turkish system of government 
appeared preferable to the revolutionary regime ; and, all 
chances calculated, he preferred the bow-string of the Ba- 
shaw, rarely drawn, to the axe of the guillotine, incessantly at 
work." 



That old siege — 1. 10, p. 750. 

" It is uncertain what numbers were slain during the siege 
of Ostend, yet it is said that there was found in a commissary's 
p-jcket, who was slain before Ostend the 7th of August, before 



772 



NOTES TO THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 






the yielding thereof, divers remarkable notes and observations, 
and among the rest vi'hat number died without in the archduke's 
camp, of every degree. 

Masters of the camp 7 

Colonels 15 

Sergeants Maiors 29 

Captaines 565 

Lieutenants 1116 

Ensignes 322 

Sergeants 1911 

Corporals 11 66 

Lanspisadoes 600 

Soldiers 34663 

Marriners 611 

Women and children 119 

All which amount to 72124 persons ; which number is not so 
great, considering the long siege, sickness, and the cold winters 
upon the sea coast, in so cold a climate, fighting against the 
elements. It is unknown what number died in the town, the 
which is thought much less, for that there were not so many in 
the town, and they were better lodged, had more ease, and 
were better victualled." — Grimestone's Iftsi. of the JVcth- 
€rlands, p. 1317. 

" The besieged in Ostend had certain adventuring soldiers 
■whom they called Lopers, of the which, among other captains, 
were the young captain Grenu, and captain Adam Van Leest. 
Their arms which they bore were a long and great pike, with 
a flat head at the neather end thereof, to tlie end that it should 
not sink too deep into the mud, a harquebuse hung in a scarf, 
as we have said of Frebuters, a coutclas at his side, and his 
dagger about his neck, who would usually leap over a ditch 
four and twenty foot broad, skirmishing often with his enemy 
so as no horseman could overtake them before they had leapt 
over the ditches againe." — Ibid. 1299. 

" In remembrance of the long siege of Ostend, and the 
winning of Sluco, there were certaine counters made in the 
United Provinces, both of silver and copper, the one having on 
the one side the picture of Ostend, and on the other the towns 
ofRhinberg, Grave, Sluce, Ardenbourg, and the forts of Isen- 
dyke and Cadsant, with this inscription round about. ' Plus 
triennio obsessa, hosti rudera, patricB quatuor ez me urbes dedi. 
Anno 1604.' Ostend being more than three years besieged, 
gave the enemie a heap of stones, and to her native country 
four townes. 

" The tov/n of Utrecht did also make a triumphant piece of 
coyne both of gold and silver, where on the one side stood the 
siege of Ostend, and on the other the siege of Sluce, and all 
the forts and havens, and on both sides round about was 
graven, 

^ Jehovah prius dederatplus quam perdidimus.'' " 

Ibid. 1318. 



Many a rich vessel, from the injurious sea, 
Enter the bosom of thy quiet quay. — I. 12, p. 750. 

These lines are borrowed from Q.uarles ; — the passage in 
which they occur would be very pleasing if he had not dis- 
figured it in a most extraordinary manner. 

' Saile gentle Pinnace ! now the heavens are clear, 
The winds blow fair : behold the harbor's near. 
Tridented Neptune hath forgot to frown, 
The rocks are past ; the storme is overbloM'n. 
Up weather-beaten voyagers and rouze ye. 
Forsake your loathed Cabbins ; up and louze ye 
Upon the open decks, and smell the land : 
Cheare up, the welcome shoare is nigh at hand. 
Saile gentle Pinnace with a prosperous gale 
To the Isle of Peace : saile gentle Pinnace saile ! 
Fortune conduct thee ; let thy keele divide 
The silver streames, that thou maist safely slide 
Into the bosom of thy quiet Key, 
And quite thee fairly of the injurious Sea. 

QuARLEs's Argalus Sf Parthema. 



Bruges. — I, 14, p. 750. 

Urhs est ad miraculum pulchra, patens, amcena, says Luigi 
Guicciardini. Its power is gone by, but its beauty is perhaps 
more impressive now than in the days of its splendor and 
prosperity. 

M. Paquet Syphorien, and many writers after him, mention 
the preservation of the monuments of Charles the Bold, and 
his daughter Mary of Burgundy, wife to the Archduke Max- 
imilian ; but they do not mention the name of the Beadle who 
preserved them at the imminent risk of his own life. Pierre 
Dezitter is this person's name. During the revolutionary 
frenzy, when the mob seemed to take most pleasure in de- 
stroying whatever was most venerable, he took these splendid 
tombs to pieces and buried them during the night, for which 
he was proscribed and a reward of 2000 francs set upon his 
head. Bonaparte, after his marriage into the Austrian fam- 
ily, rewarded him with 1000 francs, and gave 10,000 for orna- 
menting the chapel in which the tombs were replaced. This 
has been done with little taste. 



that sisterhood whom to their rule 

Of holy life no hasty vows restrain. — I. 31, p. 751. 

The Beguines. Helyot is mistaken when he says (t. viii. p. 6) 
that the Beguinage at Mechlin is the finest in all Flanders ; it 
is not comparable to that at Ghent, which for extent and 
beauty may be called the Capital of the community. 



Most, 

Where whilome treachery stained the English name. 

I. 41, p. 752. 

In 1583, " the English garrison of Alost being mutinied for 
their pay, the Ganthois did not only refuse to give it them, but 
did threaten to force them out, or else to famish them. In the 
mean time the Prince of Parma did not let slip this opportunity 
to make his profit tlicreby, but did solicit them by fair words 
and promises to pay them ; and these English companies, not 
accustomed to endure hunger and want, began to give ear unto 
him, for that their Colonel Sir John Norris and the States were 
somewliat slow to provide for their pay, for the which they 
intended to give order, but it was too late. For after that the 
English had chased away the rest of the garrison which were 
of the country, then did Captain Pigot, Vincent, Tailor, and 
others, agree to deliver up the town unto the Spaniard, giving 
them for their pay, which they received, thirty thousand 
pistolets. And so the said town was delivered unto the Span- 
iard in the beginning of December, and filled with Wallons. 
Most of these English went to serve the Prince of Parma in 
his camp before Eckloo, but finding that he trusted them not, 
they ran in a manner all away." — Grimestone, 833. 

It is one proof of the improved state of general feeling in 
the more civilized states of Europe, that instances of this 
kind of treachery have long since ceased even to be suspected. 
During the long wars in the Netherlands, nothing was more 
common than for officers to change their party, — considering 
war as a mere profession, in which their services, like those 
of a lawyer, were for the best bidder. 



Tlien saw we Affiighem, by ruin rent. — I. 42, p. 752. 

This magnificent Abbey was destroyed during the Revolu- 
tion, — an act of popular madness which the people in its 
vicinity now spoke of with unavailing regret. The library 
Avas at one time the richest in Brabant ; " celeberrima,^^ Luigi 
Guicciardini calls it, " adeo quidem, ut quod ad libros antiquos 
habeatur pro locupletissima siviul et laudatissima universa istius 
tractus.^^ The destruction of books during the Revolutionj. 
was deplorably great. A bookseller at Brussels told me he" 
had himself at one time sent off five and twenty wagon-loads 
for waste paper, and sold more than 100,0001b. weight for the. 
same purpose ! In this manner were the convent-libraries 
destroyed. 



I 



NOTES TO THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE, 



773 



Assche,for loater andfnr cakes renown' d. — I. 44, p. 752. 

I The Flemish name of these said cakes has a marvellously 
uncouth appearance — suyker-koekxkcns, — nevertheless they 
are good cakes, and are sold hy Judocus de Bisschop, at the 
sign of the Moor, next door to the Auberge la Tete-de-Bmuf. 
■iThis information is for those whom it may concern. 



when Belgian ears were taught 

The British soldier^s cry, half groan, half prayer. 
Breathed when his pain was more than he can bear. 

II. 12, p. 753. 
One of our coachmen, who had been employed (like all his 
[fraternity) in removing the wounded, asked us what was the 
imcaning of the English word O Lord! for thus, he said, the 
jwounded were continually crying out. 



Brabant in all her cities felt the sound. — II. 25, p. 753. 

The battle of the 18th was heard throughout the whole of 
Brabant, and in some directions far beyond it. It was dis- 
tinctly heard at Herve 3 and I have been assured, incredible 
as it may seem, that it was perceived at Amiens. The firing 
on tlie 16th was heard at Antwerp, — not that of the 18th, 
though the scene of action was nearer. 



Here Castanaca reared a votive fane. — III. 4, p. 753. 

The following dedicatory inscription is placed over the por- 
tico of Waterloo Church : — 

D. O. M. 

Et D. D. Josepho et Annae 

Hoc Sacellum 

Pro Desiderata Dominiis Catholicis 

Caroli. 2. Hisp. Ind. Regis Belg. Principis Prosapia Fran. 

Ant. Agurto Marchio de Castanaca Belg. Guberntor. 

The a in Gubernator has been left out, either by the mistake 
of the workmen, or for want of room. 

Carlos II. of Spain, one of the most wretched of men, married 
for his first wife Marie Louise, Lewis the Fourteenth's niece. 
A curious instance of the public anxiety that she should pro- 
duce an heir to the throne is preserved by Florez in his Mem- 
orias de las Rei/nas Catholicas. When she had been married 
two years without issue, this strange epigram, if so it may be 
called, was circulated. 

Parid bella Flor de Lis 
En affiiccion tan estrana -. 
Si parts, par'is d Espana, 
Si no parts, d Paris. 

Florez describes the dress of the bride at her espousals : it 
was a robe of murray velvet embroidered with fleurs de lys of 
gold trimmed with ermine and jewels, and with a train of seven 
ells long ; the princesses of the blood had all long trains, but 
not so long, the length being according to their proximity to 
the throne. The description of a Queen's dress accorded well 
with the antiquarian pursuits of Florez ; but it is amusing to 
observe some of tlie expressions of this laborious writer, a 
monk of the most rigid habits, whose life was spent in severe 
study, and in practices of mortification. In her head-dress, 
he says, she wore porcelain pins which supported large dia- 
monds, — y convertian en cielo aquel poco de tierra ; and at the 
ball after the espousals, el Christianissimo damo con la Catho- 
lica. These appellations sound almost as oddly as Messrs. 
Bogue and Bennett's description of St, Paul in a minuet, and 
Timothy at a card-table. 

This poor Queen lived eight years with a husband whose 
mind and body were equally debilitated. Never were the 
miseries of a mere state-marriage more lamentably exemplified. 
In her last illness, when she was advised to implore the prayers 
of a personage who was living in the odor of sanctity for her 
recovery, she replied, Certainly I will not ; — it would be folly 



to ask for a life which is worth so little. And when, toward 
the last, her Confessor inquired if any thing troubled her, her 
answer was that she was in perfect peace, and rejoiced that she 
was dying, — en paz me hallo Padre, y muy gustosa de morir. 
She died on the 12th of February ; and such was the solicitude 
for an heir to the monarchy, that on the 15th of May a second 
marriage was concluded for the King. 



plain tablets by the soldier'' s hand 

Raised to his comrades in a foreign land. — III. 7, p. 753. 

The inscriptions in the church are as follows : — 

Sacred 
to the Memory 
of 
Lt. Col. Edward Stables 

Sir Francis D'Oyley,K. C. B. 

Charles Thomas 

William Miller 

William Henry Milner 

Capt. Robert Adair 

Edward Grose 

Newton Chambers 

Thomas Brown 

Ensign Edward Pardee 
James Lord Hay 

the Hon. S. S. P. Barrington 

of 

his Britannic Majesty's 

First Regiment of Foot Guards, 

who fell gloriously in the battle 

of Quatre Bras and Wateloo,* on 

the 16th and 18th of June, 

1815, 

The Officers of the 

Regiment have erected this 

Monument in commemoration 

of the fall of their 

Gallant Companions. 



To 

the Memory of 

of 

Major Edwin Griffith, 

Lt. Isaac Sherwood, and 

Lt, Henry Buckley, 

Officers in the XV King's Regiment of Hussars 

(British) 

who fell in the battle of 

Waterloo, 

June 18, 1815. 

This stone was erected by the Officers 

of that Regiment, 

as a testimony of their respect. 

Dulce et decorum est pro patri^ mori. 



The two following are the epitaphs in the church-yard : — 

D. O. M. 

Sacred to the memory of Lieutenant-Colonel Fitz Gerald, 
of the Second Regiment of Life Guards of his Britannic 
Majesty, who fell gloriously at the battle of La Belle Alliance, 
near this town, on the 18th of June, 1815, in the 41st year of 
his life, deeply and deservedly regretted by his family and 
friends. To a manly loftiness of soul he united all the virtues 
that could render him an ornament to his profession, and to 
private and social life. 

jIux manes du plus vertueux des hommes, generalement estime 
et regrette de safamille et desesamis, le Lieutenant- Colonel Fitz 
Gerald, de la Gard du Corps de sa Majeste Britannique, tui 
glorieuscment d la bataille de la Belle jilliance, le 18 June, 1815. 
R. L P. 



The word is thus mbspelt. 



774 



NOTES TO THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE 



D. 0. M. 

Id repose le Colonel 
De Langrehr, Commandant 
le premier Bataillon de 
Bremen, Blesse d Mart d 
la Battaile de Waterloo, 
le 18 June, 1815, et enterre 
le lendemain, age, 

de 40 ans. 

R. I. P. 



Lord Uxbridge's leg is buried in a garden opposite to the inn, 
or rather public-house, at Waterloo. The owner of the house 
in which the amputation was performed considers it as a relic 
which has fallen to his share. He had deposited it at first be- 
hind the house ; but as he intended to plant a tree upon the 
spot, he considered, that as the ground there was not his own 
property, the boys might injure or destroy the tree, and there- 
fore he removed the leg into his own garden, where it lies in 
a proper sort of coffin, under a mound of earth about three or 
four feet in diameter. A tuft of Michaelmas daisies was in 
blossom upon this mound when we were at Waterloo ; but 
this was a temporary ornament : in November the owner 
meant to plant a weeping willow there. He was obliging 
enough to give me a copy of an epitaph which he had pre- 
pared, and which, he said, was then in the stone-cutter's 
hands. It is as follows : — 

Ci est enterree la Jamie de VtHustre, brave, et vaillant Comte 
Uxhridge, Lieutenant-Oeneral, Commandant en Chef la Ca- 
valerie Angloise, Beige, et Hollandoise ; blesse le 18 Juin, 1815, 
a la memorable bataille de Waterloo ; qui par son heroisme a 
concouru au triomphe de la cause du Genre humain, glorieusement 
deddeepar Vedatante victoire du, ditjour. 



When Marlborough here, victorious in his might. 
Surprised the French, and smote them in their flight. 

III. 11, p. 754. 

A detachment of the French was intrenched at Waterloo 
Chapel, August, 1705, when the Duke of Marlborough ad- 
vanced to attack the French army at Over Ysche, and this de- 
tachment was destroyed with great slaughter. {Echard's Gaz- 
etteer.) The Sieur La Lande says, " on donne la chasse d un 
parte Frangois qui etoit d Waterloo.^' Marlborough was pre- 
vented by the Deputies of the States from pursuing his advan- 
tage, and attacking the enemy, at a time when he made sure 
of victory. — Hist, de VEmpereur Charles VI. t. ii. p. 90. 



Mount St. John, 

TTie hamlet which the Highlanders that day 
Preserved from spoil. — III. 15, p. 754. 

The peasant who led us over the field resided at this hamlet. 
Mont St. Jean was every thing to him, and his frequent ex- 
clamations of admiration for the courage of the Highlanders 
in particular, and indeed of the whole army, always ended 
■with a reference to his own dwelling-place : " if they had not 
fought so well, Oh mon Dieu, Mont St. Jean would have been 
burnt." 

This was an intelligent man, of very impressive countenance 
and manners. Like all the peasantry with whom we con- 
versed, he spoke with the bitterest hatred of Bonaparte, as 
the cause of all the slaughter and misery he had witnessed, 
and repeatedly expressed his astonishment that he had not 
been put to death. My house, said he, was full of the wound- 
ed : — it was nothing but sawing ofl:' legs, and sawing off 
arms. Oh my God, and all for one man ! Why did you not 
put him to death ? I myself would have put him to death 
with my own hand. 



Small theatre for such a tragedy. — III. 17, p. 754. 

So important a battle perhaps was never before fought within 
BO small an extent of ground. I computed the distance be- 



tween Hougoumont and Papelot at three miles ; in a straight l 
line it might probably not exceed two and a half. 

Our guide was very much displeased at the name which I 
the battle had obtained in England. Why call it the battle 
of Waterloo? he said, — call it Mont St. Jean, call it La I 
Belle Alliance, call it Hougoumont, call it La Haye Sainte, 
call it Papelot, — any thing but Waterloo. 



.Admiring Belgium saw 

The youth proved worthy of his destined crown. 

III. 20, p. 754. 
A man at Les Q,uatre Bras, who spoke with the usual en- !, 
thusiasm of the Prince of Orange's conduct in the campaign, 
declared that he fought " like a devil on horseback." Look- 
ing at a portrait of the dueen of the Netherlands, a lady ob- f 
served that there was a resemblance to the Prince ; a young ' 
Fleming was quite angry at this, — he could not bear that his 
hero should not be thought beautiful as well as brave. 



Genappe. — IV. 12, p. 757. 

At the Roy d'Espagne, where we were lodged, Wellington 
had his head-quarters on the 17th, Bonaparte on the 18th, 
and Blucher on the 19th. The coachmen had told us that it 
was an assez bon auberge ; but when one of them in the morn- 
ing asked how we had passed the night, he observed that no 
one ever slept at Genappe, — it was impossible, because of the : 
continual passing of posts and coal-carts. 



The Cross Roads. — IV. 24, p. 758. 



.* 



It is odd that the inscription upon the directing-post 
Les duatre Bras, (or rather boards, for they are fastened 
against a house,) should be given wrongly in the account of 
the campaign printed at Frankfort. The real directions are, 

I de pte ver St. Douler 

I de pte ver Genappe 

I de pte ver Marbais 

I de pte ver Frasne, 

spelt in this manner, and ill cut. I happened to copy it in a 
mood of superfluous minuteness. 

A fat and jolly Walloon, who inhabited this corner house, 
ate his dinner in peace at twelve o'clock on the 16th, and was 
driven out by the balls flying about his ears at four the same 
day. This man described that part of the action which took 
place in his sight, with great animation. He was particularly 
impressed by the rage, — the absolute fury which the French 
displayed; they cursed the English while they were fighting, 
and cursed the precision with which the English grape-shot 
was fired, which, said the man, was neither too high nor too 
low, but struck right in the middle. The last time that a 
British army had been in this place, the Duke of York slept 
in this man's bed, — an event which the Walloon remembered 
with gratitude as well as pride, the Duke having given him a 
Louis d'or. 

O wherefore have ye spared his head accursed ! — IV. 36, p. 759. 

Among the peasantry with whom we conversed this feeling 
was universal. We met with many persons who disliked the 
union with Holland, and who hated the Prussians, but none 
who spoke in favor or even in palliation of Bonaparte. 
The manner in which this ferocious beast, as they call him, 
has been treated, has given a great shock to the moral feelings 
of mankind. The almost general mode of accounting for it 
on the Continent, is by a supposition that England purposely 
let him loose from Elba in order to have a pretext for again 
attacking France, and crippling a country which she had left 
too strong, and which would soon have outstripped her in 
prosperity. I found it impossible to dispossess even men of 
sound judgment and great ability of this belief, preposterous 
as it is ; and when they read the account of the luxuries which 
have been sent to St. Helena for the accommodation of this 
great criminal, they will consider it as the fullest proof of 
their opinion. 



NOTES TO THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



775 



And now they felt the Prussian's heavy hand. — IV. 42, p. 759, 

Wherever we went we heard one cry of complaint against 
I the Prussians, — except at Ligny, where the people had wit- 
nessed only their courage and their sufferings. This is the 
i effect of making the military spirit predominate in a nation. 
The conduct of our men was universally extolled ; but it re- 
quired years of exertion and severity before Lord Wellington 
brojght the British army to its present state of discipline. 
The moral discipline of an army has never perhaps been un- 
derstood by any General, except the great Gustavus. Even 
in its best state, with all the alleviations of courtesy and 
honor, with all the correctives of morality and religion, war 
is so great an evil, that to engage in it without a clear necessity 
IS a crime of the blackest dye. When the necessity is clear, 
(and such, assuredl^^, I hold it to have been in our struggle 
with Bona^mrte,) it then becomes a crime to shrink from it. 

What I have said of the Prussians relates solely to their 
conduct in an allied country ; and I must also say that the 
Prussian officers with whom 1 had the good fortune to asso- 
ciate, were men who in every respect did honor to their 
profession and to their country. But that the general con- 
duct of their troops in Belgium had excited a strong feeling 
of disgust and indignation we had abundant and indisputable 
testimony. In France they had old wrongs to revenge, — and 
forgiveness of injuries is not among the virtues wliich are 
taught in camps. The annexed anecdotes are reprinted from 
one of our newspapers, and ought to be preserved. 

" A Prussian Officer, on his arrival at Paris, particularly 
requested to be billeted on the liouse of a lady inhabiting the 
Fanxbourg St. Germain, His request was complied with, 
and on his arriving at the lady's hotel, he was shown into a 
small but comfortable sitting-room, with a handsome bed- 
chamber adjoining it. With these rooms he appeared greatly 
dissatisfied, and desired that the lady should give up to him 
her apartment, (on the first floor,) wliich was very spacious, 
and very elegantly furnished. To this the lady made the 
strongest objections; but the Officer insisted, and she was 
under the necessity of retiring to the second floor. He after- 
wards sent a message to l)er by one of her servants, say- 
ing that he destined the second floor for his Aid-de-Camp, 
(fee. &c. This occasioned more violent remonstrances from 
the lady, but they were totally unavailing, and unattended to 
by the Officer, whose only answer was, ' obeisscz d mes ordre.s.' 
He then called for the cook, and told him he must prepare a 
handsome dinner for six persons, and desired the lady's butler 
to take care that the best wines the cellar contained should be 
forthcoming. After dinner he desired the hostess should be 
sent for ; — she obeyed tlie summons. The Officer then ad- 
dressed her, and said, ' No doubt, Madam, but you consider 
my conduct as indecorous and brutal in the extreme.' ' I 
must confess,' replied she, ' that I did not expect such treat- 
ment from an officer ; as, in general, military men are ever 
disposed to show every degree of deference and respect to our 
sex.' ' Yo\x think me then a most perfect barbarian ? answer 
me frankly.' ' If you really, then, desire my undisguised 
opinion of the subject, I must say, that I think your conduct 
truly barbarous.' ' Madam, I am entirely of your opinion ; 
but I only wished to give you a specimen of the behavior 
and conduct of your son, during six months that he resided in 
my house, after the entrance of the French army into the 
Prussian capital. I do not, however, mean to follow a bad 
example. You will resume, therefore, your apartment to- 
morrow, and I will seek lodgings at some public hotel.' The 
lady then retired, extolling the generous conduct of the Prus- 
sian officer, and deprecating that of her son." 

" Another Prussian officer was lodged at the house of 
Marshal Ney, in whose stables and coach-house he found a 
great number of horses and carriages. He immediately or- 
dered some Prussian soldiers, who accompanied him, to take 
away nine of the horses and three of the carriages. Ney's 
servants violently remonstrated against this proceeding, on 
which the Prussian officer observed, ' They are my property, 
inasmuch as your master took the same number of horses and 
carriages from me when he entered Berlin with the French 
army.' I think you will agree with mc, that the lex talionis 
was never more properly nor more justly resorted to." 



PART U. 



The MaHyr. — l. 43, p. 762. 



Sir Thomas Brown writes upon this subject with his usual 
feeling. 

" We applaud not," says he, " the judgment of Machiavel, 
that Christianity makes men cowards, or that, with the con- 
fidence of but half dying, the despised virtues of patience and 
humility have abased the spirits of men, which pagan princi- 
ples exalted ; but rather regulated the wildness of audacities 
in the attempts, grounds and eternal sequels of death, wherein 
men of the boldest spirit are often prodigiously temerarious. 
Nor can we extenuate the valor of ancient martyrs, who con- 
temned death in the uncomfortable scene of their lives, and in 
their decrepit martyrdoms did probably lose not many months 
of their days, or parted with life when it was scarce worth 
living. For (beside that long time past holds no considera- 
tion unto a slender time to come) they had no small disad- 
vantage from the constitution of old age, which naturally 
makes men fearful, and complexionally superannuated from 
the bold and courageous thoughts of youth and fervent years. 
But the contempt of death from corporal animosity promoteth 
not our felicity. They may sit in the Orchestra and noblest 
seats of Heaven who have held up shaking hands in the fire, 
and humanly contended for glory." — Hydnotaphia, 17, 



In purple and in scarlet clad, behold 

The Harlot sits, adorned with gems and gold '. 

Ill, 9, p. 764. 

The homely but scriptural appellation by which our fathers 
were wont to designate the Church of Rome has been deli- 
cately softened down by later writers. I have seen her some- 
where called the Scarlet Woman, — and Helen Maria Wil- 
liams names her the Dissolute of Babylon. 

Let me here offer a suggestion in defence of Voltaire. Is it 
not probable, or rather can any person doubt, tliat the ecrasez 
Pinfame, upon which so horrible a charge against him has been 
raised, refers to the Church of Rome, under this well-known 
designation ? No man can hold the principles of Voltaire in 
stronger abhorrence than I do, — but it is an act of justice to 
exculpate him from this monstrous accusation. 



For till the sons their fathers^ faults repent, 
The old error brings its direful punishment. 

III. 19, p. 765 
" Political chimeras," says Count Stolberg, " arc innume- 
rable ; but the most chimerical of all is the project of imagining 
that a people deeply sunk in degeneracy are capable of re- 
covering the ancient grandeur of freedom. Who tosses the 
bird into the air after his wings are clipped? So far from re- 
storing it to the power of flight, it will but disable it more." 
— Travels, iii. 139. 



the lark 

Poured forth her lyric strain. 



III. 33, p. 766. 



The epithet lyric, as applied to the lark, is borrowed from 
one of Donne's poems. I mention this more particularly for 
the purpose of repairing an accidental omission in the notes to 
Roderick; — it is the duty of every poet to acknowledge all 
his obligations of this kind to his predecessors. 



public crimes 

Draw on their proper punishment below. — IV. 9, p. 768. 

I will insert here a passage from one of Lord Brooke's 
poems. Few writers have ever given proofs of profounder 
thought than this friend of Sir Philip Sydney. Had his com- 
mand of language been equal to his strength of intellect, 1 
scarcely know the author whom he would not have surpassed. 



776 



NOTES TO THE POET'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XXI. 

Some love no equals, some superiors scorn, 

One seeks more worlds, and this will Helen have } 

This covets gold, with divers faces borne, 

These liumors reign, and lead men to their grave j 

Whereby for bayes and little wages we 

Ruin ourselves to raise up tyranny. 

XXII. 

And as when winds among themselves do jar, 

Seas there are tost, and wave with wave must fight ; 

So when power's restless humors bring forth War, 
There people bear the faults and wounds of Might j 

The error and diseases of the head 

Descending still until the limbs be dead. 

XXIII. 

Yet are not people's errors ever free 

From guilt of wounds they suffer by the war ; 

JVever did any public misery 

Rise of itself : God's plagues still grounded are 

On common stains of our humanity j 

And to the flame which ruineth mankind 

Man gives the matter, or at least gives wind. 

Jl Treatie of Warres. 

The extract which follows, from the same author, bears as 
directly upon the effects of the military system as if it had 
been written with a reference to Bonaparte's government. 
The thoughtful reader will perceive its intrinsic value, through 
its difficult language and uncouth versification. 

LIX. 

Let us then thus conclude, that only they 

Whose end in this world is the world to come, 

Whose hearts' desire is that their desires may 
Measure themselves by Truth's eternal doom, 

Can in the TVar find nothing that they prize, 

Who in the world would not be great or wise. 

LX. 

With these, 1 say. War, Conquest, Honor, Fame, 
Stand (as the world) neglected or forsaken. 

Like Error's cobwebs, in whose curious frame 
She only joys and mourns, takes and is taken ; 

In which these dying, that to God live thus. 

Endure our conquests, would not conquer us. 

LXI. 

Where all states else that stand on power, not grace. 
And gage desire by no such spiritual measure, 

Make it their end to reign in every place, 
To war for honor, for revenge and pleasure ; 

Thinking the strong should keep the weak in awe, 

And every inequality give law. 

LXII. 

These serve the world to rule her by her arts. 
Raise mortal trophies upon mortal passion ; 

Their wealth, strength, glory, growing from those hearts 
Which to their ends they ruin and disfashion : 

The more remote from God the less remorse ; 

Which still gives Honor power. Occasion force. 

LXIII. 

These make the Sword their judge of wrong and right. 
Their story Fame, their laws but Power and Wit j 

Their endless mine all vanities of Might, 
Rewards and Pains the mystery of itj 

And in this sphere, this wilderness of evils. 

None prosper highly but the perfect Devils. 

^ Treatie of Warres. 



They had the Light, and from the Light they turn''d. 

IV. 12, p. 768. 
•' Let no ignorance," says Lord Brooke, " seem to excuse 
mankind ; since the light of truth is still near us, the tempter 



and accuser at such continual war within us, the laws that 
guide so good for them that obey, and the first shape of every 
sin so ugly, as whosoever does but what he knows, or forbears 
what he doubts, shall easily follow nature unto grace." 

'' God left not the world without information from the be- 
ginning ; so that wherever we find ignorance, it must be 
cliarged to the account of man, as having rejected, and not to 
that of his Maker, as having denied, the necessary means of 
instruction." — Horne's Considerations on the Life of St. John 
the Baptist. 



J\rapoleon. — IV. 15, p. 768. 

It is amusing to look back upon the flattery which was 

offered to Bonaparte. Some poems of Mme. Fanny de 

Beauharnois exhibit rich specimens of this kind : she praises 

him for j 

la douce humanite 1 

Que le devurc de saflamme. | 

Of the battle of Austerlitz she says, | 

Dans cejour memorable on dutfinir la guerre, 
Et que nommeront maints auteurs 
La Trinite des Empereurs, 
Vous seul en etes le mystere. 

Subsequent events give to some of these adulatory strains 
an interest whicn they would else have wanted. 

JYapoleon, ohjet de nos hommages, 
Et Josephine, objet non mains aime. 
Couple que V Etemel Pun pour Pautre a forme, 
Vous etes ses plus beaux ouvrages. 

In some stanzas, called Les Trois Bateaux, upon the vessels 
in which Alexander and Bonaparte held their conferences 
before the Peace of Tilsit, the following prophecy is intro- 
duced, with a felicity worthy of the Edinburgh Review : — 

Tremble, tremble, fiere .Albion ! 
Guide par d^heureuses etoiles, 
Ces genereux bateaux, exempts d'ambition, 
Vont triomp her par-tout de tes cent mille voiles. 
The Grand JSTapoleon is the 

Enfan cheri de Mars et d'ApoUon, 
Qu'aucun revers ne peut dbattre. 

Here follows part of an Arabic poem by Michael Sabbag, 
addressed to Bonaparte on his marriage with Marie Louise, 
and printed, with translations in French prose and German 
verse, in the first volume of the Fundgruben des Orients: — 

" August Prince, whom Heaven has given us for Sovereign, 
and who boldest among the greatest monarchs of tliy age the 
samie rank which the diadem holds upon the head of Kings, 

" Thou hast reached the summit of happiness, and by thine 
invincible courage hast attained a glory which the mind of 
man can scarcely comprehend j 

" Thou hast imprinted upon the front of time the remem- 
brance of thine innumerable exploits in characters of light, one 
of which alone suffices with its brilliant rays to enlighten the 
whole universe. 

" Who can resist him who is never abandoned by the as- 
sistance of Heaven, who has Victory for his guide, and whose 
course is directed by God himself? 

" In every age Fortune produces a hero who is the pearl of 
his time ; amidst all these extraordinary men thou shinest like 
an inestimable diamond in a necklace of precious stones. 

" The least of thy subjects, in whatever country he may be, 
is the object of universal homage, and enjoys thy glory, the 
splendor of which is reflected upon him. 

" All virtues are united in thee, but the justice which regu- 
lates all thy actions would alone suffice to immortalize thy 



" Perhaps the English will now understand at last that it is 
folly to oppose themselves to the wisdom of thy designs, and 
to strive against thy fortune." 

A figure of Liberty, which, during the days of Jacobinism, 
was erected at Aix in Provence, was demolished during the 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



777 



night about the time when Bonaparte assumed the empire. 
Among the squibs to which this gave occasion, was the fol- 
lowing question and answer between Pasquin and Marforio. 
Pasquin inquires, Jfais ^it'ci^ce qui est devenu dune de la Li- 
berie 7 — Heyday, what is become of Liberty tJien ? — To which 
Marforio replies, Bete ! elle est morte en s^accouchant d'un Em- 
pereur — Blockhead! she is dead in bringing forth an Empe- 
ror. — Miss Plumtre's JVarrative, ii. 382. 

Well may the lines of Pindar respecting Tantalus be applied 
to Bonaparte. 

E( Se Sr) Tiv' av- 
6pa Qvarov 'OXvixTTov aKorroi erinn- 
arav, riv TavraXog oiitus- 'AXXa yap nara- 
iTEipai fxeyav oXBov ovk £(5u- 
vaaBr)' KopM 6' tXev 
Arav vneponXoV' Pindak, 01. 1. 

Jfam se deve accusar a Fortuna de cega, mas s8 aos que dclla 
se deixam cegar. It is not Fortune, says D, Luiz da Cunha, 
who ought to be accused of blindness, — but they who let 

themselves be blinded by her Memorias desde 1659 afAe 

1706. MSS. 

Lieutenant Bowerbank, in his Journal of what passed on 
board the Bellerophon, has applied a passage from Horace to 
the same effect, with humorous felicity. 

I, Bone, quo virtus tua te vocat. 
Cfrandia laturus meritorum •prcBmia. 

Epist. 2, lib. ii. v. 37. 



One bead more in this string of quotations : Un Roiphilo- 
sophe, says the Comte de Puissaye, speaking of Frederick of 
Prussia, dans le sens de nos jours, est selen moi le plus terrible 
fleau que le del puisse envoy er auz habitans de la terre. Mais 
L'idee d'un Roi pkilosophe et despote, est un injure au sens com' 
mun, un outrage a la raison. — Memoires, t. ii. 125. 



On Waterloo 

The Tyrant's fortune in the scale was weighed, 
His fortune and the World's, and England threw 
Her sword into the balance. — IV. 22, p. 769. 

" How highly has Britain been honored," says Alexander 
Knox, in a letter to Hannah More, written not long after the 
battle of Waterloo ; " and yet how awfully has all undue 
exultation been repressed by the critical turn which, after all, 
effected a prosperous conclusion ! It was not human wisdom 
which wrought our deliverance ; for when policy (as well as 
prowess) had done its utmost, Bonaparte's return from Elba 
seemed at once to undo all that had been accomplished. It 
was not human power ; for at Waterloo the prize was as much 
as ever to be contended for ; and notwithstanding all that had 
been achieved, the fate of Europe once more trembled on the 
balance. Never, surely, did so momentous and vital a contest 
terminate at once so happily and so instructively." — Knox's 
Remains, iv. 297. 



CARMEN NUPTIALE. 

acne a^ff ot ti)t n^unvtutt. 



TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE, 

THE FOLLOWING POEM IS DEDICATED 

WITH PROFOUND RESPECT, BV HER ROYAL HIGHNESS's MOST DUTIFUL 

AND MOST DEVOTED SERVANT, 

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 

POET LAUREATE. 



PROEM. 



There was a time when all my youthful thought 
Was of the Muse ; and of the Poet's fame, 

How fair it flourisheth, and fadeth not, — 
Alone enduring, when the Monarch's name 

Is but an empty sound, the Conqueror's bust 

Moulders and is forgotten in the dust. 



'How best to build the imperishable lay 

Was then my daily care, my dream by night ; 

And early in adventurous essay 

My spirit imp'd her wings for stronger flight ; 



Fair regions Fancy open'd to my view, — 
"There lies thy path," she said; "do thou that 
path pursue ! 



" For what hast thou to do with wealth or power, 
Thou whom rich Nature at thy happy birth 

Bless'd in her bounty with the largest dower 
That Heaven indulges to a child of Earth, — 

Then when the sacred Sisters for their own 

Baptized thee in the springs of Helicon ? 



They promised for thee that thou shouldst eschew 
All low desires, all empty vanities ; 



778 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



That thou shouldst, still to Truth and Freedom 
true, 
The applause or censure of the herd despise ; 
And, in obedience to their impulse given, 
Walk in the light of Nature and of Heaven. 



" Along the World's highway let others crowd, 
Jostling and moiling^ on through dust and heat; 

Far from the vain, the vicious, and the proud. 
Take thou, content in solitude, thy seat ; 

To noble ends devote thy sacred art, 

And nurse for better worlds thine own immortal 
part ! " 

6. 

Praise to that Power who, from my earliest days, 
Thus taught me what to seek and what to shun, 

Who turn'd my footsteps from the crowded ways. 
Appointing me my better course to run 

In solitude, with studious lr;,sure bless' d. 

The mind unfetter'd, and the heart at rest. 



For therefore have my days been days of joy. 
And all my paths are paths of pleasantness : 

And still my heart, as when I was a boy, 
Doth never know an ebb of cheerfulness ; 

Time, which matures the intellectual part, 

Hath tinged my hairs with gray, but left untouch'd 
my heart. 



Sometimes I soar where Fancy guides the rein. 

Beyond this visible diurnal sphere ; 
But most, with long and self-approving pain. 

Patient pursue the historian's task severe ; 
Thus in the ages which are past I live. 
And those which are to come my sure reward will 
give. 

9. 

Yea, in this now, while Malice frets her hour. 
Is foretaste given me of that meed divine ; 

Here, undisturb'd in this sequester'd bower. 
The friendship of the good and wise is mine ; 

And that green wreath which decks the Bard 
when dead. 

That laureate garland, crowns my living head. 

10. 

That wreath which, in Eliza's golden days, 
My Master dear, divinest Spenser, wore, 

That which rewarded Drayton's learned lays. 
Which thoughtful Ben and gentle Daniel bore, — 

Grin, Envy, through thy ragged mask of scorn ! 

In honor it was given, with honor it is worn ! 

11. 

Proudly I raised the high thanksgiving strain 
Of victory in a rightful cause achieved ; 

For which i long had look'd, and not in vain, 
As one who, with firm faith and undeceived. 

In history and the heart of man could find 

Sure presage of deliverance for mankind. 



12. 

Proudly I offer'd to the royal ear 

My song of joy when War's dread work was 
done. 
And glorious Britain round her satiate spear 

The olive garland twined, by Victory won ; 
Exulting as became me in such cause, 
I offer'd to the Prince his People's just applause. 

13. 

And when, as if the tales of old Romance 
Were but to typify his sjolendid reign, 

Princes and Potentates from conquer'd France, 
And chiefs in arms approved, a peerless train, 

Assembled at his Court, — my duteous lays 

Preferr'd a welcome of enduring praise. 

14. 

And when that last and most momentous hour 
Beheld the re-risen cause of evil yield 

To the Red Cross and England's arm of power, 
I sung of Waterloo's unequall'd field, 

Paying the tribute of a soul imbued 

With deepest joy devout and awful gratitude. 

15. 

Such strains beseem'd me well. But how shall I 
To hymeneal numbers tune the string, 

Who to the trumpet's martial symphony, 
And to the mountain gales am wont to sing .'* 

How may these unaccustom'd accents suit 

To the sweet dulcimer and courtly lute ? 

16. 

Fitter for me the lofty strain severe. 

That calls for vengeance for mankind oppress'd; 
Fitter the songs that youth may love to hear, 

Which warm and elevate the throbbing breast ; 
Fitter for me with meed of solemn verse. 
In reverence, to adorn the hero's hearse. 

17. 

But then my Master dear arose to mind, 
He on whose song, while yet I was a boy, 

My spirit fed, attracted to its kind. 

And still insatiate of the growing joy ; — • 

He on whose tomb these eyes were wont to dwell, 

With inward yearnings which I may not tell ; ■ 

18. 
He whose green bays shall bloom forever young, 

And whose dear name whenever I repeat, 

Reverence and love are trembling on my tongue ; 

Sweet Spenser, sweetest Bard ; yet not more 

sweet 

Than pure was he, and not more pure than wise, 
High Priest of all the Muses' mysteries. 

19. 
I call'd to mind that mighty Master's song. 

When he brought home his beautifulest bride, 
And Mulla murmur'd her sweet undersong. 

And Mole with all his mountain woods replied 
Never to mortal lips a strain was given 
More rich with love, more redolent of Heaven. 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



779 



20. 
His cup of joy was mantling to the brim, 

Yet solemn thoughts enhanced his deep delight 3 
A holy feeling fiU'd his marriage-hymn, 

And Love aspired with Faith a heavenward 
flight. 
And hast not thou, my Soul, a solemn theme .? 
I said, and mused until I fell into a dream. 



THE DREAM. 



1. 

Methought 1 heard a stir of hasty feet, 
And horses tramp'd and coaches roll'd along. 

And there were busy voices in the street. 
As if a multitude were hurrying on } 

A. stir it was Avhich only could befall 

Upon some great and solemn festival. 



Such crowds I saAV, and in such glad array, 
It seem'd some general joy had fill'd the land; 

\ge had a sunshine on its cheek that day, 
And children, tottering by the mother's hand, 

Too young to ask why all this joy should be, 

Partook it, and rejoiced for sympathy. 

3. 

The shops, that no dull care might intervene. 
Were closed; the doors within were lined with 

heads ; 
lad faces were at every window seen, 
And from the cluster'd house-tops and the leads, 
)thers, who took their stand in patient row, 
jook'd down upon the crowds that swarm'd below. 



^nd every one of all that numerous throng 
On head or breast a marriage symbol wore ; 

['he war-horse proudly, as he paced along, 
Those joyous colors in his forelock wore, 

Vnd arch'd his stately neck as for delight, 

?o show his mane thus pompously bedight. 



rom every church the merry bells rung round 
With gladdening harmony heard far and wide 

n many a mingled peal of swelling sound. 
The hurrying music came on every side ; 
nd banners from the steeples waved on high, 

;Lnd streamers flutter 'd in the sun and sky. 



inon the cannon's voice in thunder spake ; 

Westward it came ; the East returned the sound ; 
urst after burst the innocuous thunders brake. 

And roll'd from side to side with quick rebound. 

happy land, where that terrific voice 
ipeaks but to bid all habitants rejoice ! 

I' '• 

fhereat the crowd rush'd forward one and all, 
And I too in my dream was borne along. 



Eftsoon, methought, I reach'd a festal hall. 

Where guards in order ranged repel! 'd the throng; 
But I had entrance through that guarded door, 
In honor to the laureate crown I wore. 



That spacious hall was hung with trophies round, 
Memorials proud of many a well- won day : 

The flag of France there trail'd toward the ground ; 
There in captivity her Eagles lay. 

And under each, in aye-enduring gold. 

One well-known word its fatal story told. 

9. 
There read I Nile, conspicuous from afar; 

And Egypt and Maida there were found ; 
And Copenhagen there and Trafalgar ; 

Vimeiro and Busaco's day renown'd; 
There too was seen Barrosa's bloody name, 
And Albuhera, dear-bought field of fame. 

10. 

Yon spoils from boastful Massena were won ; 
Those Marmont left in that illustrious fight 
By Salamanca, when too soon the sun 

Went down, and darkness hid the Frenchman's 
flight. 
These from Vittoria were in triumph borne. 
When from the Intruder's head Spain's stolen 
crown was torn. 

IL 

These on Pyrene's awful heights were gain'd, 

Tlie trophies of tiiat memorable day. 
When deep with blood her mountain springs were 
stain'd. 
Above the clouds and lightnings of that fray, 
Wheeling afar the affrighted eagles fled ; 
At eve the wolves came forth and prey'd upon the 
dead. 

12. 

x\nd blood-stain'd flags were here from Orthies 
borne. 

Trampled by France beneath her flying feet; 
And what before-^houlouse from Soult were torn, 

When the stern Marshal met his last defeat, 
Yielding once more to Britain's arm of might, 
And Wellington in mercy spared his flight. 

13. 

There hung the Eagles which, with victory flush'd, 
From Fleurus and from Ligny proudly flew. 

To see the Usurper's high-swollen fortune crush'd 
Forever on the field of Waterloo, — 

Day of all days, surpassing in its fame 

All fields of elder or of later name ! 

14. 

There, too, the painter's universal art 
Each story told to all beholders' eyes ; 

And Sculpture there had done her fitting part, 
Bidding the forms perdurable arise 

Of those great Chiefs who in the field of fight 

Had best upheld their country's sacred right. 



780 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



15. 

There stood our peerless Edward, gentle-soul 'd, 
The Sable Prince, of chivalry the flower ; 

And that Plantagenet of sterner mould. 

He who the conquer'd crown of Gallia wore ; 

And Blake, and Nelson, Glory's favorite son. 

And Marlborough there, and Wolfe, and Wel- 
lington. 

16. 

But from the statues and the storied wall. 

The living scene withdrew my wondering sense ; 

For with accordant pomp that gorgeous hall 
Was fill'd; and I beheld the opulence 

Of Britain's Court, — a proud assemblage there, 

Her Statesmen, and her Warriors, and her Fair. 

17. 

Amid that Hail of Victory, side by side. 
Conspicuous o'er the splendid company. 

There sat a royal Bridegroom and his Bride ; 
In her fair cheek, and in her bright blue eye, 

Her flaxen locks, and her benignant mien. 

The marks of Brunswick's Royal Line were seen. 

18. 

Of princely lineage and of princely heart, [fight, 
The Bridegroom seem'd, — a man approved in 

Who in the great deliverance bore his part. 
And had pursued the recreant Tyrant's flight, 

When, driven from injured Germany, he fled, 

Bearing the curse of God and Man upon his head. 

19. 

Guardant before his feet a Lion lay, 

The Saxon Lion, terrible of yore. 
Who, in his wither'd limbs and lean decay. 

The marks of long and cruel bondage bore ; 
But broken now beside him lay the chain. 
Which gall'd and fretted late his neck and mane. 

20. 
A Lion too was couch' d before the Bride ; 

That noble Beast had never felt the chain ; 
Strong were his sinewy limbs and smooth his 
hide. 
And o'er his shoulders broad the affluent mane 
Dishevell'd hung; beneath his feet were laid 
Torn flags of France, whereon his bed he made. 

21. 
Full different were those Lions twain in plight. 

Yet were they of one brood ; and side by side 
Of old, the Gallic Tiger in his might 

They many a time had met, and quell'd his pride. 
And made the treacherous spoiler from their ire, 
Cowering and crippled, to his den retire. 

22. 
Two forms divine on either side the throne. 

Its heavenly guardians, male and female stood ; 
His eye was bold, and on his brow there shone 

Contempt of all base things, and pride subdued 
To wisdom's will : a warrior's garb he wore. 
And Honor was the name the Genius bore. 



23. 
That other form was in a snow-white vest, 

As well her virgin loveliness became ; 
Erect her port, and on her spotless breast 

A blood-red cross was hung: Faith was her 
name, 
As by that sacred emblem might be seen, 
And by her eagle eye, and by her dove-like mien. 



24. 



I 

Her likeness such to that robuster power. 

That sure his sister she might have been deem'd, 

Child of one womb at one auspicious hour. 
Akin they were, yet not as thus it seem'd ; 

For he of Valor was the eldest son, 

From Arete in happy union sprung. 

25. 

But her to Phronis Eusebeia bore, 

She whom her mother Dice sent to earth ; 

What marvel then if thus their features wore 
Resemblant lineaments of kindred birth, 

Dice being child of Him who rules above, 

Valor his earth-born son ; so both derived from 
Jove. 

26. 

While I stood gazing, suddenly the air 

Was fill'd with solemn music breathing round ; 

And yet no mortal instruments were there. 
Nor seem'd that melody an earthly sound, 

So wondrously it came, so passing sweet. 

For some strange pageant sure a prelude meet. 

27. 
In every breast methought there seem'd to be 
A hush of reverence mingled with dismay ; 
For now appear'd a heavenly company 

Toward the royal seat who held their way ; 
A female Form majestic led them on, — 
With awful port she came, and stood before the 
Throne. 

28. 
Gentle her mien, and void of all offence j 
But if aught wrong'd her, she could strike sucl! 
fear. 
As when Minerva, in her Sire's defence, 

Shook in Phlegrsean fields her dreadful spear. 
Yet her benignant aspect told that ne'er 
Would she refuse to heed a suppliant's prayer. 

29. 
The Trident of the Seas in her right hand. 

The scepti-e M'hich that Bride was born to wield 
She bore, in symbol of her just command. 

And in her left display 'd the Red-Cross shield. 
A plume of milk-white feathers overspread 
The laurell'd helm which graced her lofty head. 

30. 
Daughter of Brunswick's fated line, she said, 

While joyful realms their gratulations pay, 
And ask for blessings on thy bridal bed. 

We, too, descend upon this happy day ; — 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE 



781 



Receive with willing ear what we impart, 
And treasure up our counsels in thy heart ! 

31. 

Long may it be ere thou art call'd to bear 
The weight of empire in a day of woe ! 

Be it thy favor'd lot meantime to share 
The joys which from domestic virtue flow, 

And may the lessons which are now impress'd, 

In years of leisure, sink into thy breast. 

32. 
Look to thy Sire, and in his steady way, 

As in his Father's he, learn thou to tread ; 
That thus, when comes the inevitable day. 
No other change be felt than of the head 
Which wears the crown ; thy name will then be 

blest 
Like theirs, when thou, too, shalt be call'd to rest. 

33. 
Love peace and cherish peace ; but use it so 

That War may find thee ready at all hours ; 
And ever when thou strikest, let the blow 

Be swift and sure : then put forth all the powers 
Which God hath given thee to redress thy wrong, 
And, powerful as thou art, the strife will not be 
long. 

34. 

Let not the sacred Trident from thy hand 
Depart, nor lay the falchion from thy side ! 

Queen of the Seas, and mighty on the land. 

Thy power shall then be dreaded far and wide : 

And trusting still in God and in the Right, 

Thou mayst again defy the World's collected 
might. 

35. 

Thus as she ceased, a comely Sage came on. 
His temples and capacious forehead spread 

With locks of venerable eld, which shone 

As when, in wintry morns, on Skiddaw's head 

The cloud, the sunshine, and the snow unite, 

So silvery, so unsullied, and so white. 

36. 

I Of Kronos and the Nymph Mnemosyne 

He sprung, on either side a birth divine ; 
Thus to the Olympian Gods allied was he. 

And brother to the sacred Sisters nine. 
With whom he dwelt in interchange of lore, 
Each thus instructing each for evermore. 

37. 

■They call'd him Praxis in the Olympian tongue ; 
But here on earth Experience was his name. 
Whatever things have pass'd to him were known, 

And he could see the future ere it came ; 
Such foresight was his patient wisdom's meed, — 
Alas for those who his wise counsels will not heed ! 

38. 
He bore a goodly volume, which he laid 
Between that princely couple on the throne. 



Lo, there my work for this great realm, he said, 
My work, which with the kingdom's growth has 
grown. 
The rights, the usages, the laws wherein 
Blessed above all nations she hath been. 

39. 
Such as the sacred trust to thee is given, 

So unimpair'd transmit it to thy line : 
Preserve it as the choicest gift of Heaven, 

Alway to make the bliss of thee and thine : 
The talisman of England's strength is there, — 
With reverence guard it, and with jealous care ! 

40. 
The next who stood before that royal pair 

Came gliding like a vision o'er the ground; 
A glory went before him through the air. 

Ambrosial odors floated all around. 
His purple wings a heavenly lustre shed 
A silvery halo hover 'd round his head 

41. 

The Angel of the English Church was this, 
With whose divinest presence there appear'd 

A glorious train, inheritors of bliss. 

Saints in the memory of the good revered. 

Who, having render'd back their vital breath 

To Him from whom it came, were perfected by 
Death. 

42. 

Edward the spotless Tudor, there I knew. 
In whose pure breast, with pious nurture fed. 

All generous hopes and gentle virtues grew ; 
A heavenly diadem adorn'd his head, — 

Most blessed Prince, whose saintly name might 
move 

The understanding heart to tears of reverent love. 

43. 

Less radiant than King Edward, Cranmer came. 
But purged from persecution's sable spot ; 

For he had given his body to the flame. 
And now in that right hand, which, flinching not, 

He proffer'd to the fire's atoning doom, 

Bore he the unfading palm of martyrdom. 

44, 
There too came Latimer, in worth allied, 

Who, to the stake when brought by Romish rage. 
As if with prison weeds he cast aside 

The infirmity of flesh and weight of age, 
Bow-bent till then with weakness, in his shroud 
Stood up erect and firm before the admiring crowd. 

45. 

With these, partakers in beatitude, 

Bearing like them the palm, their emblem meet, 
The Noble Army came, who had subdued 

All frailty, putting death beneath their feet : 
Their robes were like the mountain snow, and 

bright 
As though they had been dipp'd in the fountain- 
springs of light. 



782 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



46. 
For these were they who valiantly endured 

The fierce extremity of mortal pain, 
By no weak tenderness to life allured, 

The victims of that hateful Henry's reign, 
And of the bloody Queen, beneath whose sway 
Rome lit her fires, and Fiends kept holy day. 

47. 
O pardon me, thrice holy Spirits dear, 

That hastily I now must pass ye by ! 
No want of duteous reverence is there here ; 

None better knows nor deeplier feels than I 
What to your sufferings and your faith we owe, 
Ye valiant champions for the truth below ! 

48. 
Hereafter, haply, with maturer care, 

(So Heaven permit,) that reverence shall be 
shown. 
Now of my vision I must needs declare. 

And how the Angel stood before the throne, 
And, fixing on that Princess, as he spake, 
His eye benign, the awful silence brake. 

49. 
Thus said the Angel — Thou to whom one day 

There shall in earthly guardianship be given 
The English Church, preserve it from decay ! 

Ere now for that most sacred charge hath Heaven 
In perilous times provided female means. 
Blessing it beneath the rule of pious Queens. 

50. 
Bear thou that great Eliza in thy mind. 

Who from a wreck this fabric edified 3 
And Her who, to a nation's voice resign'd, 

When Rome in hope its wiliest engines plied. 
By her own heart and righteous Heaven approved, 
Stood up against the Father whom she loved. 

51. 

Laying all mean regards aside, fill Thou 

Her seats with wisdom and with learned worth ; 

That so, whene'er attack'd, with fearless brow 
Her champions may defend her rights on earth ; 

Link'd is her welfare closely with thine own ; 

One fate attends the Altar and the Throne ! 

52. 
Think not that lapse of ages shall abate 

The inveterate malice of that Harlot old; 
Fallen though thou deem'st her from her high estate, 

She proffers still the envenom'd cup of gold. 
And her fierce Beast, whose names are Blasphemy, 
The same that was, is still, and still must be. 

53. 

The stern Sectarian in unnatural league 
Joins her to war against their hated foe ; 

Error and Faction aid the bold intrigue. 
And the dark Atheist seeks her overthrow. 

While giant Zeal in arms against her stands. 

Barks with a hundred mouths, and lifts a hundred 
hands. 



54. 

Built on a rock, the fabric may repel 

Their utmost rage, if all within be sound ; 

But if within the gates Indifference dwell. 

Woe to her then ! there needs no outward wound ! 

Through her whole frame benumb 'd, a lethal sleep, 

Like the cold poison of the asp, will creep. 

55. 

In thee, as in a cresset set on high. 

The light of piety should shine far seen, 

A guiding beacon fix'd for every eye : 

Thus from the influence of an honor'd Queen, 

As from its spring, should public good proceed, — 

The peace of Heaven will be thy proper meed. 

56. 
So should return that happy state of yore, 

When piety and joy went hand in hand ; 
The love which to his flock the shepherd bore. 
The old observances which cheer'd the land. 
The household prayers which, honoring God's high 

name. 
Kept the lamp trimm'd and fed the sacred flame. 

57. 
Thus having spoke, away the Angel pass'd 

With all his train, dissolving from the sight: 
A transitory shadow overcast 

The sudden void they left ; all meaner light 
Seeming like darkness to the eye which lost 
The full effulgence of that heavenly host. 

58. 

Eftsoon, in reappearing light confess'd, 
There stood another Minister of bliss. 

With his own radiance clothed as with a vest- 
One of the angelic company was this. 

Who, guardians of the rising human race, 

Alway in Heaven behold the Father's face. 

59. 
Somewhile he fix'd upon the royal Bride 

A contemplative eye of thoughtful grief; 
The trouble of that look benign implied 

A sense of wrongs for which he sought relief. 
And that Earth's evils which go unredress'd 
May waken sorrow in an Angel's breast. # 

60. 
I plead for babes and sucklings, he began. 

Those who are now, and who are yet to be ; 
I plead for all the surest hopes of man. 

The vital welfare of humanity : 
Oh ! let not bestial Ignorance maintain 
Longer within the land her brutalizing reign. 

61. 

O Lady, if some new-born babe should bless, 
In answer to a nation's prayers, thy love, 

When thou, beholding it in tenderness, 

The deepest, holiest joy of earth shalt prove, 

In that the likeness of all infants see. 

And call to mind that hour what now thou hear' 
from me. 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



783 



62. 
Then seeing infant man, that Lord of Earth, 

Most weak and helpless of all breathing things. 
Remember that as Nature makes at birth 

No different law for Peasants or for Kings, 
And at the end no difference may befall, 
The "short parenthesis of life " is all 

63. 

But in that space, how wide may be their doom 

Of honor or dishonor, good or ill ! 
From Nature's hand like plastic clay they come, 

To take from circumstance their woe or weal ; 
And as the form and pressure may be given. 
They wither upon earth, or ripen there for Heaven. 

64. 
Is it then fitting that one soul should pine 

For lack of culture in this favor'd land.? — 
That spirits of capacity divine 

Perish, like seeds upon the desert sand? — 
That needful knowledge in this age of light 
Should not by birth be every Briton's right ? 

65. 

Little can private zeal effect alone ; 

The State must this state-malady redress ; 
For as, of all the ways of life, but one — 

The path of duty — leads to happiness. 
So in their duty States must find at length 
Their welfare, and their safety, and their strength. 

66. 
This the first duty, carefully to train 

The children in the way that they should go ; 
Then of the family of guilt and pain 

How large a part were banish'd from below ! 
How would the people love with surest cause 
Their country, and revere her venerable laws ! 

67. 
Is there, alas ! within the human soul 
An inbred taint disposing it for ill ? 
More need that early culture should control 

And discipline by love the pliant will ! 
The heart of man is rich in all good seeds ; 
Neglected, it is choked with tares and noxious 
weeds. 

68. 
He ceased, and sudden from some unseen throng 

A choral peal arose and shook the hall ; 
As when ten thousand children with their song 

Fill the resounding temple of St. Paul ; — 
Scarce can the heart their powerful tones sus- 
tain; — 
" Save, or we perish ! " was the thrilling strain. 

69. 
"Save, or we perish ! " thrice the strain was sung 

By unseen Souls innumerous hovering round ; 
And whilst the hall with their deep chorus rung. 

The inmost heart was shaken wiih the sound ; 
I felt the refluent blood forsake my face. 
And my knees trembled in that awful place. 



70. 
Anon two female forms before our view 

Came side by side, a beauteous couplement ; 
The first a virgin clad in skyey blue ; 

Upward to Heaven her steadfast eyes were bent, 
Her countenance an anxious meaning bore, 
Yet such as might have made her loved the more. 

71. 

This was that maiden, "sober, chaste, and wise," 
Who bringeth to all hearts their best delight : 

" Though spoused, yet wanting wedlock's solem- 
nize; " 
" Daughter of Coelia, and Speranza hight," 

I knew her well as one whose portraiture 

In my dear Master's verse forever will endure. 

72. 
Her sister, too, the same divinest page 

Tauglit me to know for that Charissa fair 
" Of goodly grace and comely personage, 

Of wondrous beauty and of bounty rare, 
Full of great love," in whose most gentle mien 
The charms of perfect womanhood were seen, 

73. 

This lovely pair unroll'd before the throne 
"Earth's melancholy map," whereon to sight 

Two broad divisions at a glance were shown, — 
The empires these of Darkness and of Light. 

Well might the thoughtful bosom sigh to mark 

How wide a portion of the map was dark. 

74. 
Behold, Charissa cried, how large a space 

Of Earth lies unredeem'd ! Oh, grief to think 
That countless myriads of immortal race, 

In error born, in ignorance must sink, 
Train'd up in customs which corrupt the heart. 
And following miserably the evil part ! 



Regard the expanded Orient, from the shores 
Of scorch'd Arabia and the Persian sea, 

To where the inhospitable Ocean roars 
Against the rocks of frozen Tartary ; 

Look next at those Australian isles, which lie 

Thick as the stars that stud the wintry sky ; — 

76. 
Then let thy mind contemplative survey 

That spacious region, where, in elder time. 
Earth's unremember'd conquerors held the sway ; 

And Science, trusting in her skill sublime, 
With lore abstruse the sculptured walls o'erspread, 
Its import now forgotten with the dead. 

77. 
From Nile and Congo's undiscover'd sprmgs 

To the four seas which gird the unhappy land. 
Behold it left a prey to barbarous Kings, 

The Robber, or the Trader's ruthless hand ; 
Sinning and suffering, every where unbless'd, 
Behold her wretched sons, oppressing and op- 
press'd ! 



784 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



78. 
To England is the Eastern empire given, 

And hers the sceptre of the circling main ; 
Shall she not then diffuse the word of Heaven 

Through all the regions of her trusted reign, — 
Wage against evil things the hallow'd strife, 
And sow with liberal hand the seeds of life ! 

79. 
By strenuous efforts in a rightful cause, 

Gloriously hath she surpass'd her ancient fame, 
And won in arms the astonish'd World's ap- 
plause. 
Yet may she win in peace a nobler name, 
And Nations, which now lie in error blind. 
Hail her the Friend and Teacher of Mankind ! 

80. 
Oh ! what a part were that. Speranza then 

Exclaim'd, to act upon Earth's ample stage ! 
Oh ! what a name among the sons of men 

To leave, which should endure from age to age ! 
And what a strength that ministry of good 
Should find in love and human gratitude ! 

81. 
Speed thou the work, Redeemer of the World ! 

That the long miseries of mankind may cease ! 
Where'er the Red Cross banner is unfurl'd 

There let it carry truth, and light, and peace ! 
Did not the Angels who announced thy birth 
Proclaim it with the sound of Peace on Earth ^ 

82. 
Bless thou this happy Island, that the stream 

Of blessing far and wide from hence may flow ! 
Bless it that thus thy saving Mercy's beam 
Reflected hence may shine on all below ! 
tny kingdom come ! thy will be done, o 

Lord ! 
And BE THY Holy Name through all the 

WORLD ADORED ! 

83. 
Thus as Speranza cried, she clasp'd her hands. 

And heavenward lifted them in ardent prayer. 
Lo ! at the act the vaulted roof expands, — 

Heaven opens, — and in empyreal air 
Pouring its splendors through the inferior sky 
More bright than noon-day suns the Cross ap- 
pears on high. 

84. 
A strain of heavenly harmony ensued, 

Such as but once to mortal ears was known, — 
The voice of that Angelic Multitude, 

Who, in their Orders, stand around the Throne ; 
Peace upon Earth, Good Will to Men ! they 

sung, 
And Heaven and Earth with that prophetic an- 
them rung. 

85. 
In holy fear I fell upon the ground, 
And hid my face, unable to endure 



The glory, or sustain the piercing sound ; 

In fear and yet in trembling joy, for sure 
My soul that hour yearn'd strongly to be free, 
That it might spread its wings in immortality. 

86. 
Gone was the glory when I raised my head ; 

But in the air appear'd a form half seen, 
Below with shadows dimly garmented, 

And indistinct and dreadful was his mien : 
Yet, when I gazed intentlier, I could trace 
Divinest beauty in that awful face. 

87. 
Hear me, O Princess ! said the shadowy form, 

As, in administering this mighty land, 
Thou with thy best endeavor shalt perform 

The will of Heaven, so shall my faithful hand 
Thy great and endless recompense supply ; — 
My name is DEATH : the last, best friend 
am I ! 



EPILOGUE. 



L 

Is this the Nuptial Song .? with brow severe 
Perchance the votaries of the world will say : 

Are these fit strains for Royal ears to hear .' 
What man is he who thus assorts his lay, 

And dares pronounce with inauspicious breath, 

In Hymeneal verse, the name of Death .? 



Remote from cheerful intercourse of men, 
Hath he indulged his melancholy mood, 

And, like the hermit in some sullen den, 
Fed his distemper'd mind in solitude .'' 

Or have fanatic dreams distraught his sense. 

That thus he should presume with bold irrev- 
erence .'' 



O Royal Lady, ill they judge the heart 
That reverently approaches thee to-day, 

And anxious to perform its fitting part. 
Prefers the tribute of this duteous lay ! 

Not with displeasure should his song be read 

Who prays for Heaven's best blessings on thy 
head. 

4. 

He prays that many a year may pass away 
Ere the State call thee from a life of love ; 

Vex'd by no public cares, that day by day 
Thy heart the dear domestic joys may prove. 

And gracious Heaven thy chosen nuptials bless 

With all a Wife's and all a Mother's happiness. 

5. 

He prays that, for thine own and England's sake, 
The Virtues and the Household Charities 

Their favor'd seat beside thy hearth may take ; 
That when the Nation thither turn their eyes, 



THE LAY OF THE LAUREATE. 



785 



There the conspicuous model they may find 
Of all which makes the bliss of human-kind. 



He prays that, when the sceptre to thy hand 
In due succession shall descend at length, 

Prosperity and Peace may bless the Land, 
Truth be thy counsellor, and Heaven 
strength ; 

That every tongue thy praises may proclaim, 

And every heart in secret bless thy name. 



thy 



He prays that thou mayst strenuously maintain 
The wise laws handed down from sire to son ; 

He prays that, under thy auspicious reign. 
All may be added, which is left undone, 

To mjake the realm, its polity complete. 

In all things happy, as in all things great ; — 



That, through the will of thy enlighten'd mind, 
Brute man may be to social life reclaim'd ; 

That, in compassion for forlorn mankind. 
The saving Faith may widely be proclaim'd 

Through erring lands, beneath thy fostering 
care ; — 

This is his ardent hope, his loyal prayer. 

9. 

In every cottage may thy power be blest 

For blessings which should every where abound ; 
Thy will, beneficent, from East to West, 

May bring forth good where'er the sun goes 
round. 
And thus, through future times, should Char- 
lotte's fame 
Surpass our great Eliza's golden name. 

10. 
Of awful subjects have I dared to sing ; 

Yet surely are they such, as, view'd aright, 
Contentment to thy better mind may bring ; 
A strain which haply may thy heart invite 
To ponder well how to thy choice is given 
A glorious name on Earth, a high reward in 
Heaven. 

11. 

Light strains, though cheerful as the hues of 
spring. 

Would wither like a wreath of vernal flowers ; 
The amaranthine garland which I bring 

Shall keep its verdure through all after-hours; — 
Yea, while the Poet's name is doom'd to live. 
So long this garland shall its fragrance give. 

12. 

" Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown : " 

Thus said the Bard who spake of kingly cares ; 
But calmly may the Sovereign then lie down 
When grateful Nations guard him with their 
prayers : 

99 



How sweet a sleep awaits the Royal head 
When these keep watch and ward around the bed ' 



L'ENVOY. 



Go, little Book ; from this my solitude, 
I cast thee on the waters : — go thy ways ! 

And if, as I believe, thy vein be good. 

The World will find thee, after many days. 

Be it with thee according to thy worth : — 

Go, little Book ! in faith I send thee forth. 



NOTES 



The " short parenthesis of life " is all. — 62, p. 783. 
I have borrowed this striking expression from Storer. 

All as my chrysom, so my winding sheet ; 
None joy'd my birth, none mourn'd my death to see j 

The short parenthesis of life was sweet, 
But short 3 — what was before, unknown to me, 
And what must follow is the Lord's decree. 

Stoker's Life and Death of Wolsey. 

Let me insert here a beautiful passage from this forgotten 
poet, whose work has been retrieved from oblivion in the Heli- 
conia. Wolsey is speaking. 

More fit the dirige of a mournful quire 
In dull sad notes all sorrows to exceed, 
For him in whom the Prince's love is dead. 

I am the tomb where tliat affection lies, 
That was the closet where it living kept : 

Yet wise men say aifeition never dies ; — 
No, but it turns, and when it long hath slept, 
Looks heavy, like the eye that lovg hath wept. 

O could it die, — that were a restful state ! 

But living, it converts to deadly hate. 



Daughter of Calia, and Speranza hight — 71, p. 783. 

IV. 

Dame Coelia men did her call, as thought 
From Heaven to come, or thither to arise, 
The mother of three daughters well up-brought 
In goodly thews or godly exercise : 
The eldest two, most sober, chaste and wise, 
Fidelia and Speranza virgins were, 
Though spoused yet wanting wedlock's solemnize ; 
But fair Charissa to a lovely fere 
Was linked, and by him had many pledges dear. 

Faery Queen, Book I. c. 10. 



I knew her well as one whose portraiture 

In my dear Master'' s verse forever will endure. — 71, p. 783. 

XII. 

Thus as they gan of sundry things devise, 

Lo ! two most goodly virgins came in place, 

Ylinked arm in arm in lovely wise. 

With countenance demure, and modest grace. 

They numbred equal steps and even pace ; 

Of which the eldest, that Fidelia hight, 

Like sunny beams threw from her chrystal face. 



786 



FUNERAL SONG. 



That could have dazed the rash beholder's sight, 
And round about her head did shine like Heaven's light. 

XIII. 

She was arrayed all in lilly white. 
And in her right hand bore a cup of gold, 
With wine and water filled up to the height, 
In which a serpent did himself enfold, 
That horror made to all that did behold ; 
But she no whit did change her constant mood ; 
And in her other hand she fast did hold 
A book, that was both signed and sealed with blood, 
Wherein dark things were writ, hard to be understood. 

XIV. 

Her younger sister, that Speranza hight, 
Was clad in blue that her beseemed well : 
Not all so chearful seemed she of sight 
As was her sister; whether dread did dwell, 
Or anguish in her heart, is hard to tell. 
Upon her arm a silver anchor lay. 
Whereon she leaned ever, as befell : 
And ever up to Heaven as she did pray. 
Her stedfast eyes were bent, ne swarved other way. 

Faery Queen, Book I, c. I( 



Her sister, too, the same divinest page 
Taught me to know. — 72, p. 783. 

XXX. 

She was a woman in her freshest age. 
Of wondrous beauty, and of bounty rare. 
With goodly grace and comely personage, 
That was on earth not easy to compare, 
Full of great love. 

Faery Q,ueen, Book I. c. 10. 



" Earth'' s melancholy map." — 73, p. 783. 

A part how small of the terraqueous globe 
Is tenanted by man ! the rest a waste ; 
Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands. 
Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings and death ! 
Such is Earth's melancholy map ! but far 
More sad ! this earth is a true map of man. 

Young, Mght 1, I. 285. 

It is the moral rather than the physical map which ought to 
excite this mournful feeling, — but such contemplations should 
excite our hope and our zeal also ; for how large a part of all 
existing evil, physical as well as moral, is remediable by 
human means ! 



FOR THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES 



In its summer pride array'd, 
Low our Tree of Hope is laid ! 
Low it lies : — in evil hour, 
Visiting the bridal bower, 
Death hath levell'd root and flower. 
Windsor, in thy sacred shade, 
(This the end of pomp and power !) 
Have the rites of death been paid : 
Windsor, in thy sacred shade 
Is the Flower of Brunswick laid ! 

Ye whose relics rest around, 
Tenants of this funeral ground ! 
Know ye, Spirits, who is come. 
By immitigable doom 
Summon'd to the untimely tomb ? 
Late with youth and splendor crown'd. 
Late in beauty's vernal bloom. 
Late with love and joyance blest ; 
Never more lamented guest 
Was in Windsor laid to rest. 

Henry, thou of saintly worth, 
Thou, to whom thy Windsor gave 
Nativity, and name, and grave ; 
Thou art in this hallowed earth 
Cradled for the immortal birth ! 
Heavily upon his head 
Ancestral crimes were visited : 



He, in spirit like a child, 
Meek of heart and undefiled, 
Patiently his crown resign'd. 
And fix'd on heaven his heavenly mind, 
Blessing, while he kiss'd the rod, 
His Redeemer and his God. 
Now may he in realms of bliss 
Greet a soul as pure as his. 

Passive as that humble spirit 
Lies his bold dethroner too ; 
A dreadful debt did he inherit 
To his injured lineage due ; 
Ill-starr'd prince, whose martial merit 
His own England long might rue ! 
Mournful was that Edward's fame. 
Won in fields contested well. 
While he sought his rightful claim : 
Witness Aire's unhappy water. 
Where the ruthless Clifford fell ; 
And when Wharfe ran red with slaughter, 
On the day of Towton's field. 
Gathering, in its guilty flood, 
The carnage and the ill-spilt blood 
That forty thousand lives could yield. 
Cressy was to this but sport, 
Poictiers but a pageant vain ; 
And the victory of Spain 
Seem'd a strife for pastime meant, 



FUNERAL SONG. 



787 



And the work of Agincourt 

Only like a tournament ; 

Half the blood which there was spent, 

Had sufficed again to gain 

Anjou and ill-yielded Maine, 

Normandy and Aquitaine, 

And Our Lady's Ancient towers, 

Maugre all the Valois ' powers, 

Had a second time been ours. — 

A gentle daughter of thy line, 

Edward, lays her dust with thine. 

Thou, Elizabeth, art here ; 
Thou to whom all griefs were known ; 
Who wert placed upon the bier 
In happier hour than on the throne. 
Fatal daughter, fatal mother, 
Raised to that ill-omen'd station. 
Father, uncle, sons, and brother, 
Mourn'd in blood her elevation ! 
Woodville, in the realms of bliss, 
To thine offspring thou mayst say, 
Early death is happiness; 
And favor' d in their lot are they 
Who are not left to learn below 
That length of life is length of woe. 
Lightly let this ground be press'd ; 
A broken heart is here at rest. 

But thou, Seymour, with a greeting 
Such as sisters use at meeting, 
Joy, and sympathy, and love. 
Wilt hail her in the seats above. 
Like in loveliness were ye ; 
By a like lamented doom. 
Hurried to an early tomb. 
While together, spirits blest, 
Here your earthly relics rest ; 
Fellow angels shall ye be 
In the angelic company. 

Henry, too, hath here his part ; 
At the gentle Seymour's side. 
With his best beloved bride. 
Cold and quiet, here are laid 
The ashes of that fiery heart. 
Not with his tyrannic spirit. 
Shall our Charlotte's soul inherit; 
No, by Fisher's hoary head, — 
By More, the learned and the good, — 
By Katharine's wrongs and Boleyn's blood. 



By the life so basely shed 

Of the pride of Norfolk's line, 

By the axe so often red. 

By the fire with martyrs fed, 

Hateful Henry, not with thee 

May her happy spirit be ! 



And here lies one whose tragic name 
A reverential thought may claim ; 
That murder'd Monarch, whom the grave, 
Revealing its long secret, gave 
Again to sight, that we might spy 
His comely face and waking eye ! 
There, thrice fifty years, it lay. 
Exempt from natural decay. 
Unclosed and bright, as if to say, 
A plague, of bloodier, baser birth. 
Than that beneath whose rage he bled, 
Was loose upon our guilty earth ; — 
Such awful warning from the dead 
Was given by that portentous eye ; 
Then it closed eternally. 



Ye whose relics rest around. 
Tenants of this funeral ground ; 
Even in your immortal spheres. 
What fresh yearnings will ye feel, 
When this earthly guest appears ! 
Us slie leaves in grief and tears ; 
But to you will she reveal 
Tidings of old England's weal; 
Of a righteous war pursued. 
Long, through evil and through good. 
With unshaken fortitude ; 
Of peace, in battle twice achieved; 
Of her fiercest foe subdued, 
And Europe from the yoke reliev'd. 
Upon that Brabantlne plain ! 
Such the proud, the virtuous story. 
Such the great, the endless glory 
Of her father's splendid reign ! 
He who wore the sable mail 
Might, at this heroic tale. 
Wish himself on earth again. 

One who reverently, for thee. 
Raised the strain of bridal verse. 
Flower of Brunswick ! mournfully 
Lays a garland on thy hearse. 



788 A VISION OF JUDGMENT; DEDICATION; PREFACE. 



Tiuion of 3titfsmtnt. 



TO THE KING. 



Sir, 



Only to Your Majesty can the present pub- 
lication with propriety be addressed. As a tribute 
to the sacred memory of our late revered Sover- 
eign, it is my duty to present it to Your Majesty's 
notice ; and to whom could an experiment, which, 
perhaps, may be considered hereafter as of some 
importance in English Poetry, be so fitly inscribed, 
as to the Royal and munificent Patron of science, 
art, and literature ? 

We owe much to the House of Brunswick ; but 
to none of that illustrious House more than to 
Your Majesty, under whose government the mili- 
tary renown of Great Britain has been carried to 
the highest point of glory. From that pure glory 
there has been nothing to detract ; the success was 
not more splendid than the cause was good ; and 
the event was deserved by the generosity, the 
justice, the wisdom, and the magnanimity of the 
counsels which prepared it. The same perfect 
integrity has been manifested in the whole admin- 
istration of public affairs. More has been done 
than was ever before attempted, for mitigating 
the evils incident to our stage of society; for 
imbuing the rising race with those sound principles 
of religion on which the welfare of states has its 
only secure foundation; and for opening new 
regions to the redundant enterprise and industry 
of the people. Under Your Majesty's government, 
the Metropolis is rivalling in beauty those cities 
which it has long surpassed in greatness: sciences, 
arts, and letters are flourishing beyond all former 
example ; and the last triumph of nautical dis- 
covery and of the British flag, which had so often 
been essayed in vain, has been accomplished. The 
brightest portion of British history will be that 
which records the improvements, the works, and 
the achievements of the Georgian Age. 

That Your Majesty may long continue to reign 
over a free and prosperous people, and that the 
blessings of the happiest form of government which 
has ever been raised by human wisdom under the 
favor of Divine Providence, may, under Your 
Majesty's protection, be transmitted unimpaired 
to posterity, is the prayer of 

Your Majesty's 

Most dutiful Subject and Servant, 

ROBERT SOUTHEY. 



PREFACE 



THE PRESENT EDITION 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Soon after the publication of this poem, the Rev- 
erend S. Tillbrook, B. D., at that time Fellow of 
Peterhouse, and an old acquaintance of mine, pub- 
lished a pamphlet entitled, 

"HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL REMARKS 

UPON 

THE MODERN HEXAMETERS, 

AND UPON 

MR. SOUTHEY'S VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

' The Hexameter Verse I grant to be a gentleman of an 
ancient house, (so is many an English beggar ;) yet this clime 
of ours he cannot thrive in; our speech is too craggy for him 
to set his plough in ; he goes twitching and hopping, like a 
man running upon quagmires, up the hill in one syllable, and 
down the dale in another, retaining no part of that strictly 
smooth gait which he vaunts himself with among the Greeks 
and Latins.' — Thomas Nash. 

CAMBRIDGE. 

1822." 

The following extracts comprise the most im- 
portant of Mr. Tillbrook's animadversions : — 

" The Laureate says that ' if it be difficult to 
reconcile the public to a new tune in verse, it is 
plainly impossible to reconcile them to a new pro- 
nunciation.' But why not attempt to teach this 
tune on new principles ? why leave the public with- 
out a guide to the accents and divisions of the 
Georgian hexameter ? This should have been done 
either by — borrowing from the Latin rules — adopt- 
ing those of the early prosodians — or by inventing 
a new metronome. It is difficult to recommend, 
much more to establish, any theoretical attempt 
upon individual authority, because practical expe- 
rience is the best and ultimate test of success. 
After repeated trials, the enterprise in question has 
uniformly failed, and experience has shown that 
all modern imitations of the epic are unworthy of 
becoming denizens among our English metres. 
The system attempted by the Laureate is profess- 
edly an imitation of the ancient systems; but 



PREFACE TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



789 



every copy is good or bad as it resembles or differs 
from its original. In defence of his enterprise, 
Mr. Southey should not have contented himself 
with a bare exposition of the measures of his verse, 
but should have actually noted the cassuras, ac- 
cented the syllables, and divided the feet. In mat- 
ters of rhythm and sound, the untried ear cannot 
always catch the precise meaning of the musician 
or poet, especiall}'^ where an original air is turned 
into a variation ; and this seems precisely the case 
between the modernized and original epic, the dif- 
ference acknowledged by the Laureate being the 
variation alluded to. 

" A table, exhibiting the varieties which Mr. S. 
has adopted, and their agreement or disagreement 
with the legitimate hexameter, should have been 
drawn out. Critical experience has long ago 
selected and established certain canons for the 
iambic, sapphic, alcaic, and other metres ; and 
Greek or Latin verses constructed according to 
these laws invariably excel both in rhythm and 
melody. — There are in the Vision of Judgment 
parts which may charm and delight, but they do 
so from no metrical effect. The reader (notwith- 
standing the Laureate's caution) soon finds him- 
self in a tangled path, and gets bewildered for 
want of those guides which lead him smoothly 
through the Siege of Troy. But if he travel far 
with the Muse of modern epic, he will have little 
running, frequent baitings, some stumbling and 
jostling, and now and then find the good lady 
gaping, or sitting crosslegged in the midst of a 
barbarous rabble of monosyllabic particles. 
***** 

" But it will be easier to show the comparative 
and probable sources of excellence or failure in 
the composition of the modern hexameter, by an 
analysis of the Greek and Latin languages, com- 
pared as to their literal and syllabic relations. To 
effect this, four separate tables have been drawn, 
containing the component parts and totals of eight 
verses of hexametrical dimensions, taken severally 
from the Iliad, ^Eneid, Vision of Judgment, and 
from a poem by Schiller. The divisions are cal- 
culated to show the totals of words, syllables, con- 
sonants, vowels, diphthongs, letters, and variety of 
final syllables. It will be seen from this tabular 
exposition that the Greek and Latin are nearly 
analogous, except that the balance of polysyllables 
inclines to the former. The diphthongs are more 
and the consonants fewer, and the total of letters 
and words also is less with the Greek. The con- 
clusion therefore is, that the euphony, and syllabic 
power of speech, must likewise be on the side of 
the Greeks. 

" In the English scale, the number of monosylla- 
bles IS five times as great as in either of the two 
ancient languages, and more than twice as great 
as in the German. The English consonants are 
very nearly double those of the Greek or Latin, 
and the total number of words bears nearly the 
same ratio both to the Greek and Latin, viz. tioo 
to one. By necessity of grammar, a large pro- 
portion of these words consists of monosyllables 



and expletives. Neither the consonants in the 
German, nor the total of letters, is so numerous 
as in the English, and the same relation holds 
between the final varieties of these two languages. 
" It has been before remarked that the Teutonic 
hexameter may be rendered somewhat superior to 
the English. This superiority is in a great meas- 
ure to be attributed to the smaller aggregate of 
consonants and monosyllables which distinguish 
the German vocabulary. But the unprejudiced 
reader will draw what inferences he pleases from 
the comparative powers of each language, and reg- 
ulate his decision according to the apparent truth 
or falsehood of the whole of the argument and 
evidence. 

" ' Excludat jurgia Finis.' 

" In taking leave of this question, the Writer 
again assures Mr. Southey of his high regard both 
for the private and literary life of the Laureate of 
the present age. The pen which has traced these 
Remarks, if it be not that of a ready writer, would 
fain be considered as that of a humble critic, actu- 
ated by no other motives than those of friendly 
discussions, and a desire to preserve the Epic 
Muse of Greece and Latium free from the barbar- 
ities of modern imitation. 

" It is against the metre — the metrical association 
and arrangement — against the innovation, not the 
innovator, that the writer protests ; the merits or 
demerits therefore of the Vision of Judgment, as a 
poem, he leaves to abler reviewers and to posterity^ 
It will be read and admired by a few persons, just 
as the attempts of other Hexametrists have been. 
The experiments of Trissino, Sydney, and Spenser, 
produced a short-lived sensation, which perished 
with the sympathetic caprice of the times. The 
reputation of Mr. Southey may, even in the Geor- 
gian age, produce a parallel effect ; but, independent 
of the probable causes of the failure already stated, 
the poem itself, being an occasional one, is on that 
account, also, more liable to forgetfulness. 
* * * * 

" Via t7'ita, via t7ita, is therefore as good a password 
for the aspirant who would climb Parnassus, as for 
the humble pilgrim who plods along the beaten 
path of Prose. There is no necessity, indeed no 
apology, for attempting to revive those misshapen 
forms of Poetry, — those ' immodulata poemata,' 
which have long ago been laid to rest, shrouded 
in cobwebs and buried in the dust. Ennius may 
be pardoned his imaginary metempsychosis, his 
Somnia Pythagorea, and assumption of the title 
'■Mter Hovierus,' but the world would be loath 
now-a-days to allow the same privileges to an 
English poet. 

" Had there been any good chance of imitating 
the classic hexameter, surely he (who by distinction 
among our Poets was called ' divine ') must have 
succeeded in the enterprise. Spenser, however, 
relinquished the hopeless task ; and it is to be re- 
gretted that his example, in this respect at least^ 
has not acted preventively upon his worthy suc- 
cessor. 



790 



PREFACE TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 



" In the farrago of metrical trash which has been 
extracted from the modern hexametrists of different 
countries, what is there worthy of example or re- 
membrance, either in the subjects or execution of 
their performances ? Human nature is indeed so 
fickle in her intellectual operations, that the most 
absurd and impracticable speculations have ever 
found partisans ready to advocate their truth, and 
embark in the execution of them. But the career 
of such preposterous enterprises can neither be 
prosperous nor long. To wage war against the 
opinions of the wise and experienced, is to challenge 
the fate of poor Dick Tinto, who after all his ill- 
spent time and labor, found himself ' patronized 
by one or two of those judicious persons who make 
a virtue of being singular, and of pitching their own 
opinions against those of the world in matters of 
taste and criticism.' Ever since the Republic of 
Letters was established, innovators of one kind or 
other have endeavored to supplant the sterling 
writers, not only of Greece and Rome, but of every 
civilized country. But when ingenuity or imita- 
tion can be foisted upon true scholarship, as the 
representative of original genius, the taste of the 
public must either be sadly perverted to relish 
what is bad, or be already satiated with that which 
is good. 

" There can now be little, or rather no honor 
conferred upon our own legitimate Muse, by an at- 
tempt to naturalize a bastard race of metre, which 
has been banished from the most enlightened coun- 
tries of Europe. Within the last two centuries, lit- 
erature, arms, and commerce have extended our 
vernacular tongue over a vast portion of the globe, 
and it is spreading still further. On this, if on no 
other account, it behoves the guardians of our 
native quarry to see that it maintains its proper ex- 
cellence, and to recommend, as worthy of imitation, 
only such standard works of art or science, as may 
have received the repeated sanction of the scholar 
and critic. The arts are naturally imitative ; they 
will, however, sometimes, from mistaken judgment 
or self-confidence, undertake to copy that which is 
inimitable. We cannot, under any coloring or 
disguise, mistake the Muse of modern hexameter 
for the original Calliope of Homer or Virgil. 

" In the preface to the Vision of Judgment, Mr. 
Southey assures us that a desire to realize one of 
the hopes of his youth was one among the leading 
causes of his enterprise : to this motive might have 
been superadded the conscientious discharge of 
an official duty, and the public expression of his 
loyalty and attachment to the reigning sovereign. 
With these, or such like considerations, the im- 
aginary apotheosis of our late revered monarch 
seems to have cooperated in the plan and ex 
ecution of a poem, which cannot fail of giving 
offence to many serious and well-meaning persons. 
To dive into the mysteries of heaven, and to 
pronounce upon the eternal condition of departed 
kings or others, is unquestionably a bold, if not 
a presumptuous undertaking. But when this is 
carried on under the bias of political feelings, there 
is greater danger of its becoming erroneous, or 
digressing into what some might call impiety. It 



must, however, be remembered, that the ' Vision 
of Judgment' is neither more nor less than a 
poet's dream. Objections of a similar kind might 
apply to Dante or Milton, and to the subjects of 
their great labors, and in short to all scriptural 
themes. It would be difficult, perhaps, to deter- 
mine in what manner the scenes of the Vision of 
Judgment could have been unobjectionably por- 
trayed. But there is no reason why a gentleman 
and scholar, like Mr. SQ.uthey, ( who cannot, any 
more than the rest of the world, be deemed 
infallible,) should be loaded with abuse which 
would have been hardly justifiable had he pub- 
lished a series of poems as licentious as many of 
recent notoriety. No wonder, therefore, that the 
offended pride of the Laureate turns in disgust 
from the counsel of such unworthy rivals. When 
the civilities of learning cease to be cherished, 
admonition will become nauseous, and criticism 
will lose half its usefulness. It is, however, to 
be hoped, that no dispassionate inquirer will be 
ranked, even by the Laureate, among the Dun- 
eery of the Georgian age. At all events, the Writer 
of the present remarks had rather accept an humble 
place among those whom King James has styled 
' the docile bairnes of knowledge.' The Writer's 
stock in trade as a critic is poor and homely ; a 
little recollection of the rules of prosody, accent, 
and rhythm, imprinted upon early memory by rod 
or ferula; an Etonian master and grammar — rem- 
nants of scanning and proving — an ordinary pair 
of ears, and lungs no better than those of other 
folks. These scanty materials have been exercised 
in the examination of the ' Vision of Judgment,' 
and conclusions very different from those of its 
author have been deduced. And when the reader 
has perused the following eulogy by the Laureate 
upon the excellence of our blank verse, he will 
surely ask himself why that gentleman did not 
apply it in the composition of a poem, which, from 
the nature of its argument, embraced the terrible 
and sublime as well as the tender and pathetic. 
' Take our blank verse for all in all, in all its 
gradations, from the elaborate rhythm of Milton, 
down to its loosest structure in the early drama- 
tists, and I believe that there is no measure com- 
parable to it, either in our own or any other 
language, for might, and majesty, and flexibility, 
and compass.' A host of authors might be brought 
in support of this panegyric upon English blank 
verse ; but as it is against the modern hexame- 
trists that the Writer has waged a somewhat long 
(though, as he trusts, a friendly) warfare, he will 
now draw his last shaft from the quiver of honest 
old Puttenham, and when he has shot it, will hang 
up his bow and shake hands with the Laureate. 
' Now, peradventure, with us Englishmen, it be 
somewhat too late to admit a new invention of 
feete and times, that our forefathers never used, 
nor ever observed till this day, either in their meas- 
ures or in their pronunciation, and perchance will 
seem in us a presumptuous part to attempt; con- 
sidering also it would be hard to find many men to 
like one man's choice, in the limitation of times 
and quantities of words, with which not one, but 



PREFACE TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



791 



every eare, is to be pleased and made a particular 
judge ; being most truly said that a multitude, or 
commonality, is hard to please and easy to offend. 
And therefore I intend not to proceed any further 
in this curiositye, than to shew the small subtility 
that any other hath yet done, and not by imitation, 
but by observation; not to the intent to have \iput 
ill execution in our vulgar Foesie, but to be pleas- 
antly scanned upon, as are all novelties so frivo- 
lous and ridiculous as it.' " 



After thanking Mr. Tillbrook for sending me his 
pamphlet, and for explaining Avhat I should else 
have been sorry to notice, that it contained no inti- 
mation of the personal acquaintance and mutual 
good will which had so long subsisted between us, 
I addressed to him the following cursory remarks 
|in reply to his observations : — 

" The greater part of your Treatise is employed 
in very ably and pleasantly supplying the defi- 
ciencies of my Preface, in points wherein it was 
necessarily deficient, because I was out of reach of 
materials. The remarks which are directed against 
my own hexameters appear to me altogether ill 
founded. You try the measure by Greek and Latin 
prosody : you might as well try me by the Laws 
of Solon, or the Twelve Tables. I have distinctly 
stated that the English hexameter is not constructed 
upon those canons, but bears the same relation to 
the ancient, that our heroic line does to the iambic 
verse. I have explained the principle of adaptation 
which I had chosen, and by that principle the 
measure ought to be judged. 

" You bring forward arguments which are de- 
rived from music. But it by no means follows that 
a principle which holds good in music, should there- 
fore be applicable to metre. The arts of music 
and poetry are essentially distinct; and I have had 
opportunities of observing that very skilful musi- 
cians may be as utterly without ear for metre, as I 
am myself without ear for music. If these ar- 
guments were valid, they would apply to the Ger- 
man hexameter as well as to the English ; but the 
measure is as firmly established among the Germans 
as blank verse is with us, and, having been sanc- 
tioned by the practice of their best poets, can never 
become obsolete so long as the works of Voss, and 
Goethe, and Schiller are remembered, that is, as 
long as the language lasts. 

" Twice you have remarked upon the length of 
the verse as occasioning a difficulty in reading it 
aloud. Surely you have taken up this argument 
with little consideration, because it lay upon the 
surface. It is doubly fallacious : first, upon your 
own principle ; for if the English verse is not 
isochronous with the Latin, it must be shorter; 
and, secondly, because the breath is regulated in 
reading by the length of the sentence, not by that 
of the verse. 

" Why did you bring against my trochee in the 
fifth place an argument just as applicable to the 
ispondaic verse, and which, indeed, is only saying 
that a versifier who writes without any regard to 



effect, may produce very bad verses .? You might 
as well object to the Alexandrine that it admits of 
twelve monosyllables. And how is it that you, who 
know Glaramara so well, should have made me 
answerable for a vowel dropped at the press ? 

" You have dealt fairly in not selecting single 
lines, which, taken singly, would be unfavorable 
specimens ; but methinks you should have exhib- 
ited one extract of sufficient length to show the 
effect of the measure. I certainly think that any 
paragraph of the poem containing from ten lines up- 
ward would confute all the reasoning which you 
have advanced, or which any one could adduce 
against the experiment. 

" But I have done. It is a question de gustibus, 
and therefore interminable. The proof of the 
pudding must be in the eating ; and not all the rea- 
soning in the world will ever persuade any one that 
the pudding which he dislikes is a good pudding, 
or that the pudding which pleases his palate and 
agrees with his stomach can be a bad one. I am 
glad that I have made the experiment, and quite 
satisfied with the result. The critics who write 
and who talk are with you ; so, I dare say, are the 
whole posse of schoolmasters. The women, the 
young poets, and the docile hairns are with me. 

"I thank you for speaking kindly and consider- 
ately concerning the subject of the Vision, and 
remain, 

" My dear Sir, 

*' Yours very truly, 



" Robert Southey. 



"■ KeswicK; 17th June, 1822. 



ORIGINAL PREFACE. 

I. 

Having long been of opinion that an English 
metre might be constructed in imitation of the 
ancient hexameter, which would be perfectly con- 
sistent with the character of our language, and 
capable of great richness, variety, and strength, I 
have now made the experiment. It will have 
some disadvantages to contend with, both among 
learned and unlearned readers ; among the former 
especially, because, though they may divest them- 
selves of all prejudice against an innovation, which 
has generally been thought impracticable, and 
might even be disposed to regard the attempt fa- 
vorably, nevertheless they will, from inveterate 
association, be continually reminded of rules which 
are inapplicable to our tongue ; and looking for 
quantity where emphasis only ought to be ex- 
pected, will perhaps less easily be reconciled to 
the measure, than those persons who consider it 
simply as it is. To the one class it is necessary 
that I should explain the nature of the verse ; to 
the other, the principle of adaption which has 
been followed. 

First, then, to the former, who, in glancing over 
these long lines, will percp-'^'e that they have none 



792 



PREFACE TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



of the customary charac^eristics of English versi- 
fication, being neither marked by rhyme, nor by 
any certain number of syllables, nor by any regu- 
lar recurrence of emphasis throughout the verse. 
Upon closer observation, they will find that (with 
a very few exceptions) there is a regular recur- 
rence of emphasis in the last five syllables of every 
line, the first and the fourth of those syllables 
being accented, the others not. These five sylla- 
bles form two of the feet by which the verse is 
measured, and which are called dactyls and tro- 
chees, the dactyl consisting of one long syllable 
and two short ones, as exemplified in the name of 
Wellington ; the trochee, of one long and one 
short, as exemplified in the name of Nelson. Of 
such feet, there are six in every verse. The four 
first are disposed according to the judgment and 
convenience of the writer ; that is, they may be 
all dactyls or all trochees, or any mixture of both 
in any arrangement ; but the fifth is always a dac- 
tyl, and the sixth always a trochee, except in some 
rare instances, when, for the sake of variety, or 
of some particular effect, a trochee is admitted in 
the fifth place. One more remark will suffice for 
this preliminary explanation. These feet are not 
constituted each by a separate word, but are made 
up of one or more, or of parts of words, the end 
of one and the beginning of another, as may hap- 
pen. A verse of the Psalms, originally pointed 
out by Harris of Salisbury, as a natural and per- 
fect hexameter, will exemplify what has been 
said : — 

Why do the | heathen | rage, and the | people i- 1 -magine a | vain thing ? 

This, I think, will make the general construc- 
tion of the metre perfectly intelligible to persons 
who may be unacquainted with the rules of Latin 
versification; those, especially, who are still to be 
called gentle readers, in this ungentle age. But it 
is not necessary to understand the principle upon 
which the verse is constructed, in order to feel the 
harmony and power of a metrical composition; — 
if it were, how few would be capable of enjoying 
poetry ! In the present case, any one who reads 
a page of these hexameters aloud, with just that 
natural regard to emphasis which the sense of the 
passage indicates, and the usual pronunciation of 
the words requires, will perceive the rhythm, and 
find no more difficulty in giving it its proper effect, 
than in reading blank verse. This has often been 
tried, and with invariable success. If, indeed, it 
were not so, the fault would be in the composition, 
not in the measure. 

The learned reader will have perceived, by what 
has already been said, that in forming this English 
measure in imitation, rather than upon the model 
of the ancient hexameter, the trochee has been 
substituted for the spondee, as by the Germans. 
This substitution is rendered necessary by the 
nature of oar pronunciation, which is so rapid, 
that I believe the whole vocabulary of the language 
does not afford a single instance of a genuine 
native * spondee. The spondee, of course, is not 

* And only one of foreign derivation, which is the word 
Egypt. Some readers, who have never practised metrical 



excluded from the verse ; and where it occurs, the 
effect, in general, is good. This alteration waa 
necessary ; but it is not the only one which, upon 
mature consideration and fair trial, it has been 
deemed expedient to make. If every line were to 
begin with a long syllable, the measure would 
presently appear exotic and forced, as being di- 
rectly opposite to the general character of all our 
dignified metres, and indeed to the genius of the 
English language. Therefore the license has been 
taken of using any foot of two or three syllables 
at the beginning of a line ; and sometimes, though 
less frequently, in the second, third, or fourth 
place. The metre, thus constructed, bears the 
same analogy to the ancient hexameter that our 
ten-syllable or heroic line does to iambic verse ; 
iambic it is called, and it is so in its general move- 
ment ; but it admits of many other feet, and would, 
in fact, soon become insupportably monotonous 
without their frequent intermixture. 

11. 

Twenty years ago, when the rhythmical romance 
of Thalaba was sent from Portugal to the press, I 
requested, in the preface to that poem, that the 
author might not be supposed to prefer the rhythm 
in which it was written, abstractedly considered, to 
the regular blank verse, the noblest measure, in 
his judgment, of which our admirable language is 
capable : it was added, that the measure which was 
there used, had, in that instance, been preferred, 
because it suited the character of the poem, being, 
as it were, the Arabesque ornament of an Arabian 
tale. Notwithstanding this explicit declaration, 
the duncery of that day attacked me as if 1 had 
considered the measure of Thalaba to be in itself 
essentially and absolutely better than blank verse. 
The duncery of this day may probably pursue the 
same course on the present occasion. With that 
body I wage no war, and enter into no explana- 
tions. But to the great majority of my readers, 
who will take up the book without malevolence, 
and, having a proper sense of honor in themselves, 
will believe the declarations of a writer whose 
veracity they have no reason to doubt, I will state 
what are the defects, and what the advantages, of 
the metre which is here submitted to their judg- 
ment, as they appear to me after this fair experi- 
ment of its powers. 

It is not a legitimate inference, that because tlie 
hexameter has been successfully introduced in the 
German language, it can be naturalized as well in 
English. The English is not so well adapted for 
it, because it does not abound in like manner with 
polysyllabic words. The feet, therefore, must too 
frequently be made up of monosyllables, and of 
distinct words, whereby the verse is resolved and 
decomposed into its component feet, and the feet 
into their component syllables, instead of being 

composition in their own language, may perhaps doubt this, 
and suppose that such words as twilight and evening are spon- 
daic ; but they only appear so when they are pronounced 
singly, the last syllable then hanging upon the tongue, and 
dwelling on the ear, like the last stroke of the clock. Used ^ 
in combination, they become pure trochees. 



PREFACE TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



793 



articulated and inosculated throughout, as in the 
German, still more in the Greek, and most in the 
Latin measure. This is certainly a great defect.* 
From the same cause the cmsura generally coin- 
cides with a pause in the sentence ; but, though 
this breaks the continuity of the verse, it ought, 
perhaps, rather to be considered as an advantage ; 
for the measure, like blank verse, thus acquires a 
greater variety. It may possibly be objected, that 
the four first feet are not metrical enough in their 
effect, and the two last too much so. I do not feel 
the objection ; but it has been advanced by one, 
whose opinion upon any question, and especially 
upon a question of poetry, would make me distrust 
my own, where it happened to be different. Lastly, 
tJie double-ending may be censured as double 
rhymes used to be ; but that objection belongs to 
the duncery. 

On the other hand, the range of the verse being 
from thirteen syllables to seventeen, it derives 
from that range an advantage in the union of 
variety with regularity, which is peculiar to itself 
The capability which is thus gained, may perhaps 
be better appreciated by a few readers from their 
own sense of power, than it is exemplified in this 
experiment. 

I do not, however, present the English hex- 
ameter as something better than our established 
metres, but as something difterent, and which 
therefore, for that reason, may sometimes advan- 
tageously be used. Take our blank verse, for all 
in all, in all its gradations, from the elaborate 
rhythm of Milton, down to its loosest structure in 
the early dramatists, and I believe that there is no 
measure comparable to it, either in our own or in 
any other language, for might and majesty, and 
flexibility and compass. And this is affirmed, not 
as the predilection of a young writer, or the pref- 
erence of one inexperienced in the difficulties of 
composition, but as an opinion formed and con- 
firmed during the long and diligent study, and the 
long and laborious practice of the art. But I am 
satisfied also that the English hexameter is a legit- 
imate and good measure, with which our literature 
ought to be enriched. 

" I first adventure ; follow me who list ! " 



III. 

I am well aware that the public are peculiarly 
intolerant of such innovations ; not less so than 
the populace used to be of any foreign fashion, 
whether of foppery or convenience. Would that 
this literary intolerance were under the influence 

■ It leads also to this inconvenience, that the English line 
greatly exceeds the ancient one in literal length, so that it is 
actually too long for any page, if printed in types of the 
[ordinary proportion to the size of the hook, whatever that may 
be. The same inconvenience was formerly felt in that fine 
measure of the Elizabethan age, the seven-footed couplet ; 
Iwhich, to the diminution of its powers, was, for that reason, 
divided into quatrains, (the pause generally falling upon the 
eighth syllable,) and then converted into the common ballad 
stanza. The hexameter cannot be thus divided, and therefore 
must generally look neither like prose nor poetry. This is 
noticed as merely a dissight, and of no moment, our poetry not 
being, like that of the Chinese, addressed to the eye instead of 
the ear. 

100 



of a saner judgment, and regarded the morals 
more than the manner of a composition ; the spirit 
rather than the form ! Would that it were directed 
against those monstrous combinations of horrors 
and mockery, lewdness and impiety, with which 
English poetry has, in our days, first been pol- 
luted ! For more than half a century English 
literature had been distinguished by its moral 
purity, the eflfect, and, in its turn, the cause of an 
improvement in national manners. A father might, 
without apprehension of evil, have put into the 
hands of his children any book which issued from 
the press, if it did not bear, either in its title-page 
or frontispiece, manifest signs that it was intended 
as furniture for the brothel. There was no dan- 
ger in any work which bore the name of a re- 
spectable publisher, or was to be procured at any 
respectable bookseller's. This was particularly 
the case with regard to our poetry. It is now 
no longer so; and woe to those by whom the 
offence cometh ! The greater the talents of the 
offender, the greater is his guilt, and the more 
enduring will be his shame. Whether it be that 
the laws are in themselves unable to abate an evil 
of this magnitude, or whether it be that they are 
remissly administered, and with such injustice that 
the celebrity of an offender serves as a privilege 
whereby he obtains impunity, individuals are 
bound to consider that such pernicious works 
would neither be published nor written, if they 
were discouraged as they might, and ought to be, 
by public feeling; every person, therefore, who 
purchases such books, or admits them into his 
house, promotes the mischief, and thereby, as far 
as in him lies, becom.es an aider and abettor of 
the crime. 

The publication of a lascivious book is one of 
the worst offences that can be committed against 
the well-being of society. It is a sin, to the con- 
sequences of which no limits can be assigned, and 
those consequences no after-repentance in the 
writer can counteract. Whatever remorse of con- 
science he may feel when his hour comes (and 
come it must !) will be of no avail. The poig- 
nancy of a death-bed repentance cannot cancel 
one copy of the thousands which are sent abroad ; 
and as long as it continues to be read, so long is he 
the pander of posterity, and so long is he heaping 
up guilt upon his soul in perpetual accumulation. 
These remarks are not more severe than the 
offence deserves, even when applied to those 
immoral writers who have not been conscious of 
any evil intention in their writings, who would 
acknowledge a little levity, a little warmth of 
coloring, and so forth, in that sort of language 
with which men gloss over their favorite vices, 
and deceive themselves. What, then, should be 
said of those for whom the thoughtlessness and 
inebriety of wanton youth can no longer be 
pleaded, but who have written in sober manhood 
and v>^ith deliberate purpose.? —Men of diseased* 

* Summi ■poetm in omni poetarum scBCulo viri ficerunt probi : 
in nostris id vidimus et videmus ; neque alius est error a ventate 
longius qudm magna ingenia magnis necessario corrumpi vitiis. 
Sccuudo plerique posthubent pnmiim^ hi vialignitate, illi igno- 



794 



PREFACE TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



hearts and depraved imaginations, who, forming a 
system of opinions to suit their own unhappy 
course of conduct, have rebelled against the holiest 
ordinances of human society, and hating that 
revealed, religion which, with all their efforts and 
bravadoes, they are unable entirely to disbelieve, 
labor to make others as miserable as themselves, 
by infecting them with a moral virus that eats into 
the soul ! The school which they have set up may 
properly be called the Satanic school ; for though 
their productions breathe the spirit of Belial in 
their lascivious parts, and the spirit of Moloch in 
those loathsome images of atrocities and horrors 
which they delight to represent, they are more 
especially characterized by a Satanic spirit of 
pride and audacious impiety, which still betrays 
the wretched feeling of hopelessness wherewith it 
is allied. 

This evil is political as well as moral, for indeed 
moral and political evils are inseparably connected. 
Truly has it been affirmed by one of our ablest and 
clearest* reasoners, that " the destruction of gov- 
ernments may be proved and deduced from the 
general corruption of the subjects' manners, as a 
direct and natural cause thereof, by a demonstra- 
tion as certain as any in the mathematics." There 
is no maxim more frequently enforced by Machia- 
velli, than that where the manners of a people are 
generally corrupted, there the government cannot 
long subsist, — a truth which all history exempli- 
fies; and there is no means whereby that corrup- 
tion can be so surely and rapidly diffused, as by 
poisoning the waters of literature. 

Let rulers of the state look to this in time ! But, 
to use the words of South, if " our physicians 
think the best way of curing a disease is to pamper 
it, the Lord in mercy prepare the kingdom to suf- 
fer what He by miracle only can prevent! " 

No apoloffy is offered for these remarks. The 
subject led to them ; and the occasion of intro- 
ducing them was willingly taken, because it is the 
duty of every one, whose opinion may have any 
influence, to expose the drift and aim of those 
writers who are laboring to subvert the foundations 
of human virtue and of human happiness. 



rantih ; et quum aliqiiem inveniunt styli morumquc vitiis notatum, 
nee inficetum tamen nee in libris edendis parcum, sum stipant, 
prcedicant, occupant, amplectuntur. Si mores aliquantulum vcllct 
corrigere, si stylum curare paululuw, sifervido ingenio tempe- 
rare, si moroe tantlllum interponere, turn ivgcns nescio quid et 
vcri epicum, quadraginta annos natus, procuderet. Ignorant 
vero fehriculis non indicari vires, impatientiam ab imhecillitate 
nan differre ; ignorant a levi homine et inconstantc multa fortasse 
scribi posse plusquam imediocna, nihil compositum, arduum, 
(Eternum. — Savagius Landor, De Cultu atque Usu Latini Ser- 
monis, p. 197. 

This essay, which is full of fine critical remarks and striking 
thoughts felicitously expressed, reached me from Pisa, while 
the proof of the present sheet was before me. Of its author, 
(the author of Gebir and Count Julian) I will only say in this 
place, that to have obtained his approbation as a poet, and 
possessed his friendship as a man, will be remembered among 
the honors of my life, when the petty enmities of this genera- 
tion will be forgotten, and its epiiemeral reputations shall 
have passed away. 

* South. 



IV. 

Returning to the point from whence I digressed, 
I am aware not only that any metrical innovation 
which meets the eye of the reader generally pro- 
vokes his displeasure, but that there prevails a 
particular prejudice against the introduction of 
hexameters in our language. The experiment, it 
is alleged, was tried in the Elizabethan age, and 
failed, though made under the greatest possible 
advantages of favor, being encouraged by the great 
patron of literature, Sir Philip Sydney, (in letters, 
as well as in all other accomplishments and all 
virtues, the most illustrious ornament of that illus- 
trious court,) and by the Queen herself 

That attempt failed, because it was made upon a 
scheme which inevitably prevented its success. No 
principle of adaption was tried. Sydney, and his 
followers wished to subject the English pronun- 
ciation to the rules of Latin prosody ; but if it be 
difficult to reconcile the public to a new tune in 
verse, it is plainly impossible to reconcile them to 
a new * pronunciation. There was the further ob- 
stacle of unusual and violent elisions ; and more- 
over, the easy and natural order of our speech was 
distorted by the frequent use of forced hiversions, 
which are utterly improper in an uninflected lan- 
guage. Even if the subjects for the experiment 
had been judiciously chosen, and well composed in 
all other respects, these errors must have been 
fatal ; but Sydney, whose prose is so full of imagery 
and felicitous expressions, that he is one of our 
greatest poets in prose, and whose other poems 
contain beauties of a high order, seems to have 
lost all ear t for rhythm, and all feeling of poetry, 
when he was engaged in metrical experiments. 

What in Sydney's hands was uncouth and diffi- 
cult was made ridiculous by Stanihurst, whose 
translation of the four first books of the ^neid into 
hexameters is one of the most portentous composi- 
tions in any language. No satire could so effectual- 
ly have exposed the measure to derision. The 
specimens which Abraham Fraunce produced were 
free from Stanihurst's eccentricities, and were 
much less awkward and constrained than Sydney's. 
But the mistaken principle upon which the metre 
was constructed was fatal, and would have proved 
so even if Fraunce had possessed greater powers 
of thought and of diction. The failure therefore 
was complete,t and for some generations it seems 

* For example : 

Neither he bears reverence to a prince, nor pity to a beggar. 
That to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased. 
Well may a pastor plain ; but alas ! his plaints be not esteemed, 
oppress'd with ruinoiis conceits by the help of an outcry. 
Despair most tragical clause to a deadly request. 
Hard like a rich marble ; hard but a fair diamond. 

f That the reader may not suppose I have depreciated Syd- 
ney and his followers, by imputing to the faults of their execu-** 
tion a failure which the nature of the metre itself might ex- 
plain, I have added a few fair samples at the end of the poem. 

J A writer in the Censura Literaria (vol. iv. 386 J) has said, 
that hexameters were " much in vogue, owing to the per- 
nicious example of Spenser and Gabriel Harvey." They 
were never in vogue. There is no reason to believe, that 
Spenser ever wrote an English hexameter. Gabriel Harvey's 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



795 



to have prevented any thought of repeating the 
experiment. 

Goldsmith, in later days, delivered * an opinion 
in its favor, observing, that all the feet of the an- 
cient poetry are still found in the versification of 
living languages, and that it is impossible the same 
measure, composed of the same times, should have a 
good effect upon the ear in one language, and a 
bad effect in another. He had seen, he says, sev- 
eral late specimens of English hexameters and 
Sapphics, so happily composed, that they were, in 
all respects, as melodious and agreeable to the ear 
as the works of Virgil and Horace. What these 
specimens t were I have not discovered ; — the sap- 
phics may possibly have been those by Dr. Watts. 
Proofs of the practicability of the hexameter were 
given, about twenty years ago, by some translations 
from the Messiah of Klopstock, which appeared in 



tlie Monthly Magazine , and by an eclogue, en- 
titled The Showman, printed in the second volume 
of the Annual Anthology. These were written 
by my old friend Mr. William Taylor of Norwich, 
the translator of Burger's Lenora ;— of whom it 
would be difficult to say, whether he is more de- 
servedly admired by all who know him for the va- 
riety of his talents, the richness and ingenuity of 
his discourse, and the liveliness of his fancy, or 
loved and esteemed by them for the goodness of 
his heart. In repeating the experiment upon a 
more adequate scale, and upon a subject suited to 
the movement, I have fulfilled one of the hopes 
and intentions of my early life. 



example only incurred ridicule ; and as for Spenser, the only 
specimen which he is known to have produced is tlie following 
Tetrasticon : — 

See ye the blindefoulded pretle God, that feathered arches, 
Of lovers miseries which maketh his bloodie game ? 

Wote ye why his mother with a veile hath covered his face ? 
Trust me, leaste he my love happily chance to behold. 

With so little knowledge of facts, and so little regard to ac- 
curacy, are confident assertions sometimes made ! 

Gabriel Harvey was one of the great promoters of the at- 
tempt ; and Spenser, who was his intimate friend, is believed 
to have sanctioned it by his opinion, — certainly not by his 
example. That great master of versification has left only one 
piece whicli is not written in rhyme. It was printed in Da- 
vison's Poetical Rhapsodic, and is inserted in Warton's Ob- 
servations on the Faery Queen, vol. ii. p. 245. The autlior 
has called it an Iambic Elegy, but neither by any rule of 
quantity, or violence of accentuation, can it be reduced to 
i iambics. 

j * " It is generally supposed," says Goldsmith, " that the 
genius of the English language will not admit of Greek or 
Latin measure ; but this, we apprehend, is a mistake owing to 
the prejudice of education. It is impossible that the same 
i measure, composed of the same times, should have a, good 
effect upon the ear in one language, and a bad eftict in 
another. The truth is, we have been accustomed from our 
infancy to the numbers of English poetry, and the very sound 
jand signification of the words disposes the ear to receive them 
jin a certain manner ; so that its disappointment must be at- 
1 tended with a disagreeable sensation. In imbibing the first 
rudiments of education, we acquire, as it were, anol'lierearfor 
ithe numbers of Greek and Latin poetry ; and this being re- 
served entirely for the sounds and significations of the words 
jthat constitute those dead languages, will not easily accom- 
imodate itself to the sounds of our vernacular tongue, tbou'^h 
^onveyed in the same time and measure. In a word, Latin 
?ind Greek have annexed to them the ideas of the ancient 
measure from which they are not easily disjoined. But we 
will venture to say, this difl^culty might be surmounted by an 
eflbrt of attention and a little practice ; and in that case we 
Should in time bo as well pleased with English, as with Latin 
fiexameters."— Oold^miWs Essays, vol. ii. p. 265. 
I t Mr. Park (Censura Literaria, vol. iv. 233} mentions an 
kttcmpt to revive what he calls "this obsolete whimsey by 
an anonymous writer in 1737, who translated the first and 
Fourth Eclogues of Virgil, &c. into hexametrical verse, and 
prefixed a vindication of his attempt, with directions for the 
■eader's pronunciation." 

I venture to hope that this excellent English scholar will no 
onger think the scheme of writing English hexameters a mere 
A'himsey. Glad indeed should I be, if my old acquaintance 
A'ere to be as well pleased with the present attempt as I have 
)een with some of hia Morning Thoughts and Midnight 
Vlusings. 



I. 



THE TRANCE. 



'TwAS at that sober hour when the light of day is 

receding, 
And from surrounding things the hues wherewith 

day has adorn'd them 
Fade, like the hopes of youth, till the beauty of 

earth is departed : 
Pensive, though not in thought, 1 stood at the win- 
dow, beholding 
Mountain, and lake, and vale; the valley disrobed 

of its verdure ; 
Derwent, retaining yet from eve a glassy reflection 
Where his expanded breast, then still and smooth 

as a mirror. 
Under the woods reposed ; the hills that, calm and 

majestic. 
Lifted their heads in the silent sky, from far Gia- 

ramaia 
Bleacrag, and Maidenmawr, to Grizedal and west- 
er most Withop. 
Dark and distinct they rose. The clouds had 

gather'd above thezn 
High in the middle air, huge, purple, pillowy 

masses, 
Wliile in the west beyond was the last pale tint 

of the twilight; 
Green as a stream in the glen whose pure and 

chrysolite waters 
Flow o'er a schistous bed, and serene as the age 

of the righteous. 
Earth was hush'd and still; all motion and sound 

were suspended : 
Neither man was heard, bird, beast, nor humming 

of insect, 
Only the voice of the Greta, heard only when all 

is in stillness. 
Pensive I stood and alone ; the hour and the scene 

had subdued me ; 
And as I gazed in the west, where Infinity seem'd 

to be open, 
Yearn'd to be free from time, and felt that this 
life is a thraldom. 

Thus as I stood, the bell, which awhile from its 
warning had rested, 



796 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Sent forth its note again, toil, toll, through the si- 
lence of evening. 

'Tis a deep, dull sound, that is heavy and mourn- 
ful at all times, [day 

For it tells of mortality always. But heavier this 

Fell on the conscious ear its deeper and mourn- 
fuler import ; 

Yea, in the heart it sunk ; for this was the day 
when the herald. 

Breaking his wand, shovild proclaim, that George 
our King was departed. 

Thou art released ! I cried : thy soul is deliver'd 
from bondage ! 

Thou who hast lain so long in mental and visual 

darkness, 
Thou art in yonder heaven ! thy place is in light 
and in glory. 

Come, and behold !— me thought a startling 
Voice from the twilight 
Answered ; and therewithal I felt a stroke as of 
lightning. 

With a sound like the rushing of winds, or the 
roaring of waters. 

if from without it came, I knew not, so sudden 
the seizure ; 

Or if the brain itself in that strong flash had ex- 
pended 

All its electric stores. Of strength and of thought 
it bereft me ; 

Hearing, and sight, and sense were gone; and 
when I awaken'd, 

'Twas from a dream of death, in silence and ut- 
termost darkness ; 

Knowing not where or how, nor if I was rapt in 
the body. 

Nor if entranced, or dead. But all around me was 
blackness, 

Utiierly blank and void, as if this ample creation 

Had been blotted out, and I were alone in the 
chaos. 

Yet had I even then a living hope to sustain me 

Under that awful thought, and I strengthen'd my 
spirit with prayer. 

Comfort 1 sought and support, and both were 

found in retiring 
Into that inner world, the soul's strong-hold and 

her kingdom. 
Then came again the Voice ; but then, no longer 

appalling. 
Like the voice of a friend it came : O son of the 

Muses ! 
Be of good heart, it said, and think not that thou 

art abandon' d ; 
For to thy mortal sight shall the Grave unshadow 

its secrets ; 
Such as of yore the Florentine saw. Hell's peril- 
ous chambers 
He who trod in his strength; and the arduous 

Mountain of Penance, 
And the regions of Paradise, sphere within sphere 

intercircled. 
Child of earth, look up ! and behold what passes 

before thee. 



II. 

THE VAULT. 

So by the Unseen comforted, raised I my head in 

obedience. 
And in a vault I found myself placed, arch'd over 

on all sides. 
Narrow and low was that house of the dead. 

Around it were coffins. 
Each in its niche, and palls, and urns, and funeral 

hatchments ; 
Velvets of Tyrian dye, retaining their hues un- 

faded ; 
Blazonry vivid still, as if fresh from the touch of 

the limner; 
Nor was the golden fringe, nor the golden broidery 

tarnish'd. 

Whence came the light whereby that place of 
death was discover'd ? 
For there was there no lamp, whose wondrous 

flame inextinguish'd. 
As with a vital power endued, renewing its sub- 
stance, 

Age after age unchanged, endureth in self-sub- 
sistence ; 

Nor did the cheerful beam of day, direct or re- 
flected. 

Penetrate there. That low and subterra,nean 
chamber 

Saw not the living ray, nor felt the breeze; but 
forever. 

Closely immured, was seal'd in perpetual silence 
and darkness. 

Whence then this lovely light, calm, pure, and 
soft, and cerulean. 

Such as the sapphire sheds.? And whence this 
air that infuses 

Strength while I breathe it in, and a sense of life 
and a stillness. 

Filling the heart with peace, and giving a joy thai 
contents it ? 

Not of the Earth that light ; and these paradisiacal 
breathings. 

Not of the Earth are they ' 

These thoughts were passing within me, 
When there arose around a strain of heavenly 

music, 
Such as the hermit hears when Angels visit his 

slumbers. 
Faintly it first began, scarce heard ; and gentle its 

rising. 
Low as the softest breath that passes in summer at 

evening 
O'er the Eolian strings, felt there when nothing is 

moving. 
Save the thistle-down, lighter than air, and the leaf 

of the aspen. 
Then, as it swell'd and rose, the thrilling melody 

deepen'd ; 
Such, methought, should the music be, which is 

heard in the cloister, 



III. 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



797 



By the sisterhood standing around the beatified 
Virgin, ["open, 

When with her dying eyes she sees the firmament 

Lifts from the bed of dust her arms towards her 
beloved, 

Utters the adorable name, and breathes out her 
soul in a rapture. 

Well could I then believe such legends, and 
well could I credit 

All that the poets old relate of Amphion and Or- 
pheus ; 

How to melodious sounds wild beasts their strength 
have surrender 'd. 

Men were reclaim'd from the woods, and stones in 
harmonious order 

Moved, as their atoms obey'd the mysterious at- 
traction of concord. 

This was a higher strain; a mightier, holier virtue 

Came with its powerful tones. O'ercome by the 
piercing emotion, 
j: Dizzy I grew, and it seem'd as though my soul 
were dissolving. 

How might I bear unmoved such sounds ? For, 
like as the vapors 

Melt on the mountain side, when the sun comes 
forth in his splendor, 

Even so the vaulted roof and whatever was earthly 

Faded away ; the Grave was gone, and the Dead 
was awaken'd. 



Thou, said the Monarch, here ? Thou, Perceval, 

summon'd before me ? — 
Then, as his waken 'd mind to the weal of his 

country reverted. 
What of his son, he ask'd, what course by the 

Prince had been follow'd. 
Right in his Father's steps hath the Regent trod, 

was the answer : 
Firm hath he proved and wise, at a time when 

weakness or error 
Would have sunk us in shame, and to ruin have 

hurried us headlong. 
True to himself hath he been, and Heaven has 

rewarded his counsels. 

Peace is obtain'd then at last, with safety and 
honor ! the Monarch 
Cried, and he clasp'd his hands; —I thank Thee, 
O merciful Father ! 

Now is my heart's desire fulfill'd. 



HI. 
THE AWAKENING. 

Then 1 beheld the King. From a cloud which 

cover'd the pavement 
His reverend form uprose : heavenward his face 

was directed. 
Heavenward his eyes were raised, and heaven- 
ward his arms were extended. 
Lord, it is past ! he cried ; the mist, and the weight, 

and the darkness ; — 
That long and weary night, that long, drear dream 

of desertion. 
Father, to Thee I come ! My days have been 

many and evil ; 
Heavy my burden of care, and grievous hath been 

my affliction. 
Thou hast releas'd me at length. O Lord, in Thee 

have I trusted ; 
Thou art my hope and my strength ! — And then, 

in profound adoration. 
Crossing his arms on his breast, he bent and wor- 

shipp'd in silence. 

Presently one approach'd to greet him with joy- 
ful obeisance ; 

He of whom, in an hour of woe, the assassin be- 
reaved us. 

When his counsels most, and his resolute virtue 
were needed. 



With honor surpassing 
All that in elder time had adorn'd the annals of 

England, 
Peace hath been won by the sword, the faithful 

minister answer'd. 
Paris hath seen once more the banners of England 

in triumph 
Wave within her walls, and the ancient line is 

establish'd. 
While that man of blood, the tyrant, faithless and 

godless, 
Render'd at length the sport, as long the minion 

of Fortune, 
Far away, confined in a rocky isle of the ocean, 
Fights his battles again, and pleased to win in the 

chamber 
What he lost in the field, in fancy conquers his 

conqueror. 
There he reviles his foes, and there the ungrateful 

accuses. 
For his own defaults, the men who too faithfully 

served him ; 
Frets, and complains, and intrigues, and abuses the 

mercy that spared him. 
Oh that my King could have known these things ! 

could have witness'd how England 
Check'd in its full career the force of her enemy's 

empire, 
Singly defied his arms and his arts, and baflied 

them singly. 
Roused from their lethal sleep, with the stirring 

example, the nations, 
And the refluent tide swept him and his fortune 

before it. 
Oh that my King, ere he died, might have seen the 
fruit of his counsels ! 

Nay, it is better thus, the Monarch piously an- 
swer'd ; 

Here I can bear the joy ; it comes as an earnest 
of Heaven. 

Righteous art Thou, O Lord ! long-suffering, but 
sure are thy judgments. 



798 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



IV. 



Then having paused awhile, like one in devotion 

abstracted, 
Earthward his thoughts recurr'd, so deeply the care 

of his country 
Lay in that royal soul reposed ; and he said, Is the 

spirit 
Quell'd which hath troubled the land ? and the 

multitude freed from delusion. 
Know they their blessings at last, and are they 

contented and thankful ? 

Still is that fierce and restless spirit at work, was 

the answer ; 
Still it deceiveth the weak, and inflameth the rash 

and the desperate. 
Even now, I ween, some dreadful deed is preparing ; 
For the Souls of the Wicked are loose, and the 

Powers of Evil 
Move on the wing alert. Some nascent horror they 

look for. 
Be sure ! some accursed conception of filth and of 

darkness 
Ripe for its monstrous birth. Whether France or 

Britain be threaten'd, 
Soon will the issue show ; or if both at once are 

endanger'd. 
For with the ghosts obscene of Robespierre, Dan ton, 

and Hebert, 
Faux and Despard 1 saw, and the band of rabid 

fanatics. 
They whom Venner led, who, rising in frantic 

rebellion. 
Made the Redeemer's name their cry of slaughter 

and treason. 



IV. 



THE GATE OF HEAVEN. 

Thus as he spake, methought the surrounding 
space dilated. 

Overhead 1 beheld the infinite ether ; beneath us 

Lay the solid expanse of the firmament spread 
like a pavement. 

Wheresoever I look'd, there was light and glory 
around me. 

Brightest it seem'd in the East, where the New Je- 
rusalem glitter'd. 

Eminent on a hill, there stood the Celestial City ; 

Beaming afar it shone ; its towers and cupolas 
rising 

High in the air serene, with the brightness of gold 
in the furnace, 

Where on their breadth the splendor lay intense 
and quiescent : 

Part with a fierier glow, and a short, quick, trem- 
ulous motion. 

Like the burning pyropus; and turrets and pinna- 
cles sparkled. 

Playing in jets of light, with a diamond-like glory 
coruscant. 

Groves of all hues of green their foliage inter- 
mingled, 



Tempering with grateful shade the else unendura- 
ble lustre. 

Drawing near, I beheld what over the portal was 
written : 

This is the Gate of Bliss, it said ; through me is 
tlie pa!ssage 

To the City of God, the abode of beatified Spirits. 

V/eariness is not there, nor change, nor sorrow, 
nor parting; 

Time hath no place therein; nor evil. Ye who 
would enter. 

Drink of the Well of Life, and put away all that 
is earthly. 

O'er the adamantine gates an Angel stood on 

the summit. 
Ho! he exclaim'd. King George of England com- 

eth to judgment ! 
Hear, Heaven ! Ye Angels, hear ! Souls of the 

Good a.nd the Wicked, 
Whom it concerns, attend ! Thou, Hell, bring 

forth his accusers ! 
As the sonorous summons was utter'd, the Winds, 

who were waiting. 
Bore it abroad through Heaven ; and Hell, in her 

nethermost caverns, 
Heard, and obey'd in dismay. 

Anon a body of splendor 
Gather'd before the gate, and veil'd the Ineffable 

Presence, 
Which, with a rushing of wings, came down. The 

sentient ether 
Shook with that dread descent, and the solid fir- 
mament trembled. 
Round the cloud were the Orders of Heaven— - 

Archangel and Angel, 
Principality, Cherub and Seraph, Thrones, Domi 

nations, 
Virtues, and Powers. The Souls of the Good, 

whom Death had made perfect, 
Flocking on either hand, a multitudinous army, 
Came at the awful call. In semicircle inclining, 
Tier over tier they took their place : aloft, in the 

distance. 
Far as the sight could pierce, that glorious company 

glisten'd. 
From the skirts of the shining assembly, a silvei 

vapor 
Rose in the blue serene, and moving onward 

deepen'd, 
Taking a denser form ; the while from the opposil 

region 
Heavy and sulphurous clouds roll'd on, and com-j 

pleted the circle. 
There, with the Spirits accurs'd, in congenial dark-j 

ness enveloped, 
Were the Souls of the Wicked, who, wilful in guill 

and in error. 
Chose the service of sin, and now were abiding its 

wages. 
Change of place to them brought no reprieval from 

anguish ; 
They, in their evil thoughts and desires of impotent 

malice, 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



709 



Envy, and hate, and blasphemous rage, and remorse 
unavailing, [tion, — 

Carried a Hell within, to which all outer afflic- 

So it abstracted the sense — might be deem'd a 
remission of torment. 

At the edge of the cloud, the Princes of Darkness 
were marshall'd : 

Dimly descried within were wings and truculent 
faces ; 

And in the thick obscure there struggled a mutinous 
uproar. 

Railing, and fury, and strife, that the whole deep 
body of darkness 

Roll'd like a troubled sea, with a wide and a man- 
ifold motion. 



THE ACCUSERS. 

On the cerulean floor, by that dread circle sur- 
rounded. 

Stood the soul of the King alone. In front was 
the Presence 

Veil'd with excess of light; and behind was the 
blackness of darkness. 

Then might be seen the strength of holiness, then 
was its triumph ; 

Calm in his faith he stood, and his own clear con- 
science upheld him. 

When the trumpet was blown, and the Angel 

made proclamation — 
Lo, where the King appears ! Come forward, ye 

who arraign him ! 
Forth from the lurid cloud a Demon came at the 

summons. 
It was the Spirit by which his righteous reign had 

been troubled ; 
Likest in form uncouth to the hideous Idols whom 

India {don'd) 

(Long by guilty neglect to hellish delusions aban- 
Worships with horrible rites of self-immolation 

and torture. 
Many-headed and monstrous the Fiend ; with 

numberless faces. 
Numberless bestial ears erect to all rumors, and 

restless. 
And with numberless mouths which were fill'd 

with lies as with arrows. 
Clamors arose as he came, a confusion of turbulent 

voices. 
Maledictions, and blatant tongues, and viperous 

hisses ; 
And in the hubbub of senseless sounds the watch- 
words of faction, 
Freedom, Invaded Rights, Corruption, and War, 

and Oppression, 
Loudly enounced, were heard. 

But when he stood in the Presence, 
Then was the Fiend dismay'd, though with impu- 
dence clothed as a garment ; 



And the lying tongues were mute, and the lips 
which had scatter' d 

Accusation and slander, were still. No time for 
evasion 

This, in the Presence he stood ; no place for flight ; 
for dissembling 

No possibility there. From the souls on the edge 
of the darkness. 

Two he produced, prime movers and agents of 
mischief, and bade them 

Show themselves faithful now to the cause for 
which they had labor'd. 

Wretched and guilty souls, where now their au- 
dacity .'' Where now 

Are the insolent tongues so ready of old at re- 
joinder? 

Where the lofty pretences of public virtue and 
freedom ? 

Where the gibe, and the jeer, and the threat, the 
envenom'd invective. 

Calumny, falsehood, fraud, and the whole ammu- 
nition of malice .'' 

Wretched and guilty souls, they stood in the face 
of their Sovereign, 

Conscious and self-condemn'd ; confronted with 
him they had injured. 

At the Judgment seat they stood. 

Beholding the foremost, 

Him by the cast of his eye oblique, I knew as the 
firebrand 

Whom the unthinking populace held for their idol 
and hero. 

Lord of Misrule in his day. But how was that 
countenance alter'd 

Where emotion of fear or of shame had never been 
witness'd; 

That invincible forehead abash'd ; and those eyes 
wherein malice 

Once had been wont to shine, with wit and hilarity 
temper'd. 

Into how deep a gloom their mournful expression 
had settled ! 

Little avail'd it now that not from a purpose ma- 
lignant, [evil ; 

Not with evil intent he had chosen the service of 

But of his own desires the slave, with profligate 
impulse, 

Solely by selfishness moved, and reckless of aught 
that might follow. 

Could he plead in only excuse a confession of 
baseness .'' 

Could he hide the extent of his guilt ? or hope to 
atone for 

Faction excited at home, when all old feuds were 
abated, 

Insurrection abroad, and the train of woes that 
had folio w'd ! 

Discontent and disloyalty, like the teeth of the 
dragon, 

He had sown on the winds; they had ripen'd be- 
yond the Atlantic ; 

Thence in natural birth, sedition, revolt, revolution ; 

France had received the seeds, and reap'd the har- 
vest of horrors ; — 



800 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Where — where should the plague be stay 'd ? Oh, 

most to be pitied 
They of all souls in bale, who see no term to the 

evil 
They by their guilt have raised, no end to their 

inner upbraidings ! 

Him I could not choose but know, nor knowing 

but grieve for. 
Who might the other be, his comrade in guilt and 

in suffering, 
Brought to the proof like him, and shrinking like 

him from the trial ? 
Nameless the libeller lived, and shot his arrows 

in darkness ; 
Undetected he pass'd to the grave, and leaving 

behind him 
Noxious works on earth, and the pest of an evil 

example, 
Went to the world beyond, where no offences are 

hidden. 
Mask'd had he been in his life, and now a visor of 

iron, 
Riveted round his>v ,d, had abolish'd his features 

forever. 
Speechless the slanderer stood, and turn'd his face 

from the Monarch, . 
Iron-bound as it was, — so insupportably dreadful. 
Soon or late, to conscious guilt is the eye of the 

injured. 

Caitiffs, are ye dumb .? cried the multifaced 

Demon in anger ; 
Think ye then by shame to shorten the term of 

your penance .'' 
Back to your penal dens ! — And with horrible 

grasp gigantic 
Seizing the guilty pair, he swung them aloft, and 

in vengeance 
Hurl'd them all abroad, far into the sulphurous 

darkness. 
Sons of Faction, be warn'd ! And ye, ye Slan- 
derers ! learn ye 
Justice, and bear in mind that after death there is 

judgment. 
Whirling, away they flew. Nor long himself did 

he tarry, 
Ere from the ground where he stood, caught up 

by a vehement whirlwind, 
He, too, was hurried away; and the blast with 

lightning and thunder 
Volleying aright and aleft amid the accumulate 

blackness, 
Scatter'd its inmates accurs'd, and beyond the 

limits of ether 
Drove the hircine host obscene : they, howling and 

groaning, 
Fell, precipitate, down to their dolorous place of 

endurance. 
Then was the region clear ; the arrowy flashes 

which redden'd 
Through the foul, thick throng, like sheeted ar- 

gentry floating 
Now o'er the blue serene, diffused an innocuous 

splendor, 



In the infinite dying away. The roll of the 

thunder 
Ceased, and all sounds were hush'd, till again 

from tlie gate adamantine 
Was the voice of the Angel heard through the J 

silence of Heaven. .1 



VI. 

THE ABSOLVERS. 

Ho ! he exclaim'd, King George of England 

standeth in judgment ! 
Hell hath been dumb in his presence. Ye who on 

earth arraign'd him. 
Come ye before him now, and here accuse or 

absolve him ! 
For injustice hath here no place. 

From the Souls of the Blessed 
Some were there then who advanced ; and more 

from the skirts of the meeting — 
Spirits who had not yet accomplish'd their 

purification, 
Yet, being cleansed from pride, from faction and 

error deliver'd, 
Purged of the film wherewith the eye of the mind 

is clouded. 
They, in their better state, saw all things clear; 

and discerning 
Now, in the light of truth, what tortuous views had 

deceived them. 
They acknowledged their fault, and own'd the 

wrong they had offer'd ; 
Not without ingenuous shame, and a sense of 

compunction, 
More or less, as each had more or less to atone for. 
One alone remain'd, when the rest had retired to 

their station : 
Silently he had stood, and still unmoved and in 

silence. 
With a steady mien, regarded the face of the 

Monarch. 
Thoughtful awhile he gazed ; severe, but serene, 

was his aspect; 
Calm, but stern; like one whom no compassion 

could weaken, 
Neither could doubt deter, nor violent impulses 

alter ; 
Lord of his own resolves, — of his own heart 

absolute master. 
Awful Spirit ; his place was with ancient sages 

and heroes ; 
Fabius, Aristides, and Solon, and Epaminondas. 

Here then at the Gate of Heaven we are met ! 

said the Spirit; 
King of England ! albeit in life opposed to each 

other. 
Here we meet at last. Not unprepared for the 

meeting 
Ween I; for we had both outlived all enmity, 

rendering 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



801 



Each to each that justice which each from each 

had withholden. 
In the course of events, to thee Iseem'das a Rebel, 
Thou a Tyrant to me ; — so strongly doth circum- 
stance rule men 
During evil days, when right and "wrong are 

confounded. 
Left to our hearts we were just. For me, my 

actions have spoken. 
That not for lawless desires, nor goaded by 

desperate fortunes, 
Nor for ambition, I chose my part ; but observant 

of duty, 
Self-approved. And here, this witness I willingly 

bear thee, — 
Here, before Angels and Men, in the awful hour 

of judgment, — 
Thou too didst act with upright heart, as befitted a 

Sovereign 
True to his sacred trust, to his crown, his kingdom, 

and people. 
Heaven in these things fulfill'd its wise, though 

inscrutable purpose. 
While we work'd its will, doing each in his place 

as became him. 

Washington ! said the Monarch, well hast thou 

spoken and truly. 
Just to thyself and to me. On them is the guilt 

of the contest, 
Who for wicked ends, with foul arts of faction and 

falsehood. 
Kindled and fed the flame ; but verily they have 

their guerdon. 
Thou and 1 are free from offence. And would 

that the nations. 
Learning of us, would lay aside all wrongful 

resentment. 
All injurious thought, and, honoring each in the 

other 
Kindred courage and virtue, and cognate 

knowledge and freedom. 
Live in brotherhood wisely conjoin'd. We set the 

example. 
They who stir up strife, and would break that 

natural concord. 
Evil they sow, and sorrow will they reap for their 

harvest. 



vn. 

THE BEATIFICATION. 

When that Spirit withdrew, the Monarch around 

the assembly 
Look'd, but none else came forth ; and he heard 

the voice of the Angel, — 
King of England, speak for thyself! here is none to 

arraign thee. 
Father, he replied, from whom no secrets are 

hidden, 
What should I say ? Thou knowest that mine was 

an arduous station, 
101 



Full of cares, and with perils beset. How heavy 

the burden 
Thou alone canst tell ! Short-sighted and frail hast 

Thou made us. 
And Thy judgments who can abide.' But as 

surely Thou knowest 
The desire of my heart hath been alway the good 

of my people. 
Pardon my errors, O Lord, and in mercy accept 

the intention ! 
As in Thee I have trusted, so let me not now be 

confounded. 

Bending forward, he spake with earnest humility. 

Well done. 
Good and faithful servant ! then said a Voice from 

the Brightness, 
Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord. — The 

ministering Spirits 
Clapp'd their pennons therewith, and from that 

whole army of Angels 
Songs of thanksgiving and joy resounded, and 

loud hallelujahs; 
While, on the wings of "nds upraised, the 

pavilion of splendor, 
Where inscrutable light enveloped the Holy of 

Holies, 
Moved, and was borne away, through the empyrean 

ascending. 

Beautiful then on its hill appear'd the Celestial 

City, 
Soften'd, like evening suns, to a mild and bearable 

lustre. 
Beautiful was the ether above ; and the sapphire 

beneath us. 
Beautiful was its tone, to the dazzled sight as 

refreshing 
As the fields with their loveliest green at the coming 

of summer, 
When the mind is at ease, and the eye and the 

heart are contented. 

Then methought we approach'd the gate. In 

front of the portal, 
From a rock where the standard of man's 

Redemption was planted. 
Issued the Well of Life, where whosoever would 

enter, — 
So it was written, — must drink, and put away all 

that is earthly. 
Earth among its gems, its creations of art and of 

nature, 
Offers not aught whereto that marvellous Cross 

may be liken 'd 
Even in dim similitude ; such was its wonderful 

substance. 
Pure it was and diaphanous. It had no visible 

lustre ; 
Yet from It alone whole Heaven was illuminate 

alway ; 
Day and Night being none in the upper firmament, 

neither 
Sun, nor Moon, nor Stars; but from that Cross, as 

a fountain. 



802 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Flow'd the Light uncreated j light all-sufficing, 

eternal, 
Light which was, and which is, and which will be, 

forever and ever ; 
Light of light, which, if daringly gazed on, would 

blind an Archangel, 
Yet the eye of weak man may behold, and 

beholding is strengthen'd; 
Yea, while we Avander below, oppress'd with our 

bodily burden. 
And in the shadow of death, this Light is in mercy 

vouchsafed us, 
So we seek it with humble heart; and the soul 

that receives it 
Hath with it healing and strength, peace, love, and 

life everlasting. 

Thither the King drew nigh, and kneeling he 

drank of the water. 
Oh, what a change was wrought ! In the sem- 
blance of age he had risen, 
Such as at last he appear'd, with the traces of time 

and affliction 
Deep on his faded form, when the burden of years 

was upon him. 
Oh, what a change was wrought 1 For now the 

corruptible put on 
Incorruption ; the mortal put off mortality . Rising 
Rejuvenescent he stood in a glorified body, 

obnoxious 
Never again to change, nor to evil, and trouble, and 

sorrow. 
But for eternity form'd, and to bliss everlasting 

appointed. 



VIII. 
THE SOVEREIGNS. 

Lift up your heads, ye Gates ; and, ye everlasting 

Portals, 
Be ye lift up ! For lo ! a glorified Monarch 

approacheth. 
One who in righteousness reign'd, and religiously 

govern'd his people. 
Who are these that await him within ? Nassau the 

Deliverer, 
Him 1 knew : and the Stuart, he who, serene in 

his meekness, 
Bow'd his anointed head beneath the axe of 

rebellion, 
Calm in that insolent hour, and over his fortune 

triumphant. 

Queen of the eagle eye, thou too, O matchless 

Eliza, 
Excellent Queen, wert there ! and thy brother's 

beautiful spirit; 
O'er whose innocent head there hover'd a silvery 

halo. 
Such as crowns the Saint when his earthly warfare 

is ended. 



There too was he of the sable mail, the hero of 

Cressy, 
Flower of chivalry, he in arms and in courtesy 

peerless. 
There too his royal sire I saw, magnificent Edward, 
He who made the English renown, and the fame 

of his Windsor 
In the Orient and Occident known, from Tagus 

to Tigris. 
Lion-hearted Richard was there, redoubtable 

warrior, 
At whose irresistible presence the Saracen 

trembled; 
At whose name the Caliph exclaim'd in dismay on 

Mahommed, 
Syrian mothers grew pale, and their children were 

scared into silence. 
Born in a bloody age, did he, in his prowess ex- 
ulting, 
Run like a meteor his course, and fulfil the service 

assign'd him. 
Checking the Mussulman power in the height of 

its prosperous fortune ; 
But that leonine heart was with virtues humaner 

ennobled ; 
(Otherwhere else, be sure, his doom had now been 

appointed ;) 
Friendship, disdain of wrong, and generous feeling 

redeem'dit; 
Magnanimity there had its seat, and the love of 

the Muses. 

There, with the Saxon Kings who founded our 

laws and our temples, 
(Gratefully still to be named while these endure 

in remembrance, 
They, for the pious work !) I saw the spirit of 

Alfred; 
Alfred, than whom no Prince with loftier intellect 

gifted, 
Nor with a finer soul, nor in virtue more absolute, 

ever 
Made a throne twice-hallow'd, and reign'd in the 

hearts of his people. 
With him the Worthies were seen who in life 

partook of his labors, 
Shared his thoughts, and with him for the weal of 

posterity travail 'd : 
Some who in cloisters immured, and to painful 

study devoted 
Day and night, their patient and innocent lives 

exhausted. 
And in meekness possess'd their souls ; and some 

who in battle 
Put the Raven to flight; and some who, intrepid 

in duty. 
Reach' d the remotest East, or invading the king- 
dom of Winter, 
Plough'd with audacious keel the Hyperborean 

Ocean. 
I could perceive the joy which fill'd their beatified 

spirits 
While of the Georgian age they thought, and the 

glory of England. 



IX. 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



803 



IX. 



THE ELDER WORTHIES. 

Lift up your heads, ye Gates ; and, ye everlasting 
Portals, 

Be ye lift up ! Behold, the Worthies are there to 
receive him, 

They who, in later days, or in elder ages, ennobled, 

Britain's dear name. Bede I beheld, who, humble 
and holy. 

Shone like a single star, serene in a night of 
darkness. 

Bacon also was there, the marvellous Friar ; and 
he who 

Struck the spark from which the Bohemian kin- 
dled his taper ; 

Thence the flame, long and hardly preserved, was 
to Luther transmitted, 

Mighty soul, and he lifted his torch, and enlight- 
en' d the nations. 

Thee, too. Father Chaucer, I saw, and delighted 
to see thee, 

At whose well undefiled I drank in my youth, and 
was strengthen'd ; 

With whose mind immortal so oft I have com- 
muned, partaking 

All its manifold moods, and willingly moved at its 
pleasure. 

Bearing the palm of martyrdom, Cranmer was 
there in his meekness. 

Holy name, to be ever revered ! And Cecil, whose 
wisdom 

Stablish'd the Church and State, Eliza's pillar of 
council. 

And Shakspeare, who in our hearts for himself 
hath erected an empire 

Not to be shaken by Time, nor e'er by another di- 
vided. 

But with what love did 1 then behold the face of 
my master, — 

Spenser, my master dear ! with whom in boyhood 
I wander'd 

Through the regions of Faery land, in forest or 
garden 

Spending delicious hours, or at tilt and tourney 
rejoicing ; 

Yea, by the magic of verse enlarged, and trans- 
lated in spirit, 

In the World of Romance free denizen I ; — till 
awakening. 

When the spell was dissolved, this real earth and 
its uses 

Seem'd to me weary, and stale, and flat. 

With other emotion 
Milton's severer shade 1 saw, and in reverence 

humbled 
Gazed on that soul sublime : of passion now as 

of blindness 
Heal'd, and no longer here to Kings and to Hie- 

rarchs hostile. 
He was assoil'd from taint of the fatal fruit; and 

in Eden 



Not again to be lost, consorted an equal with 
Angels. 

Taylor too was there, from whose mind of its 
treasures redundant 

Streams of eloquence flow'd, like an inexhaustible 
fountain : 

And the victor of Blenheim, alike in all virtues 
accomplish'd. 

Public or private, he; the perfect soldier and 
statesman, 

England's reproach and her pride ; her pride for 
his noble achievements. 

Her reproach for the wrongs he endured. And 
Newton, exalted 

There above those orbs whose motions from earth 
he had measured, 

Through infinity ranging in thought. And Berke- 
ley, angelic 

Now in substance as soul, that kingdom enjoying 
where all things 

Are what they seem, and the good and the beauti- 
ful there are eternal. 



THE WORTHIES OF THE GEORGIAN 
AGE. 

These with a kindred host of great and illustrious 
spirits 

Stood apart, while a train, whom nearer duty at- 
tracted. 

Through the Gate of Bliss came forth to welcome 
their Sovereign. 

Many were they and glorious all. Conspicuous 
among them 

Wolfe was seen. And the seaman who fell on the 
shores of Owyhee, 

Leaving a lasting name, to humanity dear as to 
science. 

And the mighty musician of Germany, ours by 
adoption, 

Who beheld in the King his munificent pupil and 
patron. 

Reynolds, with whom began that school of art 
which hath equall'd 

Richest Italy's works, and the masterly labors of 
Belgium, 

Came in that famous array. And Hogarth, who 
follow'd no master, 

Nor by pupil shall e'er be approach'd, alone in his 
greatness. 

Reverend in comely mien, of aspect mild and be- 
nignant. 

There, too, Wesley I saw and knew, whose zeal 
apostolic, 

Though with error alloy 'd, hath on earth its mer- 
ited honor. 

As in heaven its reward. And Mansfield, the 
just and intrepid ; 

Wise Judge, by the craft of the Law ne'er seduced 
from its purpose ; 



804 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



XI. 



And when the misled multitude raged like the 

winds in their madness, 
Not to be moved from his rightful resolves. And 

Burke I beheld there, 
Eloquent statesman and sage, who, though late, 

broke loose from his trammels, 
Giving then to mankind what party too long had 

diverted. 
Here, where wrongs are forgiven, was the injured 

Hastings beside him ; 
Strong in his high deserts, and in innocence hap- 
py, though injured. 
He, in his good old age, outlived persecution and 

malice. 
Even where he had stood a mark for the arrows 

of slander. 
He had his triumph at last, when, moved with one 

feeling, the Senate 
Rose in respect at his sight, and atoned for the sin 

of their fathers. 

Cowper, thy lovely spirit was there, by death 
disenchanted 

From that heavy spell which had bound it in sor- 
row and darkness ; 

Thou wert there, in the kingdom of peace and of 
light everlasting. 

. x'elson also was there in the kingdom of peace, 
though his calling, 

While upon earth he dwelt, was to war and the 
work of destruction. 

Not in him had that awful ministry deaden' d or 
weaken'd 

Quick compassion, and feelings that raise while 
they soften our nature. 

Wise in counsel, and steady in purpose, and rapid 
in action. 

Never thought of self from the course of his duty 
seduced him, 

Never doubt of the issue unworthily warp'd his 
intention. 

Long shall his memory live, and while his exam- 
ple is cherish'd, 

From the Queen of the Seas the sceptre shall 
never be wrested. 



XI. 
THE YOUNG SPIRITS. 

Ye whom 1 leave unnamed, ye other Worthies of 

Britain, 
Lights of the Georgian age, — for ye are many 

and noble, — 
How might 1 name ye all, whom I saw in this 

glorious vision .'' 
Pardon ye the imperfect tale ! Yet some 1 beheld 

there, 
Whom should 1 pretermit, my heart might rightly 

upbraid me. 
That its tribute of honor, poor though it be, was 

withholden. 



Somewhat apart they came, in fellowship gather'd 

together, 
As in goodly array they folio w'd the train of the 

Worthies. 
Chosen spirits were these, of the finest elements 

temper' d. 
And imbodied on earth in mortality's purest 

texture ; 
But in the morning of hope, in the blossom of 

virtue and genius, 
They were cut down by Death. What then.-' — 

were it wise to lament them, 
Seeing the mind bears with it its wealth, and the 

soul its affections .'' 
What we sow we shall reap ; and the seeds 

whereof earth is not worthy 
Strike their roots in a kindlier soil, and ripen to 

harvest. 

Here where the gallant youths of high, heroic 

aspiring. 
Who, so fate had allow'd, with the martial renown 

of their country 
Would have wedded their names, for perpetual 

honor united; 
Strong of heart and of mind, but in undistinguish- 

ing battle. 
Or by pestilence stricken, they fell, unknovv'n and 

confounded 
With the common dead. Oh ! many are they who 

were worthy. 
Under the Red Cross flag, to have wielded the 

thunders of Britain, 
Making her justice felt, and her proper power 

upholding 
Upon all seas and shores, wheresoever her rights 

were offended. 
Followers of Nelson's path, and the glorious career 

of the Wellesley. 
Many are they, whose bones beneath the billows 

have whiten'd, 
Or in foreign earth they have moulder'd, hastilv 

cover'd, 
In some wide and general grave. 

Here also were spirits 
To have guided, like Cecil of old, the councils of 

England ; 
Or, like Canning, have silenced and charm'd a 

tumultuous Senate, 
When to the height of his theme the consummate 

Orator rising 
Makes our Catilines pale, and rejoices the friends 

of their country. 

Others came in that goodly band whom benigner 

fortune 
Led into pleasanter ways on earth : the children 

of Science 
Some, whose unerring pursuit would, but for 

death, have extended 
O'er the unknown and material, Man's intellectual 

empire, 
Such their intuitive power ; like Davy, disarming 

destruction 



A VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



805 



I 



Vhen it moves on the vapor; or him, who, dis- 
covering the secret 

)f the dark and ebulhent abyss, with the fire of 
Vesuvius 

irm'd the chemist's hand : well then might 
Eleusinian Ceres 

rield to him, from whom the seas and the 
mountains conceal'd not 

iNTature's mystery, hid in their depths. 



Here, lost in their promise 
\.nd prime, were the children of Art, who should 

else have deliver'd 
Vorks and undying names to grateful posterity's 

keeping, 
3uch as Haydon will leave on earth ; and he who, 

returning 
plich in praise to his native shores, hath left a 

remembrance 
Long to be honor' d and loved on the banks of 

Thames and of Tiber : 
3o may America, prizing in time the worth she 



Give to that hand free scope, and boast hereafter 
of Allston. 

Plere too, early lost and deplored, were the 

youths whom the Muses 
Mark'd for themselves at birth, and with dews 

from Castalia sprinkled : 
Chatterton first, (for not to his affectionate spirit 
Could the act of madness innate for guilt be 

accounted,) 
Marvellous boy, whose antique songs and unhappy 

story 
■Shall, by gentle hearts, be in mournful memory 

cherish'd 
Long as thy ancient towers endure, and the rocks 

of St. Vincent, 
Bristol ! my birth-plaue dear. What though I 

have chosen a dwelling 
Far -away, and my grave shall not be found by the 

stranger 
Under thy sacred care, nathless in love and in 

duty 
Still am I bound to thee, and by many a deep 

recollection ! 
City of elder days, I know how largely I owe 

thee ; 
Nor least for the hope and the strength that I 

gather'd in boyhood, 
While on Chatterton musing, I fancied his spirit 

was with me 
In the haunts which he loved upon earth. 'Twas 

a joy in my vision 
When I beheld his face. — And here was the youth 

of Loch Leven, 
Nipp'd, like an April flower, that opens its leaves to 

the sunshine, 
While the breath of the East prevails. And 

Russell and Bampfylde, 
Bright emanations they ! And the Poet, whose 

songs of childhood 
Trent and the groves of Clifton heard ; not alone 

by the Muses, 



But by the Virtues loved, his soul, in its youthful 

aspirings, 
Sought the Holy Hill, and his thirst was for Siloa's 

waters. 
V/as I deceived by desire, or, Henry, indeed did 

thy spirit 
Know me, and meet my look, and smile like a 

friend at the meeting .' 



XII. 
THE MEETING. 

Lift up your heads, ye Gates ; and, ye everlasting 

Portals, 
Be ye lift up ! Behold the splendent train of 

the Worthies 
Halt; and with quicker pace a happy company 

issues 
Forth from the Gate of Bliss: the Parents, the 

Children, and Consort, 
Come to welcome in Heaven the Son, the Father, 

and Husband ! 
Hour of perfect joy that o'erpays all earthly af- 
fliction ; 
Yea, and the thought whereof supporteth the soul 

in its anguish ! 

There came England's blossom of hope, — the 
beautiful Princess; 

She in whose wedded bliss all hearts rejoiced, and 
whose death-bell. 

Heard from tower to tower through the island, 
carried a sorrow. 

Felt by all like a private grief, which, sleeping or 
waking, 

AVill not be shaken away ; but possesses the soul 
and disturbs it. 

There was our late -lost Queen, the nation's 
example of virtue ; 

In whose presence vice was not seen, nor the face 
of dishonor, 

Pure in heart, and spotless in life, and secret in 
bounty. 

Queen, and Mother, and Wife unreproved. — The 
gentle Amelia 

Stretch' d her arms to her father there, in tender- 
ness shedding 

Tears, such as Angels weep. That hand was to- 
ward him extended 

Whose last pressure he could not bear, when mer- 
ciful Nature, 

As o'er her dying bed he bent in severest anguish, 

Laid on his senses a weight, and suspended the 
sorrow forever. 

He hath recover'd her now : all, all that was lost 
is restored him ; — 

Hour of perfect bliss that o'erpays all earthly afflic- 
tion ! 

They are met where Change is not known, nor 
Sorrow, nor Parting. 

Death is subdued, and the Grave, which conquers 
all, hath been conquer'd. 



806 



NOTES TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



When I beheld them meet, the desire of my 

soul overcame me ; 
And when with harp and voice the loud hosan- 

nahs of welcome 
Fill'd the rejoicing sky, as the happy company 

enter'd 
Through the everlasting Gates, I, too, press'd 

forward to enter : — 
But the weight of the body withheld me. I 

stoop'd to the fountain. 
Eager to drink thereof, and to put away all that 

was earthly. 
Darkness came over me then, at the chilling touch 

of the water. 
And my feet, methought, sunk, and I fell precipi- 
tate. Starting, 
Then 1 awoke, and beheld the mountains in 

twilight before me. 
Dark and distinct ; and instead of the rapturous 

sound of hosannahs. 
Heard the bell from the tower, toll ! toll ! through 

the silence of evening. 



NOTES 



— From surrounding things the hues wherewith day has ador7i'd 

them 
Fade, like the hopes of youth. — I. col. 2, p. 795. 

This effect of twilight, and in the very scene described, has 
been lately represented by Mr. William Westall, in one of his 
Views of the Lakes, with the true feeling and power of genius. 
The range of mountains which is described in these intro- 
ductory lines, may also be seen in his View of the Vale of 
Keswick from the Penrith road. 



The last pale tint of the twilight ; 
Orecn as a stream in the glen whosepure and chrysolite waters 
Flow o''er a schistous bed. — I. col. 2, p. 795. 
St. Pierre, who is often a fanciful, generally a delightful, but 
always an animated and ingenious writer, has some charac- 
teristic speculations concerning this green light of evening. 
He says, Je suis parte a, attribuer d la couleur verte des vegetaux 
qui couvrent en etc ^ine grande partie de notre hemisphere, cette 
belle teinte d^emeraude que Pan appcrgoit quelqucfois dans cette 
saison au firmament, vers Ic coucher du soleil. Elle est rare dans 
nos climats ; mais elle estfrequcnte entre les tropiques, ou Pete 
dure toute Pannee. Je sais bien qiPon peut remlre raison de ce 
phenomenepar la simple refraction des rayons du soleil dans 
PatmosjMrc, ce prisme sphcrique de notre globe. Mais, outre 
qvPon pent objecter que la couleur verte ne se voit point en hiocr 
dans notre del, c^cst quejepcuxapporter d Pappui demon opinion 
d^autres fails qui scinblent prouver que la couleur mime azuree 
de Patmosphere n''est qiPune rcjlexion de celle de Pocean. En 
cffet, les glaces fiottantes qui descendcnt tons les ans du pole 
nord, s^annoncent, devant de paroUre sur Phorizon, par une 
lueur blanche qui eclair e le del jour et nuit, et qui n'est qu''un 
reflet des nciges cristallisces qui les composent. Cette lueur pa- 
roit semblable d celle de Paurorc borcale, dont le foyer est au 
milieu des glaces meme de notre pole, mais dont la couleur blanche 
estmelangee dejaune, de rouge, etdevert,parce qu^ elle par ticipe 
des couleurs du sol ferrugineux et de la verdure desforSts de 
sapins qui couvrent notre zone glaciale. La cause de cette vari- 
ation de couleurs dans notre aurore boreale est d'autant plus 
vraisemblable, que Paurore australe, comme Pa observe le Capi- 
taine Cook, en differe en ce que sa couleur blanche n^ est jamais 
melangce que de teintes bleues, qui 7i' ant lieu, scion mot, que 
parce que les glaces du pole austral, sans continent et sans vege- 
taux, sont cntourdes de toutes parts de Pocean, qui est bleu. JSTe 



voyons-noas pas que la lune, que nous supposons converte en 
grande partie de glaciers tris-eleves, nous renvoie en lumiere 
d'un blanc bleu&tre les rayons da soleil, qui sont dores dans notre 
atmosphere ferrugineuse ? J\r'est-ce pas par la reverberation 
d''un sol compose defer, que laplanete de Mars nous refle chit, 
entoiLt temps, une lumiere rouge? J\r''est-il pas plus naturel 
d'' attribuer ces couleurs constantes aux reverberations du sol, des 
mers, et des vegetaux de ces planetes, plutdt qu^aux refractions 
variables des rayons du soleil dans leurs atmospheres, dont les 
couleurs dcvroient changer a toute heure, suivantleurs differens 
aspects avec_^cet astre! Comme Mars apparoit constamment 
rouge a la terre, il est possible que la terre ajjparoisse d Mars 
comme une pierrerie hrillante des couleurs de Popale ate pole 
nord, de celles de Paigue-marine aupole sud, et, tour-d-tour, de 
celles du saphir et de Pemeraude dans le reste de sa circonference. 
Mais, sans sortir de notre atmosphere, je crois que la terre y 
renvoie la couleur bleue de son ocean avcc des reflets de la cou- 
leur verte de ses vegetaux, en tout temps dans la zone torride, et 
en ete seulement dans nos climats, par la mime raison que ces 
deux poles y reflechissent des aurores boreales differentes, qui 
participent des couleurs de la terre, ou des mers qui les avoisinent. 
Peut-ctre meme notre atmosphere rcflechit-elle quelquefois les 
formes des paysages, qui annoncent les ties aux navigoteurs bien 
long temps avant quHls puissent y aborder. II est remarquable 
qu'elles ne se montrent comme les reflets de verdure qiPd Phorizon 
et du cote du soleil couchant. Je citcrai, d ce sujet, un homme 
de Pile de France qui apercevoit dans le del les images des vais- 
seaux qui ctoicnt en pleine mcr .• le celebre Vernet, qui m'a atteste 
avoir vu unefois dans les nuages les tours et les remparts dhine 
ville situee d sept lieues de lui j et le phenomene du detroit de 
Sidle, connu sous le nom de Fee-Morgane. Les nuages et les 
vapevrs de Patmosphere peuvent fort bien reflechir les formes et 
les couleurs des objets terrestres, puisqu''ils reflechissent dans les 
parclies P image du soleil au point de la rendre ardente comme le 
soleil lui-mime. Enfin, les eaux de la terre repetent les couleurs 
et les formes des images de Patmosphere : pourquoi les vapours 
de Patmosphere 7 d leur tour, ne pourroient-elles pas reflechir le 
bleu de la mer, la verdure et le jaune de la terre, aijisi que les 
couleurs chatoy antes des glaces polaires ? 

Au reste, je ne donne mon opinion que comme man opinion. 
L'histoire de la nature est une edifice d peine commence ; ne 
craignons pas d'y poser quclques pier res d'attente : nos neveux 
s^en servirontpour Pagrandir, ou les suprimeront comme super- 
flues. Si mon autorite est nulle dans Pavenir, peu importera 
que je me sois trompe sur ce point: mon ouvrage rentrcra dans 
Pobscurite d^ou il etoit soi-ti. Mais s^il est un jour de quelque 
consideration, mon erreur enphysique seraplus utile d la morale, 
qnhine verite d^ailleurs indiffcrente au bonheur des hommes. On 
en conclura avec raison quHl faut itre en garde contre les ecri- 
vains mime accredites. — Harmonies de la Nature, t. i. 129. 

"I am inclined to attribute to the green color of the vege- 
tables with which, during the summer, a great part of our 
hemisphere is covered, that beautiful emerald tint which we 
sometimes perceive at that season in the firmament, towards 
the setting of the sun. It is rare in our climates, but is fre- 
quent between the tropics, where summer continues through- 
out the year. I know that this phenomenon may be explained 
by the simple refraction of the rays of the sun in the atmos- 
phere, that spherical prism of our globe. But to this it may 
be objected, that the green color is not seen during the winter 
in our sky ; and moreover, I can support my opinion by other 
facts, which appear to prove that even the azure color of the 
atmosphere is only a reflection of that of the ocean. In fact, 
the floating ice which descends every year from the North 
Polo, is announced before it appears upon the horizon, by a 
white blink which enlightens the heaven day and night, and 
which is only a reflection of the crystallized snows, of which 
those masses are composed. This blink resembles the light 
of the aurora borealis, the centre of which is in the middle of 
the ice of our pole, but the white color of which is mixed with 
yellow, with red, and with green, because it partakes of the 
color of a ferruginous soil, and of the verdure of the pine for- 
ests which cover our icy zone. This explanation of these 
variations of color in our aurora borealis, is so much the more 
probable, because that of the aurora australis, as Captain Cook 
lias observed, diff'ers in that its white color is mixed with blue 
tints alone, which can only be, according to my opinion, be- 
cause the ice of the austral pole (where there is no continent 
and no vegetation) is surrounded on all parts with the ocean, 



NOTES TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



807 



which is blue. Do we not see that the moon, which we sup- 
pose to be covered in great part with very elevated glaciers, 
sends back to us, in a light of a bluish white, the raysof the sun, 
which are golden in our ferruginous atmosphere ? Is it not 
by the reverberation of a soil composed of iron, that the planet 
Mars reflects upon us, at all times, a red light? Is it not 
more natural to attribute these constant colors to the rever- 
beration of the soil, of the seas, and of the vegetables of these 
planets, rather than to the variable refractions of the rays of 
the sun in their atmospheres, the colors of which ought to 
change every hour, according to their different aspects with 
regard to that star? As Mars appears constantly red to the 
earth, it is possible that the earth might appear to Mars like a 
brilliant jewel, of the color of the opal towards the North Pole, 
of the agoa marina at the South Pole, and alternately of the 
sapphire in the rest of its circumference. But without going 
out of our atmosphere, I believe that the earth reflects there 
the blue color of its ocean with the green of its vegetation, at 
all times in the torrid zone, and in summer only in our cli- 
mate, for the same reason that its two poles reflect their dif- 
ferent auroras, which participate of the colors of the earth or 
the seas that are near them. 

" Perhaps our atmosphere sometimes reflects landscapes, 
which announce islands to the sailors long before they reach 
them. It is remarkable that they show themselves, like the 
reflections of verdure, only in the horizon and on the side of 
the setting sun. I shall cite, on this subject, a man of the 
Isle of France, who used to perceive in the sky the images of 
vessels which were out in full sea ; the celebrated Vernet, who 
related to me that he had once seen in the clouds the ramparts 
of a town, situated seven leagues distant from him, and the 
phenomenon of the straits of Sicily, known under the name 
of tlie Fata Morgana. The clouds and the vapors of the at- 
mosphere may very well reflect the forms and the colors of 
earthly objects, since they reflect in parhelions the image of 
the sun, so as to render it burning as the sun itself. In fine, 
if the waters of the earth repeat the colors and the forms of 
the clouds of the atmosphere, why then should not the vapors 
of the atmosphere, in their turn, reflect the blue of the sea, 
the verdure and the yellow of the earth, as well as the glancing 
colors of the polar ices ? 

" I advance my opinion, however, only as my opinion. The 
history of nature is an edifice which, as yet, is scarcely com- 
menced ; let us not fear to carry some stones towards the 
buildhig ; our grandchildren will use them, or lay them aside 
if they be useless. If my authority is of no weight hereafter, 
it will import little that I have deceived myself upon this 

': point ; my work will enter into obscurity, from whence it 
came ; but if it should be, in future, of some consideration, 
my error in physics will be more useful to morals than a 
truth, otherwise indiff'erent to the happiness of mankind. For 

! it will be inferred with reason, that it is necessary to regard 

j even writers of credit with caution." 

] In one point of fact, St. Pierre is certainly mistaken. The 

1 green evening light is seen as often in winter as in summer. 
Having been led to look for it in consequence of suspecting 
the accuracy of his remarks, I noticed it on the very day 
when this extract was transcribed for the press, (late in De- 
cember,) and twice in the course of the ensuing week ; and I 
observed it, not in the evening alone, and in the west, (in 
which quarter, however, and at which time, it is most fre- 
quently seen,) but in different parts of the sky, and at differ- 
ent times of the day. 



Whether France or Britain be threatened, 
Soon will the issue show, or if both at once are endanger'' d. 
III. col. 1, p. 798. 

The murder of the Duke of Berry, and the Cato-street con- 
spiracy, were both planned at the time of the King's death. 



This is the Gate of Bliss. — IV. col. 2, p. 798. 

The reader will so surely think of the admirable passage of 
Dante, which was in the writer's mind when these lines were 
composed, that I should not think it necessary to notice the 
imitation, were it not that we live in an age of plagiarism] 



when not our jackdaws only, but some of our swans also, trick 
themselves in borrowed plumage. I have never contracted 
an obligation of this kind, either to contemporary or prede- 
cessor, without acknowledging it. 



Discontent and disloyalty, like the teeth of the dragon, 
He had sown on the winds ; they had ripened beyond the .Atlantic. 

V. col. 2, p. 799. 

" Our New World," says M. Simond, "has generally the 
credit of having first lighted the torch which was toilluminate, 
and soon set in a blaze, the finest part of Europe ; yet I think 
the flint was struck, and the first spark elicited, by the patriot, 
John Wilkes, a few years before. In a time of profound peace, 
the restless spirits of men, deprived of other objects of public 
curiosity, seized with avidity on those questions which were 
tlien agitated with so much violence in England, touching the 
rights of the people, and of the government, and the nature 
of power. The end of the political drama was in favor of 
what was called, and in some respect was, the liberty of the 
people. Encouraged by the success of this great comedian, 
the curtain was no sooner dropped on the scene of Europe, than 
new actors hastened to raise it again in America, and to give 
the world a new play, infinitely more interesting, and more 
brilliant, than the first." 

Dr. Franklin describes the state of things during the reign 
of Wilkes and liberty. He says, " There have been amazing 
contests all over the kingdom, twenty or thirty thousand 
pounds of a side spent in several places, and inconceivable 
mischief done, by drunken, mad mobs, to houses, windows, 
<Stc. The scenes have been horrible. London was illuminated 
two nights running, at the command of the mob, for the suc- 
cess of Wilkes in the Middlesex election ; the second night 
exceeded any thing of the kind ever seen here on the greatest 
occasions of rejoicing, as even the small cross streets, lanes, 
courts, and other out-of-the-way places, were all in a blaze 
with lights, and the principal streets all night long, as the mobs 
went round again after two o'clock, and obliged people who 
had extinguished their candles, to light them again. Those 
who refused had all their windows destroyed. The damage 
done, and the expense of candles, has been computed at fifty 
thousand pounds. It must have been great, though probably not 
so much. The ferment is not yet over, for he has promised to 
surrender to the court next Wednesday, and another tumult is 
then expected ; and what the upshot will be, no one can yet 
foresee. It is really an extraordinary event, to see an outlaw 
and exile, of bad personal character, not worth a farthing, come 
over from France, set himself up as a candidate for the capital 
of the kingdom, miss his election only by being too late in his 
application, and immediately carrying it for the principal 
county. The mob, (spirited up by numbers of diflferent bal- 
lads, sung or roared in every street,) requiring gentlemen and 
ladies of all ranks, as they passed in their carriages, to shout 
for Wilkes and liberty, marking the same words on all their 
coaches with chalk, and No. 45 on every door, which extends 
a vast way along the roads in the country. I went last week 
to Winchester, and observed that for fifteen miles out of town 
there was scarce a door or window-shutter next the road un- 
marked : and this continued here and there quite to Win- 
chester, which is sixty-four miles. 

******* 
Even this capital, the residence of the king, is now a daily scene 
of lawless riot and confusion. Mobs patrolling the street at 
noonday, some knocking all down that will not roar for Wilkes 
and liberty ; courts of justice afraid to give judgment against 
him ; coal-heavers and porters pulling down the houses of 
coal-merchants that refuse to give them more wages ; sawyers 
destroying saw-mills ; sailors unrigging all the outward-bound 
ships, and suffering none to sail till merchants agree to raise 
their pay ; watermen destroying private boats, and threatening 
bridges ; soldiers firing among the mobs, and killing men, 
women, and children, which seems only to have produced an 
universal sullenness, that looks like a great black cloud coming 
on, ready to burst in a general tempest. What the event will 
be God only knows. But some punishment seems preparing 
for a people who are ungratefully abusing the best constitution, 
and the best king, any nation was ever blessed with ; intent 
on nothing but luxury, licentiousness, power, places, pensions 



808 



NOTES TO THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



and plunder, while the ministry, divided in their councils, 
with little regard for each other, wearied by perpetual oppo- 
sitions, in continual apprehension of changes, intent on se- 
curing popularity, in case they should lose favor, have, for 
some years past, had little time or inclination to attend to our 
small affairs, whose remoteness makes them appear still 
smaller. 

******* 

All respect to law and government seems to be lost among the 
common people, who are moreover continually inflamed by 
seditious scribblers to trample on authority, and every thing 
that used to keep them in order." 



Sons of Faction, be warn'd! and ye, ye Slanderers, learn ye 
Justice, and bear in mind, that after death there is judgment. 

V. col. 1, p. 800 

Discite justitiam moniti, et non temnere Divos. — Virgil. 



TTiou too didst act with upright heart, as befitted a Sovereign, 
True to his sacred trust, to his crown, his kingdom, and people. 

VI. col. 1, p. 801. 

I am pleased to find (since the first publication of this poem) 
the same opinion forcibly expressed by Cowper. " It appears 
to me," he says, (writing in 1782,) "that the king is bound, 
both by the duty he owes to himself and to his people, to con- 
sider himself, with respect to every inch of his territories, as 
a trustee deriving his interest in them from God, and invested 
with them by divine authority, for the benefit of his subjects. 
As he may not sell them or waste them, so he may not resign 
them to an enemy, or transfer his right to govern them to any, 
not even to themselves, so long as it is possible for him to keep 
it. If he does, he betrays at once his own interest, and that 
of his other dominions. It may be said, suppose Providence 
has ordained that they shall be wrested from him, how then .'' 
I answer, that cannot appear to be the case, till God's purpose 
is actually accomplished ; and in the mean time the most 
probable prospect of such an event does not release him from 
his obligation to hold them to the last moment, forasmuch as 
adverse appearances are no infallible indications of God's de- 
signs, but may give place to more comfortable symptoms when 
we least expect it. Viewing the thing in this light, if I sat 
on his Majesty's throne, I should be as obstinate as him, be- 
cause, if I quitted the contest while I had any means left of 
carrying it on, I should never know that I had not relinquished 
what I might have retained, or be able to render a satisfactory 
answer to the doubts and inquiries of my own conscience." 



Would that the nations, 
Learning of us, would lay aside all wrongful resentment, 
Mil injurious thought, and honoring each in the other. 
Kindred courage and virtue, and cognate knowledge and freedom, 
Live in brotherhood wisely conjoined. We set the example. 

VI. col. 1, p. 801. 

The wise and dignified manner in which the late King re- 
ceived the first minister from the United States of America is 
well known. It is not so generally known that anxiety and 
sleeplessness, during the American war, are believed by those 
persons who had the best opportunity for forming an opinion 
upon the subject, to have laid the foundation of that malady by 
which the King was afflicted during the latter years of his life. 

Upon the publication of Captain Cook's Voyages, a copy of 
this national work was sent to Dr. Franklin, by the King's 
desire, because he had given orders for the protection of that 
illustrious navigator, in case he should fall in with any Amer- 
ican cruisers on his way home. 



Calm in that insolent hour, and over his fortune triumphant. 
VIII. col. 1, p. 802. 

The behavior of Charles in that insolent hour extorted 
admiration even from the better part of the Commonwealth's- 
men. It is thus finely described by Andrew Marvel : — 



While round the armed bands 

Did clap their bloody hands. 
He nothing common did, or mean, 
Upon that memorable scene ; 

But with his keener eye 

The axe's edge did try : 
Nor call'd the Gods with vulgar spight 
To vindicate his helpless right; 

But bov/'d his comely head 

Down, as upon a bed. 



Magnificent Edward, 
He who made the English renown, and the fame of his Windsor 
In the Orient and Occident known from Tagus to Tigris. 

VIII. col. 2, p. 802. 
The celebrity which Windsor had obtained, as being the 
most splendid court in Christendom, and the seat of chivalry, 
may be plainly seen in the romance of Amadis, which was 
written in Portugal, towards the latter end of Edward the 
Third's reign. The Portuguese in that age took their 
military terms from the English, and St. George camo into 
fashion among them at the same time, as being the English 
Santiago. 

A dispute arose between two knights, the one a Cypriot, the 
other a Frenchman, who were serving the King oi' Armenia 
against the Soldan of Babylon. The other Christian captains 
in the army determined that they should decide it by single 
combat before King Edward of England, as the most worthy 
and honorable prince in all Christendom ; and the quarrel, 
which began in Armenia, was actually thus decided within 
the lists, at the palace of Westminster. It was won, not very 
honorably, by the Frenchman. 



He, who discovering the secret 
Of the dark and ebullient abyss, with the fire of Vesuvius 
Arm''d the chemist's hand. — XI. col. 1, p. 805. 

Though chemistry is one of the subjects of which lam con- 
tented to be ignorant, I can nevertheless perceive and ap- 
preciate the real genius indicated by Dr. Clarke's discovery 
in the art of fusion. See his Treatise upon the Gas Blow- 
Pipe ; or the account of it in the Quarterly Review, No. xlvi. 
p. 466. 

In referring to the Safety Lamp of Sir Humphrey Davy, I 
must not be understood as representing that to be the most 
important of his many and great discoveries. No praise can 
add to his deserved celebrity. 



JVot to his affectionate spirit 
Could the act of madness innate for guilt be accounted. 

XI. col. 1, p. 805. 

The act of suicide is very far from being so certain an indi- 
cation of insanity as it is usually considered by our inquests. 
But in the case of Chatterton, it was the manifestation of an 
hereditary disease. There was a madness in his family. His 
only sister, during one part of her life, was under confinement. 

The law respecting suicide is a most barbarous one ; and of 
late years has never been carried into eff'ect without exciting 
horror and disgust. It might be a salutary enactment that 
all suicides should be given up for dissection. This would 
certainly prevent many women from committing self-murder, 
and possibly might in time be useful to physiology. But a 
sufficient objection to it is, that it would aggravate the dis- 
tress of afflicted families. 



The gentle Amelia. — XII. col. 2, p. 805. 

In one of his few intervals of sanity, after the death of this 
beloved daughter, the late King gave orders that a monument 
should be erected to the memory of one of her attendants, in 
St. George's Chapel, with the following inscription : — 



SPECIMENS, &c. 



809 



King George III. 

caused to be interred near this place 

the body of Mary Gascoigne, 

Servant to the Princess Amelia ; 

and this stone 

to be inscribed in testimony of liis grateful 

sense 

of the faithful services and attachment 

of an amiable Young Woman to his beloved 

Daughter, 

whom she survived only three months. 

She died 19th of February, 1811. 

This may probably be considered as the last act of his life ; 

— a very affecting one it is, and worthy of remembrance. Such 

a monument is more honorable to the King by whom it was 

set up, than if he had erected a pyramid. 



SPECIMENS, &c 



The annexed Specimens of Sir Philip Sydney's hexameters 
will sufficiently evince that the failure of the attempt to nat- 
uralize this fine measure in liis days, was owing to the manner 

which the attempt was made, not the measure itself 

First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed, 
First the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to tlie ocean : 
First may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tyger. 
First shall vertue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish ; 
Ere that I leave with song of praise her praise to solemnize. 
Her praise, whence to the world all praise hath his only be- 
ginning: 
But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case. 
None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound 
felt : [ment : 

Great to thee my state seems, thy state is blest by my judg- 
And yet neither of us great or blest deemeth his own self. 
For yet (weigh this, alas !) great is not great to the greater. 
What judge you doth a hillock show, by the lofty Olympus ? 
Such my minute greatness doth seem compar'd to the greatest. 
When Cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an 

Emmet, 
Or when a rich Kubie's price be the worth of a Walnut, 
Or to the Sun for wonders seem small sparks of a candle : 
Then by my high Cedar, rich Rubie, and only shining Sun, 
Vertues, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed. 
Oh, no, no, worthy Sliepherd, worth can never enter a tide, 
Where proofs justly do teach, thus matclit, such worth to be 
nought worth ; [them 

Let not a Puppet abuse thy sprite. Kings' Crowns do not help 
From the cruel headach, nor shoes of gold do the gout heal ; 
And precious Couches full oft are shak't with a feaver. 
[f then a bodily evil in a bodily gloze be not hidden, 
Shall such morning dews be an ease to the heat of a love's fire .'' 



Sydney's pentameters appear even more uncouth than his 
hexameters, as more unlike their model ; for, in our pronun- 
ciation, the Latin pentameter reads as if it ended with two 
trochees. 
Fortune, Nature, Love, long have contended about me. 

Which should most miseries cast on a worm that I am. 
Fortune thus 'gan say, misery and misfortune is all one. 

And of misfortune, fortune hath only the gift. 
With strong foes on land, on sea with contrary tempests, 

Still do I cross this wretch what so he taketh in hand. 
Tush, tush, said Nature, this is all but a trifle, a man's self 

Gives haps or mishaps, even as he ordereth his heart. 
But so his humor I frame, in a mould of choler adusted. 

That the delights of life shall be to him dolorous. 
Love smiled, and thus said ; what joyn'dto desire is unhappy : 

But if he nought do desire, what can Heraclitus ail.'' 
None but I work by desire : by desire have 1 kindled in his soul 

Infernal agonies into a beauty divine : 
Where thou poor Nature left'st all thy due glory, to Fortune 

Her vertue is soveraign. Fortune a vassal of hers. 
102 



Nature abasht went back : Fortune blushl : yet she replied 
thus : 

And even in that love shall I reserve him a spite. 
Thus, thus, alas ! woful by Nature, unhappy by Fortune ; 

But most wretched I am, now love wakes my desire. 

Sydney has also given examples in his Arcadia of Anacre- 
ontic, Phaleucian, Sapphic, and Asclepiad verse, all written 
upon the same erroneous principle. Those persons who con- 
sider it ridiculous to write English verses upon any scheme 
of Latin versification, may perhaps be surprised to learn that 
they have read, as blank verse, many lines which are perfect 
Sapphics or Phaleucians. Rowe's tragedies are full of such 
lines. 

The Censura Literaria supplies me with two choice samples 
of Stanihurst's Virgil. 

" Neere joynctlye brayeth with ruftlerye * rumboled JEtna: 
Soomtyme owt it bolcketh | from bulck clouds grimly be- 

dimmed 
Like fyerd pitche skorching, or flash flame sulphurus heating : 
Flownce to the stars towring the fire like a pellet is hurled, 
Ragd rocks, up raking, and guts of mounten yrented 
From roote up he jogleth : stoans hudge slag J molten he 

rowseth, 
With route snort grumbling in bottom flash furie kindling. 
SJen say that Enceladus, with bolt haulf blasted, here har- 

brought, 
Ding'd § with this squising || and massive burthen of ^tna, 
Wliich pres on him nailed, from broached chimnys stil heateth j 
As oft as the giant his broldIT syds croompeled altreth. 
So oft Sicil al shivereth, therewith flaks smoakye be 

sparckled." 

" T'ward Sicil is seated, to the welkin loftily peaking, 
A soyl, ycleapt Liparen,from whence with flounce fury fling- 
ing, 
Stoans and burlye bulets, like tampounds, maynelye betowring. 
Under is a kennel, wheare chymneys fyrye be scorching 
Of Cyclopan testers, with rent rocks chamferye sharded, 
Lowd rub a dub tabering with frapping rip rap of ^tna. 
In the den are drumming gads of Steele, parchfulye sparckling. 
And flam's fierclye glowing, from fornace flashye be whisking. 
Vulcan his hoate fordgharth, named eke thee Vulcian Island. 
Doun from the hev'nlye palace travayled the firye God hither. 
In this cave the rakehels yr'ne bars, bigge bulcked ar hamring, 
Brontes and Steropes, witli baerlym svvartie Pyracmon. 
These thre nere upbotching, not shapte, but partlye wel on- 
ward, 
A clapping fier-bolt (such as oft with rounce rebel hobble, 
Jove to the ground clattreth) but yeet not finnished holye. 
Three showrs wringlye wrythen glimmring, and forciblye 

sowcing, 
Thre watrye clowds shymring to the craft they rampired hizz- 

ing. 
Three wheru's fierd glystring, with south winds rufflered 

hutfling. 
Now doe they rayse gastly lightnings, now grislye reboundings 
Of ruffe raffe roaring, mens harts with terror agrysing. 
With pcale meale ramping, with thwick thwack sturdilye 
thundering." 

Stanihurst's Virgil is certainly one of those curiosities in 
our literature which ought to be reprinted. Yet notwith- 
standing the almost incredible absurdity of this version, Stani- 
hurst is entitled to an honorable remembrance for the part 
which he contributed to Holinshed's Collection of Chronicles. 
None of our Chroniclers possessed a mind better stored, nor 
an intellect more perpetually on the alert. 



Sydney, who failed so entirely in writing hexameters, has 
written concerning them in his Defence of Poesie, with the 
good sense and propriety of thought by which that beautiful 
treatise is distinguished. Let me not be thought to disparage 
this admirable man and delightful writer, because it has been 
necessary for me to show the cause of his failure in an attempt 

* Ruffling seems to be turbulent noise. A ruffler was formerly a boisterous 
bully, 

t To bolclf, or boke, is ructare. t Slag is the dross of iron. 

§ Dasli'd down. || Squeezing. j[ i. e. Broiled sides crumpled. 



810 



SPECIMENS, &c. 



wherein I have now followed him. I should not forgive my- 
self were I ever to mention Sydney without an expression of 
reverence and love. 

" Of versifying," he says, " there are two sorts, the one 
ancient, the other modern ; the ancient marked the quantity 
of each syllable, and, according to that, framed his verse ; the 
modern, observing only number, with some regard of the ac- 
cent; the chief life of it standeth in that like sounding of the 
words which we call Rliyme. Whether of these be the more 
excellent, would bear many speeches, the ancient, no doubt, 
more fit for musick, botii words and time observing quantity, 
and more fit lively to express divers passions by the low or 
lofty sound of the well-weighed syllable. The latter like- 
wise with his Rhyme striketh a certain musick to the ear ; 
and, in fine, since it doth delight, though by another way, it 
obtaineth the same purpose, there being in either sweetness, 
and wanting in neither majesty. Truly the English, before 
any vulgar language I know, is fit for both sorts ; for, for the 
ancient, the Italian is so full of vowels, that it must ever be 
cumbered with elisions : the Dutch so, of the other side, with 
consonants, that they cannot yield the sweet sliding fit for a 
verse. The French, in his whole language, hath not one 
word that hath his accent in the last syllable, saving two, 
called Antepenultima ; and little more hath the Spanish, and 
therefore very gracelesly may they use Dactyls ; the English 
is subject to none of these defects. Now for Rhyme, though 
we do not observe quantity, yet we observe the accent very 
precisely, which other languages either cannot do, or will not 
do so absolutely. 

" That Csesura, or breathing-place, in the midst of the verse, 
neither Italian nor Spanish have ; the French and we never 
almost fail of. Lastly, the very Rhyme itself the Italian 
cannot put in the last syllable, by the French named the Mas- 
culine Rhyme, but still in the next to the last, which the 
French call the Female, or the next before that, which the 
Italian call Sdrucciola : the example of the former is Buono 
Suono : of the Sdrucciola, is Femina Semina. The French, 
on the other side, hath both the male, as Bon Son ; and the 
Female, as Plaise, Taise, but the Sdrucciola he hath not, 
where the English hath all three, as Due, True, Father, 
Rather, Motion, Potion, with much more, which might be said, 
but that already I find the trifling of this discourse is too 
much enlarged." 



The French attempted to introduce the ancient metres some 
years before the trial was m.ade in England. Pasquier says, 
that Estienne Jodelle led the way in the year 1553, by this 
distich upon the poems of Olivier de Maigny, " lequel," he 
adds, " est vrayement une petit chef-dJ'auvre.''^ 

Phcebus, Amour, Cypris, veut sauver, nourrir et orner 
Ton vers et chef, d'umbre, deflamme, defieurs. 

Pasquier himself, three years afterwards, at the solicitation 
of a friend, produced the following " essay de plus longue 
haleine: " — 

Rien ne me plaist sinon de te chanter, et servir et orner ; 

Rien ne te plaist mon Men, rien ne te plaist que ma mort. 
Plusje requiers, et plus je me tiens seur d'estre refuse, 

Et ce refus pourtant point ne me semble refus. 
O trompeurs attraicts, desir ardent, prompte volonte, 

Espoir, non espoir, ains miserable pipeur. 
Discours mensongers, trakistreux oeil, aspre cruaute, 

Qui me mine le corps, qui me mine le cceur. 
Pourquoy tant defaveurs font les Cieux mis d Vabandon, 

Ou pourquoy dans moy si violente fureur 7 
Si vaine est ma fureur, si vain est tout ce que des cieux 

Tu tiens, s^en toy gist cette cruelle rigeur : 
Dieux patrons de P amour bannissez d^elle la beaute, 

Ou bien Paccouplez d^unc amiable pitie ; 
Ou si dans le miel vous meslez un venemeux fiel, 

Vueillez Dieux que Vamour r'entre dedans le Chaos : 
Commandez, que lefroid, Veau, VEste, Vhumide, Vardeur : 

Brief que ce tout par tout tends d Pabisme de tous, 
Pourfinir ma douleur, pourfinir cette cruaute, 

Qui me mine le corps, qui me mine le caur. 



JVon helas que ce rond soit tout un sans se rechanger, 

Mais que ma Sourde se change, ou deface, ou de fagons : 
Mais que ma Sourde se change, etplus douce escoiite lesvoix, 

Voix queje seme criant, voix que je seme, riant. 
Et que lefeu dufroid desormais puisse triompher 

Et que lefroid aufeuperde sa lente vigeur : 
Ainsi s'assopira mon tourment, et la cruaute 

Qui me mine le corps, qui me mine le cceur. 

" Je ne dy pas," says the author, " que ces vers soient de 
quelque valeur, aussi ne les mets-je icy sur la monstre en intention 
qu'on les trouve tels ; mais bien estime-je quails sont autantjluides 
que les Latins, et d tant veux-je que Pon pense nostre vulgaire 
estre aucunement capable de ce subject." Pasquier's verses 
were not published till many years after they were written ; 
and in the mean time Jean Antoine de Baif made the attempt 
upon a larger scale, — " Toutesfois, says Pasquier, "en ce 
subject si majivais parrain que non seulement il ne fut suivy 
d'aucun, mais au contraire descouragea un chacun de s'y em- 
ployer. D''autant que tout ce qu'il en fit estoit tant despourveu 
de cette naifvete qui doit accompagner nos ceuvres, qu'aussi 
tost que cette sienne poesie voit la lumiere, elle mourut commeun 
avorton." The Abbe Goujet, therefore, had no reason to rep- 
present this attempt as a proof of the bad taste of the age : 
the bad taste of an age is proved, when vicious compositions 
are applauded, not when they are unsuccessful. Jean 
Antoine de Baif is the writer of whom Cardinal du Perron 
said, " qu'il etoit bon homme, mais qu'il etoit mechant poete 
Fi-angois." 

I subjoin a specimen of Spanish Hexameters, from an Ec- 
logue by D. Esteban de Villegas,apoet of great and deserved 
estimation in his own country. 

Licidas y Coridon, Coridon el amante de Fills, 
Pastor el uno de Cobras, el otro de blancas Ovejas, 
Ambos a dos tiernos, mozos ambos. Arcades ambos, 
Viendo que los rayos del Solfatigaban al Orbe, 
Yque vibrando fuego feroz la Canicula ladra, 
Al puro cristal, que cria la fuente sonora, 
Llevados del son alcgre de su blando susurro, 
Las plantas veloces mueven, lospasos animan, 
Y al tronco de un verde enebro se sientan amigos. 

Tu, que los erguidos sobrepujas del hondo Timavo 
Penones, generoso Duque, con tu inclitaf rente, 
Si acaso tocdre el eco de mi rustica avena 
Tus sienes, si acaso llega a tufertil abono, 
Francisco, del acento mio la sonora Talia, 
Oye pio, responde grata, censura severo : 
JVo menos al caro hermano generoso retratas. 
Que al tronco prudente sigues, generoso naciste 
Heroe, que guarde el Cielo dilatundo tus anos : 
Licidas y Coridon, Coridon el amante de Filis, 
Pastores, las Musas aman, recrearte desean ; 
Tu, cuerdo, perdona entretanto la bdrbara Musa, 
Que presto, inspirando Pean con amigo Coturno, 
En trompa, que al Olimpo llegue por el dbrego suelta, 
Tu fama llevardn los ecos del Ganges al Istro, 
Yluego, torciendo el vuelo, del aquilo al Austro. 

It is admitted by the Spaniards, that the fitness of their lan- 
guage for the hexameter has been established by Villegas ; 
his success, however, did not induce other poets to follow 
the example. I know not whom it was that he followed, for 
he was not the first to make the attempt. Neither do I know 
whether it was ever made in Portuguese, except in some 
verses upon St. Ursula and the Eleven Thousand Virgins, 
which are Latin as well as Portuguese, and were written as 
a whimsical proof of the affinity of the two languages. I 
have met with no specimens in Italian. The complete suc- 
cess of the metre in Germany is well known. The Bohemi- 
ans have learnt the tune, and have, like their neighbors, a 
translation of the Iliad in the measure of the original. This 
I learn accidentally from a Bohemian grammar ; which shows 
me also, that the Bohemians make a dactyl of Achilles, 
probably because they pronounce the % with a strong aspirate. 



f) 6 4 J y 



THE END. 




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